29606	----	file was produced from scans of public domain works at the University of Michigan's Making of America collection.) THE EMIGRANT, OR REFLECTIONS WHILE DESCENDING THE OHIO. A Poem, BY FREDERICK W. THOMAS. "_Westward the star of Empire takes its way._" From the original Edition of 1833, to which is added a memoir of the author. CINCINNATI: PRINTED FOR J. DRAKE. SPILLER, PRINTER. 1872. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872: By JOSIAH DRAKE, In the office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE iii DEDICATION v MEMOIR vii THE EMIGRANT 9 NOTES 41 ERRATA 48 PREFACE. This POEM was written under the circumstances which its title implies. Three years since, as the author was descending the Ohio, to become a citizen of the West, he wrote a considerable number of stanzas, expressive of his feelings, six or eight of which were published as a fragment on his arrival in Cincinnati, in the Commercial Daily Advertiser, and republished and noticed by different prints in a way that induced the author, from time to time, to add stanzas to stanzas, until they almost imperceptibly reached their present number. He wrote on, without any previous study of the style or manner in which the subject should be pursued--using the poetic license of light and shade as Fancy dictated. Being in ill health, and coming to a strange land, it was very natural for his Reflections to be of a sombre cast, without there being any thing peculiar in his situation differing from that of other Emigrants. The reader will perceive that the metrical arrangement of the stanzas is the same as that used by Gray, in his Ode to Adversity, with this difference, that the Ode is written in lines of eight syllables, and the author has attempted the heroic measure. After the POEM had been finished some time, the author delivered it in the Hall of the Lyceum to an assemblage of Ladies and Gentlemen. Their reception and that of the several editors (to whom he is most grateful) who noticed its delivery, and gave extracts from the POEM, induced him to publish it. The author has by him many manuscript pieces with which he might have swelled the volume to a much greater size; but as this is his first attempt at authorship, in the shape of a volume, he offers it, tremblingly, at the ordeal of public opinion, merely as a sample of his ware. DEDICATION. TO CHARLES HAMMOND, ESQ. MY DEAR SIR, Before I had the pleasure of your personal acquaintance, differing from you as I do on many political points, I imbibed some of those impressions against you, which ever attach to an exalted character, when he takes a decided stand in the political arena. Permit me, Sir, in acknowledging how much those impressions were prejudices, to inscribe this volume to you, in testimony of my admiration for your talents, and respect for your virtues. And, moreover, as the first encouragement which I received, for this my first literary attempt of any length, proceeded from yourself; if it has merit, I know no one to whom I should more properly inscribe it than to the one, who being entitled to speak _ex cathedra_ on the subject, first cheered me with the hope of its success. And if it shall be found to be destitute of merit, while it shows that your judgment has for once been wrong, it will also prove that the error proceeded from a personal partiality, for which I am anxious to express my gratitude. I am, Sir, With the greatest respect, Your obliged friend and humble servant, THE AUTHOR. CINCINNATI, _April 23, 1833_. MEMOIR. Frederick William Thomas was the oldest child of E. S. Thomas and Anna his wife. He was born at Providence Rhode Island, but spent his earlier years at Charleston South Carolina, where Mr. E. S. Thomas resided and edited and published the Charleston City Gazette. While Frederick William was still young, Mr. Thomas removed to Baltimore Maryland, and there his son was educated and brought up to the profession of the law. Being unfortunate in business, when Frederick William was about nineteen, Mr. Thomas resolved to remove with his family to the west, which he did, making Cincinnati his place of residence. His son however, remained in Baltimore. It was in the following year while journeying West, to join his family in their new home, that this poem--the Emigrant was suggested to him, by the associations and the romantic scenery of the Ohio river, and while descending it most, if not all the poem, was written. He was about twenty-one when it appeared. It was followed by "Clinton Bradshaw," or the adventures of a Lawyer, published by Carey, Lee and Blanchard, of Philadelphia. This was called the best American Novel of its time. Mr. Thomas' next venture was "East and West" which was succeeded by "Howard Pinkney." During the years which intervened between the writing of these books he resided in the west, principally in Cincinnati, and wrote tales, sketches, fugitive poetry, delivered lectures, and made political speeches. In 1840 when General Harrison was elected President, Mr. Thomas went to Washington City. After General Harrison's death, Mr. Tyler gave him an office under government and he continued to reside at the Capital, but wrote little except an occasional song or story. Some years elapsed and Mr. Thomas left Washington and went south on a lecturing tour. He was engaged to write for several newspapers and continued lecturing through the South and West. His literary efforts at this period were chiefly confined to Magazine articles, short poems and songs. His song "T'is said that Absence conquers Love," was one of the most popular of the day. He often spoke of the feeling he had in passing of a summers night through a strange city and having his own words greet him from houses whose inmates only knew of his existence through them. Clinton Bradshaw was also very popular. An American visiting Calcutta India, wrote home of the thrill it gave him to find it on the shelves of a book store there. Mr. Thomas was popular in society for he was amiable and entertaining. He was a fine belle letter scholar, and was remarkable for his conversationable powers--he had a fund of anecdote always at command. He was a great observer and studier of Character and a believer in human nature. The year 1866 found him again in Washington city where after a short illness he died. Recently his remains have been brought to Cincinnati, by his brother Calvin W. Thomas and placed beside those of his parents in Spring Grove Cemetery. The Emigrant, OR REFLECTIONS[1] WHILE DESCENDING THE OHIO. I. We both are pilgrims, wild and winding river! Both wandering onward to the boundless West-- But thou art given by the good All-giver, Blessing a land to be in turn most blest:[2] While, like a leaf-borne insect, floating by, Chanceful and changeful is my destiny; I needs must follow where thy currents lave-- Perchance to find a home, or else, perchance a grave. II. Yet, dost thou bear me on to one I've loved From Boyhood's thoughtlessness to Manhood's thought, In all the changes of our lives, unmoved-- That young affection no regret has brought: Beloved one! when I seem Fortune's slave, Reckless and wrecked upon the wayward wave, Bright Hope, the Halcyon, rises o'er the sea, Calming the troubled wave--bearing my heart to thee. III. Alas! we parted: what a bitter sorrow Clings to the memory of our last embrace! No joy to-day, no promise of to-morrow, No idol image, shall usurp thy place: For thee my holiest hope is upward given-- My love for thee is with my love for Heav'n, A dedication of my heart to thine, With God to smile on both, and consecrate the shrine. IV. Our home, when last I saw it, was all lone; Yet my affections peopled it with those Whose sunny smile upon my boyhood shone; Then came reality,--the heart-spring froze:-- There was the stream, the willow, and the wild wood, Where, emulous of height, in playing childhood, With hearts encircled, on the beechen tree, Dear one, I carved thy name, but then thou wert with me. V. Thou wert my nurse in many an hour of pain, My comforter in many an hour of sadness; And when my spirit leaped to joy again, Thou wert the one who joyed most in its gladness. Ay, more than nurse--and more than comforter-- Thou taught'st my erring spirit not to err, Gave it a softness nature had not given, As now the blessed moon makes earth resemble heav'n. VI. How deep the bitterness alone to grieve In grief's deep hour--the death-watch of the night-- When Fancy can no more her day dreams weave, And there seems madness in the moon's pale light-- When sorrow holds us, like a life-long state, Not as a portion, but the whole of fate, When the mind yields, like sick men to their dreams, Who know all is not right, yet know not that which seems. VII. Why come such thoughts across the brow? Oh, why Cannot the soul sit firmly on her throne, And keep beside her strong Philosophy? Alas! I am a wanderer and alone. Beneath deep feeling reason's self must sink; We cannot change the thought, yet we _must_ think; And, O! how darkly come such thoughts to me-- The gathered pangs of years, recounting agony. VIII. Who has not felt, in such a night as this, The glory and the greatness of a God, And bowed his head, in humbleness, to kiss His merciful and kindly chast'ning rod? The far off stars! how beautiful and bright! Peace seems abroad upon the world to-night; And e'en the bubble, dancing on the stream, Is glittering with hope,--a dream--a very dream! IX. In sickness and in sorrow, how the breast Will garner its affections in their home! Like stricken bird that cowers within its nest, And feels no more an anxiousness to roam; While a thick darkness, like a cloud, comes o'er The gallant spirit;--it can rise no more To wing its way, as if it sought the sky, But falls to earth, forlorn, as though it fell to die. X. And yet, there is a torturing sense of life, E'en in the feeling of the quick drawn breath, That tells of many years of woe and strife, Ekeing our being out, though bringing death: While Fancy, with a thousand thronging tales, Now in her gladness, now in woe, prevails,-- Till the dark moment of o'erwhelming grief, When sorrow mourns as one who cannot find relief. XI. Is health returnless? Never more may I Throw by the staff on which, alas! I lean? Is the woof woven of my destiny? Shall I ne'er be again what I have been? And must th' bodily anguish be combined With the intenseness of the anxious mind? The fever of the fame and of the soul, With no medicinal draught to quell it or control. XII. Upon my brow I feel the furrow's course, Deep sinking inward to the source of thought; The deeper sinking if I seek its source, Or try to crush its agony, unsought, O! tell thy secret, thou stern vampyre, Care! E'en for Philosophy thou hast a snare, For in thy quest she wears the galling chain, Making the burden more, the more she'd soothe its pain. XIII. Sweet solace of the life-lorn! HOPE! to thee How oft in loneliness the heart will turn, To quell the pang of its keen misery; While wailing sorrow weeps o'er memory's urn: Rise from the ashes of my buried years! The past comes up with overflowing tears, To quench the promises that would arise:-- They're in the future far--where are they?--in the skies! XIV. My hopes, e'en my hopes, wither; a dark cloud Has passed between them and the glorious sun, Clothing the breathing being in a shroud-- The pall is o'er them and their race is run: Their epitaph is written in my heart-- The all of mem'ry that can ne'er depart-- Yes, it is here! the truth of every dream, The ever-present thought, in every varying theme. XV. O! who can pierce the cloud that o'er him lowers? It were as vain my wayward fate to scan; Enough, 'twill come with th' onhurrying hours-- The futile purpose or the settled plan: Or Death, perchance, e'en now each tie may sever! There's many a grave in this bright rolling river, That's bounding onward where the one I love, To meet my coming, now, on its far banks may rove. XVI. And, but that thou would'st feel a pang for me, 'Twere sweet, methinks, to sleep beneath the wave; Its murmuring song, like sweetest minstrelsy, Would rest a wanderer in an early grave, Within thee, River, many a pale face sleeps-- And many a redman's ghost his vigil keeps-- And many a maid has watched the dark banks over-- He comes not, yet, in truth, he was a faithful lover. XVII. For then, perchance, thy stream ran red with blood, Then pale and red men met upon thy shore-- Embracing foes they sunk within the flood, Fierce twins in death, and joined forevermore,-- Forevermore in time. Eternity! _Thy_ doom we see not, and we may not see, But God is just! to Him the red race fly, Driv'n to the pathless West, thence upward to the sky. XVIII. Here once Boone trod--the hardy Pioneer-- The only white man in the wilderness:[3] Oh! how he loved, alone, to hunt the deer, Alone, at eve, his simple meal to dress; No mark upon the tree, nor print, nor track, To lead him forward, or to guide him back; He roved the forest, king by main and might, And looked up to the sky and shaped his course aright. XIX. That mountain, there, that lifts its bald high head Above the forest, was, perchance, his throne; There has he stood and marked the woods outspread, Like a great kingdom, that was all his own; In hunting shirt and moccassins arrayed, With bear skin cap, and pouch, and needful blade, How carelessly he leaned upon his gun! That sceptre of the wild, that had so often won. XX. Those western Pioneers an impulse felt. Which their less hardy sons scarce comprehend; Alone, in Nature's wildest scenes, they dwelt, Where crag, and precipice, and torrent blend, And stretched around the wilderness, as rude As the red rovers of its solitude, Who watched their coming with a hate profound, And fought with deadly strife for every inch of ground. XXI. To shun a greater ill sought they the wild? No! they left happier lands behind them far, And brought the nursing mother and her child To share the dangers of the border war; The log-built cabin from the Indian barred, Their little boy, perchance, kept watch and ward, While Father ploughed with rifle at his back, Or sought the glutted foe through many a devious track. XXII. How cautiously, yet fearlessly, that boy Would search the forest for the wild beast's lair, And lift his rifle with a hurried joy If chance he spied the Indian lurking there: And should they bear him prisoner from the fight, While they are sleeping in the dead midnight, He slips the thongs that bind him to the tree, And leaving death with them, bounds home right happily.[4] XXIII. Before the mother, bursting through the door, The redman rushes where her infants rest; Oh God! he hurls them on the cabin floor! While she, down kneeling, clasps them to her breast. How he exults and revels in her woe, And lifts the weapon, yet delays the blow: Ha! that report! behold! he reels! he dies! And quickly to her arms the husband--father--flies. XXIV. In the long winter eve, their cabin fast, The big logs blazing in the chimney wide-- They'd hear the Indian howling, or the blast, And deem themselves in castellated pride: Then would the fearless forester disclose Most strange adventures with his sylvan foes, Of how his arts did over theirs prevail, And how he followed far upon their bloody trail. XXV. And it was happiness, they said, to stand, When summer smiled upon them in the wood, And see their little clearing there expand, And be the masters of the solitude. Danger was but excitement; and when came The tide of Emigration, life grew tame; Then would they seek some unknown wild anew, And soon, above the trees, the smoke was curling blue. XXVI. Long e'er the pale-face knew them, or their land, Here, too, the redmen met in the stern strife Of foe to foe and bloody hand to hand-- The mortal agony of life for life: How fertile is this "dark and bloody ground!" Here Death has given many a horrid wound![5] Here was the victim tortured to the stake, While dark Revenge stood by, his burning thirst to slake. XXVII. Methinks I see it all within yon dell, Where trembles thro' the leaves the clear moonlight; Say, Druid Oak, can'st not the story tell? Why met they thus? and wherefore did they fight? And wept his maiden much? and who was he, Who thus so calmly bore his agony? Sang he his death song well? was he a chief? And mourned his nation long in notes of lengthened grief? XXVIII. Here, from the woods, he came to woo his mate, And launched, to meet her, his bark-built canoe: Who would have thought he had a soul to hate To see him thus, all gentleness to woo? In tenderest tone he tells his deeds of war, With blandest feeling shows the ghastly scar He joyed to take, that he might win his bride, His own, his blushing one--the dark-eyed by his side. XXIX. Again he goes--again she looks for him-- At the death-stake her warrior-love is tied: Say, when he thought of her, did the tear swim? Shook, for an instant, that bold Indian's pride? No! when he thought of her, it was to nerve A soul whose purpose knew not how to swerve! For this she loves him, holds him doubly dear; He knows what 'tis to love, but not what 'tis to fear. XXX. O, Love what rhymer has not sung of thee? And, who, with heart so young as his who sings, Knows not thou art self-burdened as the bee, Who, loving many flowers, must needs have wings? Yes, thou art wing'd, O, Love! like passing thought, That now is with us, and now seems as nought, Until deep passion stamps thee in the brain, Like bees in folded flowers that ne'er unfold again. XXXI. Who does not love his early dream of love?-- The passionate fondness of the happy boy, When woman's lightest look the pulse would move To the wild riot of extatic joy; The tremulous whisper, mingling hopes and fears, _Her_ very presence, that so long endears The spot, on which the mutual vow was giv'n, The interchange of love, and the on-looking Heav'n. XXXII. This is the tale that never tires in telling-- If woman listens as ye tell the tale: And then, to mark her gentle bosom swelling, And feel the fervor of your faith prevail! Her tone, the confidence of her bright eye, That looks to yours its eloquent reply! And then, her seeming doubt--spoke you in vain? O! no! she only doubts to hear you speak again! XXXIII. My Mary! though I yet am young in years, 'Tis like a dream, Love, of the olden time, When first they coyness yielded up its fears, And thy warm heart throbb'd tremblingly to mine,-- When we exchanged the faith we loved to make, And made the promise it should never break-- How happy, then, the future rose to view-- Our hearts the auguries that made it seem all true. XXXIV. A sense of coldness, like the atmosphere, When chilled by the rude winter's snowy blast, Has passed between us now: and--lone and sear, Like the last autumn leaf that fell at last, Though on its parent stem it fain would stay, With days, perchance, as bright as yesterday-- Our hopes have fallen--yet, my Mary, yet, There is no lethean power can teach me to forget. XXXV. For, in that young affection's early dream, There was the presence and the soul of joy, Which, like the stars, though clouds obscure them, beam With hues of Heav'n, that earth cannot destroy: Dark desolation may be o'er our path, And the fierce lightnings rive it in their wrath, And scalding tears may weep their sources dry, Yet, will that love live on, on its own agony. XXXVI. E'en like--if we its hopes may personate-- Fall'n Marius, 'mid the ruins, when he stood And pondered darkly o'er his desperate fate, Alone, in th' o'erthrown City's solitude. Oh! we may build a fairy home for love-- But, when 'tis blasted, how can we remove? How from the ruins can the ruined part? Or how rebuild the hope that, falling, crushed the heart. XXXVII. And, mused I now, as that stern exile mused, 'Mid fallen columns, cities overthrown, With Desolation all around diffused, I should seem less than I seem now alone-- For it would be companionship; but here There is no sympathy with mortal tear: The skies are smiling, and the forests rise In their green glory up, aspirers to the skies!-- XXXVIII. And the wild river, laughing, laves its banks-- A babbler--like a happy-hearted girl, Dancing along with free and frolic pranks; The leaves, o'erhanging, tremble like the curl That plays upon her forehead as she goes-- While 'mid the branches, free from human woes, The wild bird carols to its happy mate, Glad in the present hour, nor anxious for its fate. XXXIX. But there is one tree blasted 'mid the green, Surrounding forest; and an eagle, there, Looks sadly o'er the gaily, glitt'ring scene, A mourner--with his bleeding bosom bare:-- No more! no more! he'll reach his eyry now, Or sport in triumph o'er the mountain's brow; His wing may hide the death-bolt as he dies, No more shall it expand to bear him to the skies. XL. How like the balmy breathing of the spring, Is the unfolding of Love's happy morn! Then our nurst hopes, anticipating, bring The May-day breaking, that shall bear no thorn: The thorn must have its birth-day with the rose-- When one is blighted, still the other grows, And grows the keener, as the seared leaves fall, And rankles in the heart when the storm scatters all. XLI. Be blessings on thee, Lady of my love! As many blessings as thou did'st impart, When to my breast thou cam'st like a young dove, And made thy home in my all-happy heart. Like the loved picture of his buried maid, Which the sad lover keeps, and weeps the shade, So Memory, to my early feelings true, Preserves its passionate love in bidding hope adieu! XLII. No! "while there's life there's hope," at least, in love; Hope that the two shall not be always twain:-- Will it not find its home--that parted dove-- Though severed far o'er mountain and o'er main? Though night o'ertake it, though the tempests rise, Alike, through cloudy, and through smiling skies, Onward it hastens; and, with panting breast, Nestles at home at last, and loves the more its nest. XLIII. Built o'er the Indian's grave, the city, here, To all the pomp of civic pride is giv'n, While o'er the spot there falls no tribute-tear, Not e'en his kindred drop--the dew of Heav'n. How touching was the chieftain's homily! That none would mourn for him when he should die; Soon shall the race of their last man be run-- Then who will mourn for them? Alas! not one--not one! XLIV. They all have passed away, as thou must pass, Who now art wandering westward where they trod-- An atom in the mighty human mass, Who live and die. No more. The grave-green sod, Can but be made the greener o'er the best, A flattering epitaph may tell the rest-- While they who come, as come these onward waves, Forget who sleep below, and trample on their graves. XLV. Yet, who, that ever trod upon this shore, Since the rude red man left it to his tread, Thinks not of him, and marks not, o'er and o'er, The contrast of the living with the dead? There the tall forest falls--that Indian mound Will soon be levelled with the ploughed-up ground-- Where stands that village church, traditions hold, The war-whoop once rang loud o'er many a warrior cold. XLVI. Where stole the paddle-plied and tottering bark Along the rough shores cragg'd and sedgy side,-- Where the fierce hunter, from the forest dark, Pursued the wild deer o'er the mountains wild,-- Now towering cities rise on either hand, And Commerce hastens by to many a strand, Not on her white wings, as upon the sea-- Yet borne as bravely on, and spreading liberty. XLVII. And here, where once the Indian mother dwelt, Cradling her infant on the blast-rocked tree, Feeling the vengeance that her warrior felt, And teaching war to childhood on her knee-- Now dwells the christian mother: O! _her_ heart Has learned far better the maternal part-- Yet, in deep love, in passion for her child, Who has surpass'd thine own, wild woman of the wild? XLVIII. Our homes, and hearts, and Nature, the blue sky, Breathe these affections into all who live-- The flowings of their fountains cannot dry. Who gave us life? 'Tis He, who bids them live! And they have lived, here, in this forest-bower, In all the strength, the constancy, the power, The deep devotion, the unchanging truth Of Eden's early dawn, when Time was in his youth. XLIX. How patient was that red man of the wood! Not like the white man, garrulous of ill-- Starving! who heard his faintest wish for food? Sleeping upon the snow-drift on the hill! Who heard him chide the blast, or say 'twas cold? His wounds are freezing! is the anguish told? Tell him his child was murdered with its mother! He seems like carved out stone that has no woe to smother. L. With front erect, up-looking, dignified-- Behold high Hecla in eternal snows! Yet, while the raging tempest is defied, Deep in its bosom how the pent flame glows! And when it bursts forth in its fiery wrath! How melts the ice-hill from its fearful path, As on it rolls, unquench'd, and all untam'd!-- Thus was it with that chief when his wild passions flam'd. LI. Nature's own statesman, by experience taught, He judged most wisely, and could act as well; With quickest glance could read another's thought, His own, the while, the keenest could not tell; Warrior--with skill to lengthen, or combine, Lead on, or back, the desultory line; Hunter--he passed the trackless forest through,-- Now on the mountain trod, now launch'd the light canoe. LII. To the Great Spirit, would his spirit bow, With hopes that Nature's impulses impart; Unlike the Christian, who just says his vow With heart enough to say it all by heart. Did we his virtues from his faults discern, 'Twould teach a lesson that we well might learn: An inculcation worthiest of our creed, To tell the simple truth, and do the promised deed. LIII. How deeply eloquent was the debate, Beside the council fire of those red men! With language burning as his sense of hate; With gesture just, with eye of keenest ken; With illustration simple, but profound, Drawn from the sky above him, or the ground Beneath his feet; and with unfalt'ring zeal, He spoke from a warm heart and made e'en cold hearts feel. LIV. And this is Eloquence. 'Tis the intense, Impassioned fervor of a mind deep fraught With native energy, when soul and sense Burst forth, embodied in the burning thought; When look, emotion, tone, are all combined-- When the whole man is eloquent with mind-- A power that comes not to the call or quest, But from the gifted soul, and the deep feeling breast. LV. Poor Logan had it, when he mourned that none Were left to mourn for him;--'twas his who swayed The Roman Senate by a look or tone; 'Twas the Athenian's, when his foes, dismayed, Shrunk from the earthquake of his trumpet call; 'Twas Chatham's, strong as either, or as all; 'Twas Henry's holiest, when his spirit woke Our patriot fathers' zeal to burst the British yoke. LVI. Isle of the beautiful! how much thou art, Now in thy desolation, like the fate Of those who came in innocence of heart, With thy green Eden to assimilate: Then Art her coronal to Nature gave, To deck thy brow; Queen of the onward wave! And woman came, the beautiful and good, And made her happy home 'mid thy embracing flood.[6] LVII. Alas! another came: his blandishment, The fascination of his smooth address, That read so well the very heart's intent, And could so well its every thought express,--[7] Won thy fair spirits to his dark design, And gave our country, too, her Cataline. He lives--the Roman traitor dared to die! Yet, in their different fates, behold the homily. LVIII. Rome, torn by civil feuds and anarchy, Could not endure a traitor on her heart-- For ready Faction, with her argus eye, Was ever watchful when to play her part; And Freedom, with a nightmare on her breast, But show'd she liv'd by groaning when opprest; And even Cato's energy to save, Preserved her, but awhile, to sink upon her grave. LIX. Far different with our Country! mark the time When she threw off her trans-atlantic yoke-- Throughout the wide domain of her fair clime, But one high soldier from his promise broke: In that free gathering who would not enroll With all the patriot's willingness of soul? Our fathers fought for sacred home and hearth! And were too young in crime to think of treason's birth. LX. And when the war had passed, and Freedom raised Her temple to her worshippers, to bless Those who had lit her altar fires, that blazed To light the far untrodden wilderness, All felt the worship, all confessed the God, All knew the tyrant, and all curs'd his rod-- And if one heart fell from his promise then, Why, he might live like Cain, scorned of his fellow men. LXI. The Cain of Nations! be that sov'reignty, That shall, for any purpose, seek to sever The glorious union of the brave and free-- That, but for treason, will endure forever! Her curse shall be the base redeemless lot Of the once free, who feel that they are not-- Who tread their native soil as native slaves, And build their bondage house on their free fathers' graves. LXII. In such a state, would not a Cæsar rise, And chain the nation to his gory car, And pluck from out the blue of our bright skies, To form his diadem, that falling star? Then, one by one, each brilliant light would fall, And primal chaos desolate them all-- While Tyranny, with loud prophetic shout, Would wave his bloody sword, as each and all went out! LXIII. That free born spirit who could rouse again? The dried-up fountain and the scorched up field. The breath, that withers mountain, flood, and plain, To Nature's revolution learn to yield: As strong as ever, man may tread the soil, And sweat for others at his daily toil-- But how shall he regain the gift unbought, The privilege to act the high resolve of thought? LXIV. Say, how shall he regain it, when 'twas giv'n With broken vow, apostatizing breath? How stand erect, how look to the bright Heav'n, Cloth'd in the darkness of that moral death? Her rights down trod, her star-lit banner rent, O! where could Freedom find an armament? How gather, in their glory and their pride, Her own grey father-band, who, for her, nobly died. LXV. United hearts have made united States! What could a single, separate State have done Without the arms of her confederates? Without their glorious leader, WASHINGTON! They stand united, but divided fall-- 'Twas union that gave liberty to all! Then, who would call mad Discord from her cell, To scatter poisons there where the world's manna fell! LXVI. Proud Venice, by her Doge's solemn rite, Was wedded to the wave o'er which she rose: Thence came her lions' all-surpassing might-- A greatness that 'twas glory to oppose. A peaceful pomp proclaimed her nuptial bands: Our Country's bond of States, and hearts and hands, Was signed and sealed before a world amazed, While, for her nuptial torch, red Battle's bacon blaz'd! LXVII. It was a bloody sacrament: Death came Unto the bridal, like a bidden guest, The Priestess, FREEDOM, had but bless'd the flame, E'er the fierce furies to the revel press'd: The storm grew dark--its lightning flash'd afar-- Murder and Rapine leagu'd themselves with War; Yet, proudly and triumphantly, on high, That eagle-guarded banner waved to victory. LXVIII. How fiercely flew that eagle o'er the plain! Then, Albion, sunk thy lion's lordly crest; Behold! again he shakes his brist'ling mane-- There is a serpent in that eagle's nest, Seeking to sting her, in the feint to help, And give her free brood to the lion's whelp-- She strikes the reptile, headless down to earth-- And thus may Treason die, let who will give it birth! LXIX. Last of the Signers! a good night to thee! Alas! that such brave spirits must depart: Peace to thy ashes--to thy memory A monument in every living heart. It gives the spirit strength, endurance, pride, A lofty purpose, unto thine allied, To muse upon thy glory--'tis to stand, As 'twere, upon thy hearth, and hold thee by the hand. LXX. And hear thee tell of thy illustrious peers Who stood beside thee, for our country, there, Fearless, amidst a host of pressing fears, And calm, where even Courage might despair. Ye staked, with this high energy indued, "Life, Fortune, Honor," for the public good, And made your "Declaration" to the world, And, to the tyrant's teeth, defiance sternly hurl'd. LXXI. Alas! the omen--in this awful hour, While Discord and Disunion rend the land! Did'st thou take with thee Freedom's priceless dower? Did'st thou resume the gift of thine own hand, And bear the affrighted Goddess to the skies? Are there no mourners o'er thy obsequies? None, who, with high resolves, approach thy grave? Or--flits a spirit there, that frights the modern brave? LXXII. Say, has our Capital no tarpeian height[8] From which to hurl the traitor? Standing now, Where once he stood, in patriotic might, With the fresh laurel wreath upon his brow, And Freedom burning on his lip of flame; Does Pity plead forgiveness for his shame? Then bear him thence, like Manlius, and be just-- Or go to Vernon's shade, and desecrate its dust. LXXIII. Soon must I mingle in the wordy war, Where Knavery takes in vice her sly degrees, As slip, away, not guilty, from the bar, Counsel, or client, as their Honors please. To breathe, in crowded courts, a pois'nous breath-- To plead for life--to justify a death-- To wrangle, jar, to twist, to twirl, to toil,-- This is the lawyer's life--a heart-consuming moil. LXXIV. And yet it has its honors; high of name And pure of heart, and eloquent of tongue, Have kindled, there, with a most holy flame, While thousands on their glowing accents hung! And be it mine to follow where they've led, To praise, if not to imitate, the dead-- To hail their lustre, like the distant star Which the sad wayworn bless, and follow from afar. LXXV. My friends! how often, in our social talk, Have we called up these names of spell-like power, As, arm in arm, we took the friendly walk, Or lingered out the evening's parting hour-- Or met at the debate, with joyous zest, To test our strength, and each to do his best; While pun and prank we gaily gave and took, With friendship in each heart and pleasure in each look. LXXVI. I recollect it well, and lov'd the time, When we were wont to meet: when last we met, I parted from you for this western clime, With the deep feeling never to forget. In the quick bustle of the busy throng, I feel that I shall miss ye, O! how long! The generous hearts who mann'd my spirit on-- Who sooth'd me when I lost, and cheer'd me if I won.[9] LXXVII. Away! why should I muse in unsooth'd sadness! While the gay sky is smiling upon earth, Like a young mother, o'er her infant's gladness, Blessing the early promise of its birth. The opening day-dawn breaks along the land, Like glorious FREEDOM, as her hopes expand; While the far mountains tower to meet the glow, The altar fires are lit, burning on all below. LXXVIII. Oh! light up every land, till, far and free, Their brave hearts come from mountain and from plain, While, with the shout of onward liberty, Old Earth to her foundation shakes again. The night is gone!--thus Tyranny recedes!-- The sky is cloudless!--FREEDOM!--like thy deeds: A gladness beams o'er earth, and main, and Heav'n-- Thus look the nations up, their chains, their chains are riv'n. LXXIX. Kingdoms are falling! thrones--that have withstood The earthquake and the tempest in their shock, And brav'd the host of battle's fiery flood, Making of human rights the merest mock,[10] Of blood, of agony, of human tears, The daily sacrifice of countless years-- Are falling: may they fall on every shore, As fell the fiend from Heav'n, no more to rise--no more. LXXX. Greece gathers up again her glorious band! With FREEDOM'S loud hurra the Andes quake! It swells, like ocean's wave, from land to land-- Bless them, our Father! for thy children's sake. They strike the noblest who shall strike the first-- Wailing and prostrate, Tyranny accurst, Convulses earth with his fierce agonies; But, if ye strike like men, the fell dictator dies! LXXXI. A tear for Poland! many tears for her Who rose so nobly, and so nobly fell! E'en at her broken shrine, a worshipper, In dust and ashes, let me say farewell! Farewell! brave spirits!--Earth! and can it be, Thy sons beheld them struggling to be free-- Unaided, saw them in their blood downtrod-- Nations, ye are accurst! be merciful, Oh God! LXXXII. My HOME! it needs no prophet voice to tell Thy coming glories; they are thronging fast, Like the enchantments of the Sybil's cell, Expanding brighter to the very last: Fulfilling all the patriot's burning vow, Be free forever my own land as now! While the uprising nations hail thy star, And strike, for freedom, that God-sanctioned war. LXXXIII. And they may fall--but who shall date thy end? Lo! all the past has giv'n its light to thee: Expiring Rome, like a departing friend, Gave solemn warning to thy liberty: And e'en the empires, fabulously old In fruitful fable, have a moral told; What say their fallen kings and shrineless God? There is no "right divine" in the fell tyrant's rod! LXXXIV. Thou learn'dst the lesson, long ago, my HOME, And taught'st it to a willing, wondering world, When thy bright stars rose o'er the ocean's foam, And lit thy banner as it stood unfurl'd; When, from thy farthest mountain to the sea, All rose to bless that banner and be free, Where perch'd thy eagle, in victorious might, While the proud, lordly lion fled in craven flight. LXXXV. Thou hast my heart--and freely do I bow, To bless thee, Freedom, on thy holiest shrine, And give to thee devotion's warmest vow; Oh! let thy spirit mingle into mine: Thy temple is my country, whose far dome Circles as high as the Almighty's home-- Here, 'mid the glories of Creation's birth, Thy altars spread around--this is my mother earth. LXXXVI. Glorious! most glorious! proudly let me stand, With the rapt fervor of a Poet's eye, And pour my blessings on my native land; Oh! for the gift to tell thy destiny, And mould it to the telling--thou should'st rise, Eternal, as the stars that bless thy skies, And sparkle in thy banner--thou should'st be All that thy brave hearts wish'd, who will'd thee to be free. LXXXVII. And no portentous, fearful meteor, there, Should blaze, and blacken, and create dismay, Shaking fierce furies from its snaky hair; No!--thou should'st light the Nations on their way, And be to them a watchword to fight well; And should they fall, as Poland's patriots fell. Oh! cheer them with their exile-flag unfurl'd, And give them freedom here, in her own Western world. LXXXVIII. Auspicious Time! unroll the scroll of years-- Behold our pious pilgrim fathers, when They launch'd their little bark and braved all fears, Those peril-seeking, freedom-loving men! Bless thee, thou Stream! abiding blessings bless Thy farthest wave--Nile of the wilderness! And be thy broad lands peopled, far and wide, With hearts as free as his who now doth bless thy tide. LXXXIX. And may new States arise, and stretch afar, In glory, to the great Pacific shore-- A galaxy, without a falling star-- Freedom's own Mecca, where the world adore. There may Art build--to Knowledge there be giv'n The book of Nature and the light of Heav'n; There be the Statesman's and the patriot's shrine, And Oh! be happy there, the hearts that woo the Nine. XC. There is a welcome in this Western Land Like the old welcomes, which were said to give The friendly heart where'er they gave the hand; Within this soil the social virtues live, Like its own forest trees, unprun'd and free-- At least there is one welcome here for me: A breast that pillowed all my sorrows past, And waits my coming now, and lov'd me first and last. XCI. It binds my Eastern to my Western home; Then let me banish thoughts that sad would be: Not like a leaf-borne insect on the foam, But like a bark upon a glorious sea-- A little bark, perchance, yet firm withal, 'Midst bursting breakers that shall not appal-- I'll bide the coming of a brighter day, Or, to the far off West, pass, like the past, away. FINIS. NOTES. NOTE I. _"The Emigrant, or Reflections," &c._ Mr. Hammond, in the notice which he was so kind as to take of this POEM, suggested the alteration of the title from "Reflections" to "Reveries." In retaining the first title, I do not do so because I think it best, but merely because it was the first title, and the one under which the extracts were given. It seems to the author, if he may dare to hazard the remark, that the stanza in which he has attempted to write, has advantages over even the Spenserean stanzas. He understands the latter to be that in which the Fairy Queen, from whose author it takes its name--Beattie's Minstrel, Thompson's Castle of Indolence, Byron's Childe Harold, &c. &c., are written. The following is a stanza of it, from Childe Harold: The starry fable of the Milky Way Has not thy story's purity; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray, And sacred nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worlds. Oh! holiest nurse! No drop of that clear spring its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our free souls rejoin the Universe. Here, the reader will perceive that, in a stanza of nine lines, there is a necessity for the second, the fourth, the fifth, and the seventh lines to rhyme together; and that the sixth, eighth and ninth lines must, also, rhyme together. To make the stanza correct, with these complicated embarrassments of rhyme, must not only cause great trouble, sometimes, to the easiest versifier, but to succeed in doing so, critically, he must often sacrifice a happy expression, a striking phrase, or a beautiful line. "Words are things," says Mirabeau; and, to the poet, they are things of potency. They are at once tools and materials in his headwork. Any one who has read Childe Harold, must have observed that even the Lord of Poets, with all his powers of language, was often thus hampered, and that, for the sake of preserving the force of an expression, or a striking word, he used what are no rhymes at all, if Monk Lewis' remark to Scott, "that a bad rhyme is no rhyme," be true. Whereas, by making the stanza of but eight lines and having the first four lines to rhyme alternately, and the last four immediately, and by having the concluding line an Alexandrine, as in the Spenserean stanzas, the difficulty, arising from the necessity of having so many similar rhymes, would be obviated, and the poet would have much greater facilities in expressing himself well, without impairing the dignity or strength of what might still be called, from its many resemblances, the Spenserean stanzas; at the same time, the monotony would be avoided, of which criticism has complained so much in the works of Pope and Goldsmith. Very few readers of poetry, in the first poems which they open, are fond of those, no matter how great their merits, which are written in the Spenserean stanzas. They have to acquire a taste for it. They delight in simpler styles: this is one reason of Scott's great popularity with many persons who seldom read any other poet, except perhaps, Burns. And even to those who have a natural taste for poetry, but who have not much cultivated it, the Spenserean stanza seems complicated, and, I will even venture to say, at first untunable; and it is not at the first perusal that they perceive the beauties of those poems which are written in this style. These remarks are hazarded very hastily. It would be much more difficult for the author to build the complicated verse of the Spenserean stanza, than this which he has attempted; and, therefore, perhaps, very rashly, he concludes that it would be more difficult for others; and, moreover, we easily persuade ourselves that what is most easily done it is best to do. NOTE II. _"But thou art given by the good all-giver, Blessing a land to be in turn most blest."_ _Thou exulting and abounding river, Making thy waves a blessing as they flow._ BYRON. NOTE III. _"Here once Boone trod--the hardy Pioneer-- The only white man in the wilderness."_ In a late work entitled "Sketches of Western Adventure," a most interesting account is given of Boone, whose passion for a sylvan life was intense. Like Leather-stocking, it would seem that he always got lost in the clearing, and that only in the forest he knew his way and felt free and unincumbered. Then, like McGregor, "standing on his native heath," he feared no difficulties or dangers. Byron, in his Don Juan, calls him "The man of Ross run wild," and says, that he "killed nothing but a bear or buck," but not so; he had many deadly encounters with the Indians, and was repeatedly taken prisoner by them; but he effected his escapes with great tact. The author of "Sketches of Western Adventure," speaking of him, alone in the wilderness, says, "The wild and solitary grandeur of the country around him, where not a tree had been cut, nor a house erected, was to him an inexhaustible source of admiration and delight; and he says himself, that some of the most rapturous moments of his life were spent in those lonely rambles. The utmost caution was necessary to avoid the savages, and scarcely less to escape the ravenous hunger of the wolves that prowled nightly around him in immense numbers. He was compelled frequently to shift his lodging, and by undoubted signs, saw that the Indians had repeatedly visited his hut during his absence. He sometimes lay in canebrakes, without fire, and heard the yells of the Indians around him. Fortunately, however, he never encountered them." Mr. John A. McClung is the author of the above mentioned work. This gentleman is also the author of a novel, entitled "Camden," which has not received half the notice it deserved. Mr. Flint has now in the press a life of Boone, which will soon be published. I am indebted to him for the following graphic note, concerning Boone: "This extraordinary man, whose birth is said to have been in Maryland, in Virginia, and in North Carolina, was in fact born in neither; but in Pennsylvania, in Buck's County, about twenty miles from Philadelphia. When he was three years old, his father removed to a water of the Schuylkill, not far from Reading. When he was thirteen years old, his father removed thence to the South Yadkin, North Carolina; and in the midst of the bushy hills of that State the character of this Nimrod was developed. "No historical facts are better attested, than those, to which allusion is here made. The native sagacity, the robust hardihood, the invincible courage and spirit of endurance, put forth on all occasions by the pioneer of Kentucky, were, perhaps, never surpassed by any character on record. These traits were admirably balanced and relieved by a disposition peculiarly mild and gentle. In his old age he removed from Kentucky to the banks of the Missouri. The portrait of him in the capitol is said not to be a correct likeness. He was of the middle stature, of prodigious strength and swiftness, with sandy hair, and a bright complexion, a bold, prominent forehead, aquiline nose and compressed lips. There was a peculiar brightness, an unquenchable elasticity and force visible in his forehead and his eye, even under the frost of eighty winters. His old age was not cheered by affluence, but his departure was neither unhonored, nor unsung. No American character seems to have more chained interest and attention. His life constitutes the theme of Mr. Bryant's 'Mountain Muse,' and he is one among the few, whom lord Byron honored with unalloyed eulogy, in seven or eight of the happiest stanzas of Don Juan." NOTE IV. _And should they bear him prisoner from the fight, While they are sleeping, in the dead midnight, He slips the thongs that bind him to the tree, And leaving death with them, bounds home right happily._ The reader is referred to "Sketches of Western Adventure," page 309, for a most interesting account of the escape of two small boys from the Indians. NOTE V. _"How fertile is this 'dark and bloody ground!' Here Death has given many a horrid wound."_ Kentucky was called the "dark and bloody ground" by the Indians, in consequence of many of the fiercest contests having occurred there; it was the common hunting ground of many of the tribes, and here they frequently met in their excursions, scarcely ever without bloodshed. At my request, I was kindly furnished with the annexed note by Judge Hall, on the subject of Indian mounds, which should have been inserted under the passage which alludes to them; but the reference at the proper place being accidentally omitted, it is given here. Judge Hall will readily imagine why the author has omitted some passages of the note, which to himself were not the least pleasing. This gentleman has lately become a citizen of Cincinnati, where those, who knew him formerly but by his high reputation, now feel how much courtesy and kindness increase its charm. Judge Hall is of opinion that most of the mounds are natural; speaking of them he says: "There are few objects so well calculated to strike the poetic imagination as these mounds, standing alone in the wilderness. The belief that they are the workmanship of human hands, awakens curiosity and leads to a long train of reflections. For if men have thrown up these singular elevations, we feel inquisitive to know by whom, and for what purpose, they were erected. They are large and numerous; and they bear every mark of great antiquity. Indeed, I am of opinion, that they are as old as the hills. "Supposing them to be artificial, we are led into a vast field of conjecture. Were they made by the present race of savages, who are ignorant of all the mechanic arts, and disinclined to labor? If so, what inducement could have been placed before them, sufficiently powerful, to break down the barriers of nature, and bring men habitually indolent, to so herculean a task? The Indian, as we see him now, never works. He is the sovereign of the woods, and strides over his heritage with the step of a master, and the wild glance of one who disdains employment. He submits to no restraint but that of military discipline. "Viewing them as artificial, nothing can be more curious; and whether we suppose them to have been graves, or temples, or fortifications, they are equally calculated to awaken feelings of wonder, if not of awe. We see them in the wilderness, where, for ages, savage men alone have dwelt, and we behold them covered with majestic oaks, which have flourished for centuries. They have existed here in the silence and repose of the forest, unchanged amid the revolutions which have been carried on around them. They are among the few records of the past. A people ignorant of writing, painting, or sculpture, destitute of the mechanic arts, and without any knowledge of the use of metals, have left few memorials; unless we see them in the mounds, we might, perhaps, say none. "If we suppose them to be natural, which, in my opinion, is the most rational belief, as to the majority of the mounds, they are still attractive, as natural curiosities, and as displaying a wonderful exhibition of the creative power. Beheld in any light, they are interesting. Whatever may have been their origin, they adorn the monotony of western scenery, and afford employment to the fancy of the traveller. The plodding foot may tread carelessly over them, the uninquiring eye may pass them, unheeded; but the poet and philosopher linger around the hallowed spot where they stand, to catch inspiration, or to gather wisdom from these silent memorials." Judge Hall further says, "satisfied I am that if ever any rational hypothesis, in relation to these interesting remains of past ages, shall be invented, we shall owe it to the inspiration of the poet, and not to the researches of the philosopher." It is very certain that no one can confront the traveller who may be speculating upon these mounds, as Edie Ochiltree did the Antiquary, with "I mind the bigging o' it." NOTE VI. _"Isle of the beautiful! how much thou art, Now, in thy desolation, like the fate Of those who came in innocence of heart With thy green Eden to assimilate: Then Art her coronal to Nature gave To deck thy brow, Queen of the onward wave! And woman came, the beautiful and good, And made her happy home 'mid thy embracing flood."_ The allusion, here, is to Blennerhasset's Island, which is beautifully situated in the Ohio. The romantic story of its former inhabitants makes it a spot of great interest to the Emigrant, who, in descending the river, never fails to request that it may be pointed out to him; and it is often the topic of conversation and conjecture to him and his companions for hours after they have passed it. The author is indebted to Morgan Neville, Esq., for the following account of the Island and its unfortunate owner. Mr. Neville's admirable tale of Mike Fink, and his other sketches, have created in the public an appetite for more, which they have long hoped he would be induced to gratify, with longer and more frequent productions; or, at least, that he would collect what he has written into a volume. "BLENNERHASSET'S ISLAND.--How many recollections of mingled pleasure and pain, does the name of this once beautiful spot, call to mind! In descending the Ohio, I never come in sight of the Island, without sensations almost too powerful to bear; and I linger on the deck of the boat, until the point below snatches it from view. The first impressions were made on me in early youth, and time cannot efface them; on the contrary, the long vista through which I look back to this western 'Eden,' presents it, probably, with exaggerated colorings of beauty and loveliness. The traveller, as he wanders over the grounds, once consecrated by philanthropy, cannot reconcile it with probability, that a proud mansion, a quarter of a century since, was here erected, dedicated to hospitality, where a priestess, in the person of an elegant and refined lady, shed an influence around that attracted to its portal the stranger from every country. In looking at a scene, now desolate and repulsive, he can scarcely credit the fact, that, within that period, the same place was embellished by gardens, groves, and arbors, upon which taste was exhausted, and which cost a fortune to realize. The villa of Blennerhasset was really a beacon-light in the wilderness, that seemed created to invite the approach of the stranger to enjoy that repose which the sluggish and comfortless mode of travelling of that day, rendered so gratifying. The only sounds now heard, are the sighing of the wind through the lofty cotton wood, or the puffing of steam, as some boat rushes rapidly past the prosperous settlement of Bellepre. There was a time when music of a less melancholy character breathed upon the ear; when a master hand swept the chords, and science and taste directed the scene. Herman Blennerhasset and his accomplished wife have sat for many a picture; but, after all, Fancy, alone, guided the pencil, and the originals have never been truly sketched. The reality of their history possesses sufficient interest, without the aid of fiction, to enlist the sympathies of the most romantic. Born to fortune, and nobly connected, Blennerhasset stood in the front rank of Irish society. Educated for the bar, he distinguished himself on many occasions, and he was the assistant counsel, with Curran, in the celebrated trial of Hamilton Rowan. But his disposition was restless, his mind visionary, and, doubtless, he felt sincerely for the degraded state of his country. Notwithstanding his close relationship to the aristocracy of Ireland, and the glaring unfitness of his character for scenes of daring and of danger, he connected himself with the leading yeomen of that day, and became the intimate associate and co-adjutor of Arthur O'Conner. He continued to labor in the cause of Liberty, until the eyes of Government were turned upon him; the result is a matter of public history: O'Conner was arrested, and Blennerhasset escaped. He had the good fortune, however, to secure a considerable portion of his property, and, accompanied by his accomplished wife, an English lady, he arrived in New York in 1796 or '97, with what, in this country, was esteemed a large fortune. He was, however, a visionary; he knew nothing of human nature, nothing of the practical business of life. With considerable literary acquirements, and much pretensions to science, he gave himself up to all the reveries and schemes of modern philosophy; with Southey, Godwin, and the whole class, he was continually dreaming about the perfectibility of human nature, and believed that innocence was alone to be found in that portion of humanity, which approached the nearest to the state of nature. With these notions, which he succeeded, in some measure, in imparting to his young and interesting partner, he declined establishing himself in any of our Atlantic cities, then the only places in the Union offering attractions to a foreigner of taste and fortune, and turned his attention, to the magnificent solitudes of the West. He purchased a portion of the Island in Virginia, near the mouth of the Little Kenhawa, which has been consecrated by his misfortunes, and executed those embellishments which have since become the theme of many a fanciful speech and tale. Considering himself a second Capac, he set about acquiring an influence over the rude inhabitants of the Virginia shores, which might enable him to test the efficiency of his favorite system. But his exertions were abortive, and he became convinced of the folly of his early speculations on human nature; his unsophisticated scholars, affecting to admire him, overreached him on all occasions, and then laughed at him. He embarked in commercial speculations; this proved a failure, and he stopped in time to save a portion of the large fortune which, a few years before, he brought from Europe. He recanted, in bitterness of feeling, his early political principles, and began to sigh for the charms of refined society. Discontent stole into his domestic circle, and the idea of educating his two interesting boys in the desert became insupportable. _Oh! quantum est in rebus in ave!_ During this state of feeling, Colonel Burr presented himself, armed with all the fascinations of manners and address, which so eminently distinguished him. He soon became the ruler of the destiny of the Island pair, and unfolded to them, with resistless eloquence, his magnificent project of the conquest of Mexico, gilding his own ambition under the plausible motive of relieving enslaved millions from the thraldom of Spanish tyranny. The idea of becoming prominent members of a court that would rival the ancient splendor of Montezuma, and the modern glory of Napoleon, absorbed every other feeling. The remains of this once large fortune were embarked in the scheme, and ruin and misery were the consequence. What he felt and saw as but a misdemeanor, was distorted, by political rancor, into treason; and, although one of the most enlightened juries that were ever empanelled, pronounced an acquittal, Blennerhasset was left destitute of means, and blasted in reputation. He attempted to retrieve his affairs as a cotton planter, but was unsuccessful; he afterwards removed to Montreal, to resume his profession. Within a few years he has returned to England, the outlawry against him having been removed; and those who feel an interest in the history of this persecuted family, may be gratified to know that their decline of life will not be devoid of comfort. They reside near Bath, in England, with a sister of Blennerhasset, the relict of the late admiral De Courcy. The evening of life promises to close free from those clouds that so long lowered over them. NOTE VII. _"Alas! another came," &c._ See Mr. Wirt's character of Colonel Burr, in his great speech against him. It was scarcely necessary to refer to this speech, as it is in the mouth of every school boy. NOTE VIII. _"Say, has our Capital no Tarpeian height From which to hurl the traitor?"_ These lines were written in the excitement which prevailed during the session of the last Congress, when the Nullifiers were fulminating their doctrines of disunion and prophesying the downfall of the Republic, when he, who has not yet lost all his original brightness, was acting a part which Milton has described. This may account for what now may be deemed harshness. NOTE IX. _"I recollect it well, and loved the time, When we were wont to meet: when last we met I parted from you for this western clime, With the deep feeling never to forget. In the quick bustle of the busy throng, I feel that I shall miss ye, O! how long! The generous hearts who mann'd my spirit on-- Who sooth'd me when I lost and cheer'd me when I won."_ I have both rhyme and reason for remembering my young friends of Baltimore. More frank, fearless, and generous spirits, it has not been my lot to meet: social companions, firm friends, and with highly cultivated minds, they possess an _esprit du corps_ which gives such qualities their strongest attractions. They have made Baltimore to me the "city of the soul." NOTE X. _"Making of human rights the merest mock."_ The fiend's arch mock. SHAKSPEARE. ERRATA. In Stanza 69, 7th line, read _To_ for _No_. * * * * * Transcriber Notes Table of Contents added. Typographical inconsistencies have been changed and are listed below. The original text has also had its errata incorporated. Archaic and variable spelling and hyphenation is preserved. Author's punctuation style is preserved, except where noted. Passages in italics indicated by _underscores_. Passages in bold indicated by =equal signs=. Transcriber Changes The following changes were made to the original text: Page 17: Added missing footnote tag (Here Death has given many a horrid =wound![5]=) Page 20: Was 'foreget' (There is no lethean power can teach me to =forget=.) Page 30: Stanza number was 'XLIV' (=LXIV=. Say, how shall he regain it, when 'twas giv'n) Page 38: Was 'protentous' (And no =portentous=, fearful meteor, there, should blaze, and blacken, and create dismay) Page 43: Changed period to comma (When he was thirteen years old, his father removed thence to the South =Yadkin,= North Carolina;) Page 43: Added beginning quote (="No= historical facts are better attested, than those, to which allusion is here made.) Page 44: Added beginning quote (="Supposing= them to be artificial, we are led into a vast field of conjecture.) Page 44: Added beginning quote (="Viewing= them as artificial, nothing can be more curious;) Page 44: Added beginning quote (="If= we suppose them to be natural, which, in my opinion, is the most rational belief) Page 45: Changed to single quotes (the long vista through which I look back to this western ='Eden,'= presents it) Page 46: Was 'iu' (accompanied by his accomplished wife, an English lady, he arrived in New York =in= 1796 or '97) 
29306	----	images generously made available by Kentuckiana Digital Library (http://kdl.kyvl.org/) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Kentuckiana Digital Library. See http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;view=toc;idno=b92-161-29919559 Transcriber's note: Spellings and hyphenations are as in the original document. Hyphenation was inconsistent, with the following words appearing both with and without hyphens: saw-mill, tread-mill, drift-wood, back-set, cotton-wood, farm-house, semi-circular, search-light, fire-brick, out-door, ship-yard(s), and house-boat(s). The name "Céleron" is used interchangebly with "Céloron". AFLOAT ON THE OHIO An Historical Pilgrimage of a Thousand Miles in a Skiff, from Redstone to Cairo by REUBEN GOLD THWAITES Secretary of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, Editor of "The Jesuit Relations," Author of "The Colonies, 1492-1750," "Historic Waterways," "The Story of Wisconsin," "Our Cycling Tour in England," etc., etc. Chicago Way & Williams 1897 Copyright by Reuben Gold Thwaites A.D., 1897 _To FREDERICK JACKSON TURNER, Ph. D., Professor of American History in the University of Wisconsin, who loves his native West and with rare insight and gift of phrase interprets her story, this Log of the "Pilgrim" is cordially inscribed._ CONTENTS. PAGE Preface. xi Chapter I. On the Monongahela--The over-mountain path--Redstone Old Fort--The Youghiogheny--Braddock's defeat. 1 Chapter II. First day on the Ohio--At Logstown. 22 Chapter III. Shingis Old Town--The dynamiter--Yellow Creek. 29 Chapter IV. An industrial region--Steubenville--Mingo Bottom--In a steel mill--Indian character. 39 Chapter V. House-boat life--Decadence of steamboat traffic--Wheeling, and Wheeling Creek. 50 Chapter VI. The Big Grave--Washington and Round Bottom--A lazy man's paradise--Captina Creek--George Rogers Clark at Fish Creek--Southern types. 64 Chapter VII. In Dixie--Oil and natural gas, at Witten's Bottom--The Long Reach--Photographing crackers--Visitors in camp. 77 Chapter VIII. Life ashore and afloat--Marietta, "the Plymouth Rock of the West"--The Little Kanawha--The story of Blennerhassett's Island. 87 Chapter IX. Poor whites--First library in the West--An hour at Hockingport--A hermit fisher. 99 Chapter X. Cliff-dwellers, on Long Bottom--Pomeroy Bend--Letart's Island, and Rapids--Game, in the early day--Rainy weather--In a "cracker" home. 109 Chapter XI. Battle of Point Pleasant--The story of Gallipolis--Rosebud--Huntington--The genesis of a houseboater. 125 Chapter XII. In a fog--The Big Sandy--Rainy weather--Operatic gypsies--An ancient tavern. 139 Chapter XIII. The Scioto, and the Shawanese--A night at Rome--Limestone--Keels, flats, and boatmen of the olden time. 150 Chapter XIV. Produce-boats--A dead town--On the Great Bend--Grant's birthplace--The Little Miami--The genesis of Cincinnati. 168 Chapter XV. The story of North Bend--The "shakes"--Driftwood--Rabbit hash--A side-trip to Big Bone Lick. 182 Chapter XVI. New Switzerland--An old-time river pilot--Houseboat life on the lower reaches--A philosopher in rags--Wooded solitudes--Arrival at Louisville. 202 Chapter XVII. Storied Louisville--Red Indians and white--A night on Sand Island--New Albany--Riverside hermits--The river falling--A deserted village--An ideal camp. 218 Chapter XVIII. Village life--A traveling photographer--On a country road--Studies in color--Again among colliers--In sweet content--A ferry romance. 233 Chapter XIX. Fishermen's tales--Skiff nomenclature--Green River--Evansville--Henderson--Audubon and Rafinesque--Floating shops--The Wabash. 251 Chapter XX. Shawneetown--Farm-houses on stilts--Cave-in-Rock--Island nights. 267 Chapter XXI. The Cumberland and the Tennessee--Stately solitudes--Old Fort Massac--Dead towns in Egypt--The last camp--Cairo. 280 _Appendix A._--Historical outline of Ohio Valley settlement. 296 _Appendix B._--Selected list of Journals of previous travelers down the Ohio. 320 Index. 329 PREFACE. There were four of us pilgrims--my Wife, our Boy of ten and a half years, the Doctor, and I. My object in going--the others went for the outing--was to gather "local color" for work in Western history. The Ohio River was an important factor in the development of the West. I wished to know the great waterway intimately in its various phases,--to see with my own eyes what the borderers saw; in imagination, to redress the pioneer stage, and repeople it. A motley company have here performed their parts: Savages of the mound-building age, rearing upon these banks curious earthworks for archæologists of the nineteenth century to puzzle over; Iroquois war-parties, silently swooping upon sleeping villages of the Shawanese, and in noisy glee returning to the New York lakes, laden with spoils and captives; La Salle, prince of French explorers and coureurs de bois, standing at the Falls of the Ohio, and seeking to fathom the geographical mysteries of the continent; French and English fur-traders, in bitter contention for the patronage of the red man; borderers of the rival nations, shedding each other's blood in protracted partisan wars; surveyors like Washington and Boone and the McAfees, clad in fringed hunting-shirts and leathern leggings, mapping out future states; hardy frontiersmen, fighting, hunting, or farming, as occasion demanded; George Rogers Clark, descending the river with his handful of heroic Virginians to win for the United States the great Northwest, and for himself the laurels of fame; the Marietta pilgrims, beating Revolutionary swords into Ohio plowshares; and all that succeeding tide of immigrants from our own Atlantic coast and every corner of Europe, pouring down the great valley to plant powerful commonwealths beyond the mountains. A richly-varied panorama of life passes before us as we contemplate the glowing story of the Ohio. In making our historical pilgrimage we might more easily have "steamboated" the river,--to use a verb in local vogue; but, from the deck of a steamer, scenes take on a different aspect than when viewed from near the level of the flood; for a passenger by such a craft, the vistas of a winding stream change so rapidly that he does not realize how it seemed to the canoeist or flatboatman of old; and there are too many modern distractions about such a mode of progress. To our minds, the manner of our going should as nearly as possible be that of the pioneer himself--hence our skiff, and our nightly camp in primitive fashion. The trip was successful, whatever the point of view. Physically, those six weeks "Afloat on the Ohio" were a model outing--at times rough, to be sure, but exhilarating, health-giving, brain-inspiring. The Log of the "Pilgrim" seeks faintly to outline our experiences, but no words can adequately describe the wooded hill-slopes which day by day girt us in; the romantic ravines which corrugate the rim of the Ohio's basin; the beautiful islands which stud the glistening tide; the great affluents which, winding down for a thousand miles, from the Blue Ridge, the Cumberland, and the Great Smoky, pour their floods into the central stream; the giant trees--sycamores, pawpaws, cork elms, catalpas, walnuts, and what not--which everywhere are in view in this woodland world; the strange and lovely flowers we saw; the curious people we met, black and white, and the varieties of dialect which caught our ear; the details of our charming gypsy life, ashore and afloat, during which we were conscious of the red blood tingling through our veins, and, alert to the whisperings of Nature, were careless of the workaday world, so far away,--simply glad to be alive. For the better understanding of the numerous historical references in the Log, I have thought it well to present in the Appendix a brief sketch of the settlement of the Ohio Valley. To this Appendix, as a preliminary reading, I invite those who may care to follow "Pilgrim" and her crew upon their long journey from historic Redstone down to the Father of Waters. A selected list of Journals of previous travelers down the Ohio, has been added, for the benefit of students of the social and economic history of this important gateway to the continental interior. R. G. T. Madison, Wis., October, 1897. AFLOAT ON THE OHIO CHAPTER I. On the Monongahela--The over-mountain path--Redstone Old Fort--The Youghiogheny--Braddock's defeat. In camp near Charleroi, Pa., Friday, May 4.--Pilgrim, built for the glassy lakes and smooth-flowing rivers of Wisconsin, had suffered unwonted indignities in her rough journey of a thousand miles in a box-car. But beyond a leaky seam or two, which the Doctor had righted with clouts and putty, and some ugly scratches which were only paint-deep, she was in fair trim as she gracefully lay at the foot of the Brownsville shipyard this morning and received her lading. There were spectators in abundance. Brownsville, in the olden day, had seen many an expedition set out from this spot for the grand tour of the Ohio, but not in the personal recollection of any in this throng of idlers, for the era of the flatboat and pirogue now belongs to history. Our expedition is a revival, and therein lies novelty. However, the historic spirit was not evident among our visitors--railway men, coal miners loafing out the duration of a strike, shipyard hands lying in wait for busier times, small boys blessed with as much leisure as curiosity, and that wonder of wonders, a bashful newspaper reporter. Their chief concern centered in the query, how Pilgrim could hold that goodly heap of luggage and still have room to spare for four passengers? It became evident that her capacity is akin to that of the magician's bag. "A dandy skiff, gents!" said the foreman of the shipyard, as we settled into our seats--the Doctor bow, I stroke, with W---- and the Boy in the stern sheets. Having in silence critically watched us for a half hour, seated on a capstan, his red flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows, and well-corded chest and throat bared to wind and weather, this remark of the foreman was evidently the studied judgment of an expert. It was taken as such by the good-natured crowd, which, as we pushed off into the stream, lustily joined in a chorus of "Good-bye!" and "Good luck to yees, an' ye don't git th' missus drowndid 'fore ye git to Cairo!" The current is slight on these lower reaches of the Monongahela. It comes down gayly enough from the West Virginia hills, over many a rapid, and through swirls and eddies in plenty, until Morgantown is reached; and then, settling into a more sedate course, is at Brownsville finally converted into a mere mill-pond, by the back-set of the four slack-water dams between there and Pittsburg. This means solid rowing for the first sixty miles of our journey, with a current scarcely perceptible. The thought of it suggests lunch. At the mouth of Redstone Creek, a mile below Dunlap Creek, our port of departure, we turn in to a shaly beach at the foot of a wooded slope, in semi-rusticity, and fortify the inner man. A famous spot, this Redstone Creek. Between its mouth and that of Dunlap's was made, upon the site of extensive Indian fortification mounds, the first English agricultural settlement west of the Alleghanies. It is unsafe to establish dates for first discoveries, or for first settlements. The wanderers who, first of all white men, penetrated the fastnesses of the wilderness were mostly of the sort who left no documentary traces behind them. It is probable, however, that the first Redstone settlement was made as early as 1750, the year following the establishment of the Ohio Company, which had been chartered by the English crown and given a half-million acres of land west of the mountains and south of the Ohio River, provided it established thereon a hundred families within seven years. "Redstone Old Fort"--the name had reference to the aboriginal earthworks--played a part in the Fort Necessity and Braddock campaigns and in later frontier wars; and, being the western terminus of the over-mountain road known at various historic periods as Nemacolin's Path, Braddock's Road, and Cumberland Pike, was for many years the chief point of departure for Virginia expeditions down the Ohio River. Washington, who had large landed interests on the Ohio, knew Redstone well; and here George Rogers Clark set out (1778) upon flatboats, with his rough-and-ready Virginia volunteers, to capture the country north of the Ohio for the American arms--one of the least known, but most momentous conquests in history. Early in the nineteenth century, Redstone became Brownsville. But, whether as Redstone or Brownsville, it was, in its day, like most "jumping off" places on the edge of civilization, a veritable Sodom. Wrote good old John Pope, in his Journal of 1790, and in the same strain scores of other veracious chroniclers: "At this Place we were detained about a Week, experiencing every Disgust which Rooks and Harpies could excite." Here thrived extensive yards in which were built flatboats, arks, keel boats, and all that miscellaneous collection of water craft which, with their roisterly crews, were the life of the Ohio before the introduction of steam rendered vessels of deeper draught essential; whereupon much of the shipping business went down the river to better stages of water, first to Pittsburg, thence to Wheeling, and to Steubenville. All that is of the past. Brownsville is still a busy corner of the world, though of a different sort, with all its romance gone. To the student of Western history, Brownsville will always be a shrine--albeit a smoky, dusty shrine, with the smell of lubricators and the clang of hammers, and much talk thereabout of the glories of Mammon. The Monongahela is a characteristic mountain trough. From an altitude of four or five hundred feet, the country falls in sharp steeps to a narrow alluvial bench, and then a broad beach of shale and pebble; the slopes are broken, here and there, where deep, shadowy ravines come winding down, bearing muddy contributions to the greater flood. The higher hills are crowned with forest trees, the lower ofttimes checkered with brown fields, recently planted, and rows of vines trimmed low to stakes, as in the fashion of the Rhine. The stream, though still majestic in its sweep, is henceforth a commercial slack-water, lined with noisy, grimy, matter-of-fact manufacturing towns, for the most part literally abutting one upon the other all of the way down to Pittsburg, and fast defiling the once picturesque banks with the gruesome offal of coal mines and iron plants. Surprising is the density of settlement along the river. Often, four or five full-fledged cities are at once in view from our boat, the air is thick with sooty smoke belched from hundreds of stacks, the ear is almost deafened with the whirr and roar and bang of milling industries. Tipples of bituminous coal-shafts are ever in sight--begrimed scaffolds of wood and iron, arranged for dumping the product of the mines into both barges and railway cars. Either bank is lined with railways, in sight of which we shall almost continually float, all the way down to Cairo, nearly eleven hundred miles away. At each tipple is a miners' hamlet; a row of cottages or huts, cast in a common mold, either unpainted, or bedaubed with that cheap, ugly red with which one is familiar in railway bridges and rural barns. Sometimes these huts, though in the mass dreary enough, are kept in neat repair; but often are they sadly out of elbows--pigs and children promiscuously at their doors, paneless sash stuffed with rags, unsightly litter strewn around, misery stamped on every feature of the homeless tenements. Dreariest of all is a deserted mining village, and there are many such--the shaft having been worked out, or an unquenchable subterranean fire left to smolder in neglect. Here the tipple has fallen into creaking decrepitude; the cabins are without windows or doors--these having been taken to some newer hamlet; ridge-poles are sunken, chimneys tottering; soot covers the gaunt bones, which for all the world are like a row of skeletons, perched high, and grinning down at you in their misery; while the black offal of the pit, covering deep the original beauty of the once green slope, is in its turn being veiled with climbing weeds--such is Nature's haste, when untrammeled, to heal the scars wrought by man. A mile or two below Charleroi is Lock No. 4, the first of the quartet of obstructions between Brownsville and Pittsburg. We are encamped a mile below the dam, in a cozy little willowed nook; a rod behind our ample tent rises the face of an alluvial terrace, occupied by a grain-field, running back for an hundred yards to the hills, at the base of which is a railway track. Across the river, here some two hundred and fifty yards wide, the dark, rocky bluffs, slashed with numerous ravines, ascend sharply from the flood; at the quarried base, a wagon road and the customary railway; and upon the stony beach, two or three rough shelter-tents, housing the Black Diamond Brass Band, of Monongahela City, out on a week's picnic to while away the period of the strike. It was seven o'clock when we struck camp, and our frugal repast was finished by lantern-light. The sun sets early in this narrow trough through the foothills of the Laurel range. * * * * * McKeesport, Pa., Saturday, May 5th.--Out there on the beach, near Charleroi, with the sail for an awning, Pilgrim had been converted into a boudoir for the Doctor, who, snuggled in his sleeping-bag, emitted an occasional snore--echoes from the Land of Nod. W---- and our Boy of ten summers, on their canvas folding-cots, were peacefully oblivious of the noises of the night, and needed the kiss of dawn to rouse them. But for me, always a light sleeper, and as yet unused to our airy bedroom, the crickets chirruped through the long watches. Two or three freighters passed in the night, with monotonous swish-swish and swelling wake. It arouses something akin to awe, this passage of a steamer's wake upon the beach, a dozen feet from the door of one's tent. First, the water is sucked down, leaving for a moment a wet streak of sand or gravel, a dozen feet in width; in quick succession come heavy, booming waves, running at an acute angle with the shore, breaking at once into angry foam, and wasting themselves far up on the strand, for a few moments making bedlam with any driftwood which chances to have made lodgment there. When suddenly awakened by this boisterous turmoil, the first thought is that a dam has broken and a flood is at hand; but, by the time you rise upon your elbow, the scurrying uproar lessens, and gradually dies away along a more distant shore. We were slow in getting off this morning. But the dense fog had been loath to lift; and at first the stove smoked badly, until we discovered and removed the source of trouble. This stove is an ingenious contrivance of the Doctor's--a box of sheet-iron, of slight weight, so arranged as to be folded into an incredibly small space; a vast improvement for cooking purposes over an open camp-fire, which Pilgrim's crew know, from long experience in far distant fields, to be a vexation to eyes and soul. Coaling hamlets more or less deserted were frequent this morning--unpainted, windowless, ragged wrecks. At the inhabited mining villages, either close to the strand or well up on hillside ledges, idle men were everywhere about. Women and boys and girls were stockingless and shoeless, and often dirty to a degree. But, when conversed with, we found them independent, respectful, and self-respecting folk. Occasionally I would, for the mere sake of meeting these workaday brothers of ours, with canteen slung on shoulder, climb the steep flight of stairs cut in the clay bank, and on reaching the terrace inquire for drinking water, talking familiarly with the folk who came to meet me at the well-curb. There are old-fashioned Dutch ovens in nearly every yard, a few chickens, and often a shed for the cow, that is off on her daily climb over the neighboring hills. Through the black pall of shale, a few vegetables struggle feebly to the light; in the corners of the palings, are hollyhocks and four-o'clocks; and, on window-sills, rows of battered tin cans, resplendent in blue and yellow labels, are the homes of verbenas and geraniums, in sickly bloom. Now and then, a back door in the dreary block is distinguished by an arbored trellis bearing a grape-vine, and furnishing for the weary housewife a shady kitchen, _al fresco_. As a rule, however, there is little attempt to better the homeless shelter furnished by the corporation. We restocked with provisions at Monongahela City, a smart, newish town, and at Elizabeth, old and dingy. It was at Elizabeth, then Elizabethtown, that travelers from the Eastern States, over the old Philadelphia Road, chiefly took boat for the Ohio--the Virginians still clinging to Redstone, as the terminus of the Braddock Road. Elizabethtown, in flatboat days, was the seat of a considerable boat-building industry, its yards in time turning out steamboats for the New Orleans trade, and even sea-going sailing craft; but, to-day, coal barges are the principal output of her decaying shipyards. By this time, the duties of our little ship's company are well defined. W---- supervises the cuisine, most important of all offices; the Doctor is chief navigator, assistant cook, and hewer of wood; it falls to my lot to purchase supplies, to be carrier of water, to pitch tent and make beds, and, while breakfast is being cooked, to dismantle the camp and, so far as may be, to repack Pilgrim; the Boy collects driftwood, wipes dishes, and helps at what he can--while all hands row or paddle through the livelong day, as whim or need dictates. Lock No. 3, at Walton, necessitated a portage of the load, over the left bank. It is a steep, rocky climb, and the descent on the lower side, strewn with stone chips, destructive to shoe-leather. The Doctor and I let Pilgrim herself down with a long rope, over a shallow spot in the apron of the dam. At six o'clock a camping-ground for the night became desirable. We were fortunate, last evening, to find a bit of rustic country in which to pitch our tent; but all through this afternoon both banks of the river were lined with village after village, city after city, scarcely a garden patch between them--Wilson, Coal Valley, Lostock, Glassport, Dravosburg, and a dozen others not recorded on our map, which bears date of 1882. The sun was setting behind the rim of the river basin, when we reached the broad mouth of the Youghiogheny (pr. Yock-i-o-gai'-ny), which is implanted with a cluster of iron-mill towns, of which McKeesport is the center. So far as we could see down the Monongahela, the air was thick with the smoke of glowing chimneys, and the pulsating whang of steel-making plants and rolling-mills made the air tremble. The view up the "Yough" was more inviting; so, with oars and paddle firmly set, we turned off our course and lustily pulled against the strong current of the tributary. A score or two of house-boats lay tied to the McKeesport shore or were bolstered high upon the beach; a fleet of Yough steamers had their noses to the wharf; a half-dozen fishermen were setting nets; and, high over all, with lofty spans of iron cobweb, several railway and wagon bridges spanned the gliding stream. It was a mile and a half up the Yough before we reached the open country; and then only the rapidly-gathering dusk drove us ashore, for on near approach the prospect was not pleasing. Finally settling into this damp, shallow pocket in the shelving bank, we find broad-girthed elms and maples screening us from all save the river front, the high bank in the rear fringed with blue violets which emit a delicious odor, backed by a field of waving corn stretching off toward heavily-wooded hills. Our supper cooked and eaten by lantern-light, we vote ourselves as, after all, serenely content out here in the starlight--at peace with the world, and very close to Nature's heart. There come to us, on the cool evening breeze, faint echoes of the never-ceasing clang of McKeesport iron mills, down on the Monongahela shore. But it is not of these we talk, lounging in the welcome warmth of the camp-fire; it is of the age of romance, a hundred and forty odd years ago, when Major Washington and Christopher Gist, with famished horses, floundered in the ice hereabout, upon their famous midwinter trip to Fort Le Boeuf; when the "Forks of the Yough" became the extreme outpost of Western advance, with all the accompanying horrors of frontier war; and later, when McKeesport for a time rivaled Redstone and Elizabethtown as a center for boat-building and a point of departure for the Ohio. * * * * * Pittsburg, Sunday, May 6th.--Many of the trees are already in full leaf. The trillium is fading. We are in the full tide of early summer, up here in the mountains, and our long journey of six weeks is southward and toward the plain. The lower Ohio may soon be a bake-oven, and the middle of June will be upon us before far-away Cairo is reached. It behooves us to be up and doing. The river, flowing by our door, is an ever-pressing invitation to be onward; it stops not for Sunday, nor ever stops--and why should we, mere drift upon the passing tide? There was a smart thunder-shower during breakfast, followed by a cool, cloudy morning. At eleven o'clock Pilgrim was laden. A south-eastern breeze ruffled the waters of the Yough, and for the first time the Doctor ordered up the sail, with W---- at the sheet. It was not long before Pilgrim had the water "singing at her prow." With a rush, we flew past the factories, the house-boats, and the shabby street-ends of McKeesport, out into the Monongahela, where, luckily, the wind still held. At McKeesport, the hills on the right are of a relatively low altitude, smooth and well rounded. It was here that Braddock, in his slow progress toward Fort Duquesne, first crossed the Monongahela, to the wide, level bottom on the left bank. He had found the inner country to the right of the river and below the Yough too rough and hilly for his march, hence had turned back toward the Monongahela, fording the river to take advantage of the less difficult bottom. Some four miles below this first crossing, hills reapproach the left bank, till the bottom ceases; the right thenceforth becomes the more favorable side for marching. With great pomp, he recrossed the Monongahela just below the point where Turtle Creek enters from the east. Within a hillside ravine, but a hundred yards inland, the brilliant column fell into an ambuscade of Indians and French half-breeds, suffering that heart-sickening defeat which will ever live as one of the most tragic events in American history. The noisy iron-manufacturing town of Braddock now occupies the site of Braddock's defeat. Not far from the old ford stretches the great dam of Lock No. 2, which we portaged, with the usual difficulties of steep, stony banks. Braddock is but eight miles across country from Pittsburg, although twelve by river. We have, all the way down, an almost constant succession of iron and steel-making towns, chief among them Homestead, on the left bank, seven miles above Pittsburg. The great strike of July, 1892, with its attendant horrors, is a lurid chapter in the story of American industry. With shuddering interest, we view the famous great bank of ugly slag at the base of the steel mills, where the barges housing the Pinkerton guards were burned by the mob. To-day, the Homesteaders are enjoying their Sunday afternoon outing along the town shore--nurses pushing baby carriages, self-absorbed lovers holding hands upon riverside benches, merry-makers rowing in skiffs or crossing the river in crowded ferries; the electric cars, following either side of the stream as far down as Pittsburg, crowded to suffocation with gayly-attired folk. They look little like rioters; yet it seems but the other day when Homestead men and women and children were hysterically reveling in atrocities akin to those of the Paris commune. Approaching Pittsburg, the high steeps are everywhere crowded with houses--great masses of smoke-color, dotted all over with white shades and sparkling windows, which seem, in the gray afternoon, to be ten thousand eyes coldly staring down at Pilgrim and her crew from all over the flanking hillsides. Lock No. 1, the last barrier between us and the Ohio, is a mile or two up the Monongahela, with warehouses and manufacturing plants closely hemming it in on either side. A portage, unaided, appears to be impossible here, and we resolve to lock through. But it is Sunday, and the lock is closed. Above, a dozen down-going steamboats are moored to the shore, waiting for midnight and the resumption of business; while below, a similar line of ascending boats is awaiting the close of the day of rest. Pilgrim, however, cannot hang up at the levee with any comfort to her crew; it is necessary, with evening at hand, and a thunder-storm angrily rising over the Pittsburg hills, to get out of this grimy pool, flanked about with iron and coal yards, chimney stacks, and a forest of shipping, and to quickly seek the open country lower down on the Ohio. The lock-keepers appreciated our situation. Two or three sturdy, courteous men helped us carry our cargo, by an intricate official route, over coils of rope and chains, over lines of shafting, and along dizzy walks overhanging the yawning basin; while the Doctor, directed to a certain chute in midstream, took unladen Pilgrim over the great dam, with a wild swoop which made our eyes swim to witness from the lock. We had laboriously been rowing on slack-water, all the way from Brownsville, with the help of an hour's sail this morning; whereas, now that we were in the strong current below the dam, we had but to gently paddle to glide swiftly on our way. A hundred steamers, more or less, lay closely packed with their bows upon the right, or principal city wharf. It was raining at last, and we donned our storm wraps. No doubt yellow Pilgrim,--thought hereabout to be a frail craft for these waters,--her crew all poncho-clad, slipping silently through the dark water swishing at their sterns, was a novelty to the steamboat men, for they leaned lazily over their railings, the officers on the upper deck, engineers and roustabouts on the lower, and watched us curiously. Our period of elation was brief. Black storm-clouds, jagged and portentous, were scurrying across the sky; and by the time we had reached the forks, where the Monongahela, in the heart of the city, joins forces with the Alleghany, Pilgrim was being buffeted about on a chop sea produced by cross currents and a northwest gale. She can weather an ordinary storm, but this experience was too much for her. When a passing steamer threw out long lines of frothy waves to add to the disturbance, they broke over our gunwales; and W---- with the coffee pot and the Boy with a tin basin were hard pushed to keep the water below the thwarts. Seeking the friendly shelter of a house-boat, of which there were scores tied to the left bank, we trusted our drenched luggage to the care of its proprietor, placed Pilgrim in a snug harbor hard by, and, hurrying up a steep flight of steps leading from the levee to the terrace above, found a suburban hotel just as its office clock struck eight. Across the Ohio, through the blinding storm, the dark outlines of Pittsburg and Allegheny City are spangled with electric lamps which throw toward us long, shimmering lances of light, in which the mighty stream, gray, mysterious, tempest-tossed, is seen to be surging onward with majestic sweep. Upon its bosom we are to be borne for a thousand miles. Our introduction has been unpropitious; it is to be hoped that on further acquaintance we may be better pleased with La Belle Rivière. CHAPTER II. First day on the Ohio--At Logstown. Beaver River, Monday, May 7th.--We have to-day rowed and paddled under a cloudless sky, but in the teeth of frequent squalls, with heavy waves freely dashing their spray upon us. At such times a goodly current, aided by numerous wing-dams, appears of little avail; for, when we rested upon our oars, Pilgrim would be unmercifully driven up stream. Thus it has been an almost continual fight to make progress, and our five-and-twenty miles represent a hard day's work. We were overloaded, that was certain; so we stopped at Chartier, three miles down the river from Pittsburg, and sent on our portly bag of conventional traveling clothes by express to Cincinnati, where we intend stopping for a day. This leaves us in our rough boating costumes for all the smaller towns _en route_. What we may lose in possible social embarrassments, we gain in lightened cargo. Here at the mouth of Chartier's Creek was "Chartier's Old Town" of a century and a third ago; a straggling, unkempt Indian village then, but at least the banks were lovely, and the rolling distances clothed with majestic trees. To-day, these creek banks, connected with numerous iron bridges, are the dumping-ground for cinders, slag, rubbish of every degree of foulness; the bare hillsides are crowded with the ugly dwellings of iron-workers; the atmosphere is thick with smoke. Washington, one of the greatest land speculators of his time, owned over 32,000 acres along the Ohio. He held a patent from Lord Dunmore, dated July 5, 1775, for nearly 3,000 acres lying about the mouth of this stream. In accordance with the free-and-easy habit of trans-Alleghany pioneers, ten men squatted on the tract, greatly to the indignation of the Father of his Country, who in 1784 brought against them a successful suit for ejectment. Twelve years later, more familiar with this than with most of his land grants, he sold it to a friend for $12,000. Just below Chartier are the picturesque McKee's Rocks, where is the first riffle in the Ohio. We "take" it with a swoop, the white-capped waves dancing about us in a miniature rapid. Then we are in the open country, and for the first time find what the great river is like. The character of the banks, for some distance below Pittsburg, differs from that of the Monongahela. The hills are lower, less precipitous, more graceful. There is a delightful roundness of mass and shade. Beautiful villas occupy commanding situations on hillsides and hilltops; we catch glimpses of spires and cupolas, singly or in groups, peeping above the trees; and now and then a pretty suburban railway station. The railways upon either bank are built on neat terraces, and, far from marring the scene, agreeably give life to it; now and then, three such terraces are to be traced, one above the other, against the dark background of wood and field--the lower and upper devoted to rival railway lines, the central one to the common way. The mouths of the beautiful tributary ravines are crossed either by graceful iron spans, which frame charming undercut glimpses of sparkling waterfalls and deep tangles of moss and fern, or by graceful stone arches draped with vines. There are terraced vineyards, after the fashion of the Rhineland, and the gentle arts of the florist and the truck-gardener are much in evidence. The winding river frequently sweeps at the base of rocky escarpments, but upon one side or the other there are now invariably bottom lands--narrow on these upper reaches, but we shall find them gradually widen and lengthen as we descend. The reaches are from four to seven miles in length, but these, too, are to lengthen in the middle waters. Islands are frequent, all day. The largest is Neville's, five miles long and thickly strewn with villas and market-gardens; still others are but long sandbars grown to willows, and but temporarily in sight, for the stage of water is low just now, not over seven feet in the channel. Emerging from the immediate suburbs of Pittsburg, the fields broaden, farmsteads are occasionally to be seen nestled in the undulations of the hills, woodlands become more dense. There are, however, small rustic towns in plenty; we are seldom out of sight of these. Climbing a steep clay slope on the left bank, we visited one of them--Shousetown, fourteen miles below the city. A sad-eyed, shabby place, with the pipe line for natural gas sprawling hither and yon upon the surface of the ground, except at the street crossings, where a few inches of protecting earth have been laid upon it. The tariff levied by the gas company is ten cents per month for each light, and a dollar and a half for a cook-stove. We passed, this afternoon, one of the most interesting historic points upon the river--the picturesque site of ancient Logstown, upon the summit of a low, steep ridge on the right bank, just below Economy, and eighteen miles from Pittsburg. Logstown was a Shawanese village as early as 1727-30, and already a notable fur-trading post when Conrad Weiser visited it in 1748. Washington and Gist stopped at "Loggestown" for five days on their visit to the French at Fort Le Boeuf, and several famous Indian treaties were signed there. A short distance below, Anthony Wayne's Western army was encamped during the winter of 1792-93, the place being then styled Legionville. In 1824 George Rapp founded in the neighborhood a German socialist community, and this later settlement survives to the present day in the thriving little rustic town of Economy. At four o'clock we struck camp on a heavily-willowed shore, at the apex of the great northern bend of the Ohio (25 miles).[A] Across the river, on a broad level bottom, are the manufacturing towns of Rochester and Beaver, divided by the Beaver River; in their rear, well-rounded hills rise gracefully, checkered with brown fields and woods in many shades of green, in the midst of which the flowering white dogwood rears its stately spray. Our sloping willowed sand-beach, of a hundred feet in width, is thick strewn with driftwood; back of this a clay bank, eight feet sheer, and a narrow bottom cut up with small fruit and vegetable patches; the gardeners' neat frame houses peeping from groves of apple, pear and cherry, upon the flanking hillsides. A lofty oil-well derrick surmounts the edge of the terrace a hundred yards below our camp. The bushes and the ground round about the well are black and slimy with crude petroleum, that has escaped during the boring process, and the air is heavy with its odor. We are upon the edge of the far-stretching oil and gas-well region, and shall soon become familiar enough with such sights and smells in the neighborhood of our nightly camps. No sooner had Pilgrim been turned up against a tree to dry, and a smooth sandy open chosen for the camp, than the proprietor of the soil appeared--a middling-sized, lanky man, with a red face and a sandy goatee surmounting a collarless white shirt all bestained with tobacco juice. He inquired rather sharply concerning us, but when informed of our innocent errand, and that we should stay with him but the night, he promptly softened, explaining that the presence of marauding fishermen and house-boat folk was incompatible with gardening for profit, and he would have none of them touch upon his shore. As to us, we were welcome to stop throughout our pleasure, an invitation he reinforced by sitting upon a stump, whittling vigorously meanwhile, and glibly gossiping with the Doctor and me for a half-hour, on crop conditions and the state of the country--"bein' sociable like," he said, "an' hav'n' nuth'n 'gin you folks, as knows what's what, I kin see with half a eye!" [Footnote A: Figures in parentheses, similarly placed throughout the volume, indicate the meandered river mileage from Pittsburg, according to the map of the Corps of Engineers, U.S.A., published in 1881. The actual mileage of the channel is a trifle greater.] CHAPTER III. Shingis Old Town--The dynamiter--Yellow Creek. Kneistley's Cluster, W. Va., Tuesday, May 8th.--We were off at a quarter past seven, and among the earliest shoppers in Rochester, on the east bank of the Beaver, where supplies were laid in for the day. This busy, prosperous-looking place bears little resemblance to the squalid Indian village which Gist found here in November, 1750. It was then the seat of Barney Curran, an Indian trader--the same Curran whom Washington, three years later, employed in the mission to Venango. But the smaller sister town of Beaver, on the lower side of the mouth,--or rather the western outskirts of Beaver a mile below the mouth,--has the most ancient history. On account of a ford across the Beaver, about where is now a slack-water dam, the neighborhood became of early importance to the French as a fur-trading center. With customary liberality toward the Indians, whom they assiduously cultivated, the French, in 1756, built for them, on this site, a substantial town, which the English indifferently called Sarikonk, Sohkon, King Beaver's Town, or Shingis Old Town. During the French and Indian War, the place was prominent as a rendezvous for the enemies of American borderers; numerous bloody forays were planned here, and hither were brought to be adopted into the tribes, or to be cruelly tortured, according to savage whim, many of the captives whose tales have made lurid the history of the Ohio Valley. Passing Beaver River, the Ohio enters upon its grand sweep to the southwest. The wide uplands at once become more rustic, especially those of the left bank, which no longer is threaded by a railway, as heretofore all the way from Brownsville. The two ranges of undulating hills, some three hundred and fifty feet high, forming the rim of the basin, are about a half mile apart; while the river itself is perhaps a third of a mile in width, leaving narrow bottoms on alternate sides, as the stream in gentle curves rebounds from the rocky base of one hill to that of another. When winding about such a base, there is at this stage of the water a sloping, stony beach, some ten to twenty yards in width, from which ascends the sharp steep, for the most part heavily tree-clad--maples, birches, elms and oaks of goodly girth, the latter as yet in but half-leaf. On the "bottom side" of the river, the alluvial terrace presents a sheer wall of clay rising from eight to a dozen feet above the beach, which is often thick-grown with willows, whose roots hold the soil from becoming too easy a prey to the encroaching current. Sycamores now begin to appear in the bottoms, although of less size than we shall meet below. Sometimes the little towns we see occupy a narrow and more or less rocky bench upon the hill side of the stream, but settlement is chiefly found upon the bottoms. Shippingsport (32 miles), on the left bank, where we stopped this noon for eggs, butter, and fresh water, is on a narrow hill bench--a dry, woe-begone hamlet, side-tracked from the path of the world's progress. While I was on shore, negotiating with the sleepy storekeeper, Pilgrim and her crew waited alongside the flatboat which serves as the town ferry. There they were visited by a breezy, red-faced young man, in a blue flannel shirt and a black slouch hat, who was soon enough at his ease to lie flat upon the ferry gunwale, his cheeks supported by his hands, and talk to W---- and the Doctor as if they were old friends. He was a dealer in nitroglycerin cartridges, he said, and pointed to a long, rakish-looking skiff hard by, which bore a red flag at its prow. "Ye see that? Thet there red flag? Well, thet's the law on us glyser_een_ fellers--over five hundred poun's, two flags; un'er five hundred, one flag. I've two hundred and fifty, I have. I tell yer th' steamboats steer clear o' me, an' don' yer fergit it, neither; they jist give me a wide berth, they do, yew bet! 'n' th' railroads, they don' carry no glyser_een_ cartridge, they don't--all uv it by skiff, like yer see me goin'." These cartridges, he explained, are dropped into oil or gas wells whose owners are desirous of accelerating the flow. The cartridge, in exploding, enlarges the hole, and often the output of the well is at once increased by several hundred per cent. The young fellow had the air of a self-confident rustic, with little experience in the world. Indeed, it seemed from his elated manner as if this might be his first trip from home, and the blowing of oil wells an incidental speculation. The Boy, quick at inventive nomenclature, and fresh from a reading of Robert Louis Stevenson, called our visitor "the Dynamiter," and by that title I suppose we shall always remember him. The Dynamiter confided to his listeners that he was going down the river for "a clean hundred miles, and that's right smart fur, ain't it? How fur down be yees goin'?" The Doctor replied that we were going nine hundred; whereat the man of explosives gave vent to his feelings in a prolonged whistle, then a horse laugh, and "Oh come, now! Don' be givin' us taffy! Say, hones' Injun, how fur down air yew fellers goin', anyhow?" It was with some difficulty that he could comprehend the fact. A hundred miles on the river was a great outing for this village lad; nine hundred was rather beyond his comprehension, although he finally compromised by "allowing" that we might be going as far as Cincinnati. Wouldn't the Doctor go into partnership with him? He had no caps for his cartridges, and if the Doctor would buy caps and "stan' in with him on the cost of the glyser_een_," they would, regardless of Ohio statutes, blow up the fish in unfrequented portions of the river, and make two hundred dollars apiece by carrying the spoils in to Wheeling. The Doctor, as a law-abiding citizen, good-naturedly declined; and upon my return to the flat, the Dynamiter was handing the Boy a huge stick of barber-pole candy, saying, "Well, yew fellers, we'll part friends, anyhow--but sorry yew won't go in on this spec'; there's right smart money in 't, 'n' don' yer fergit it!" By the middle of the afternoon we reached the boundary line (40 miles) between Pennsylvania on the east and Ohio and West Virginia on the west. The last Pennsylvania settlements are a half mile above the boundary--Smith's Ferry (right), an old and somewhat decayed village, on a broad, low bottom at the mouth of the picturesque Little Beaver Creek;[A] and Georgetown (left), a prosperous-looking, sedate town, with tidy lawns running down to the edge of the terrace, below which is a shelving stone beach of generous width. Two high iron towers supporting the cable of a current ferry add dignity to the twin settlements. A stone monument, six feet high, just observable through the willows on the right shore, marks the boundary; while upon the left bank, surmounting a high, rock-strewn beach, is the dilapidated frame house of a West Virginia "cracker," through whose garden-patch the line takes its way, unobserved and unthought of by pigs, chickens and children, which in hopeless promiscuity swarm the interstate premises. For many days to come we are to have Ohio on the right bank and West Virginia on the left. There is no perceptible change, of course, in the contour of the rugged hills which hem us in; yet somehow it stirs the blood to reflect that quite within the recollection of all of us in Pilgrim's crew, save the Boy, that left bank was the house of bondage, and that right the land of freedom, and this river of ours the highway between. East Liverpool (44 miles) and Wellsville (48 miles) are long stretches of pottery and tile-making works, both of them on the Ohio shore. There is nothing there to lure us, however, and we determined to camp on the banks of Yellow Creek (51 miles), a peaceful little Ohio stream some two rods in width, its mouth crossed by two great iron spans, for railway and highway. But although Yellow Creek winds most gracefully and is altogether a charming bit of rustic water, deep-set amid picturesque slopes of field and wood, we fail to find upon its banks an appropriate camping-place. Upon one side a country road closely skirts the shore, and on the other a railway, while for the mile or more we pushed along small farmsteads almost abutted. Hence we retrace our path to the great river, and, dropping down-stream for two miles, find what we seek upon the lower end of the chief of Kneistly's Cluster--two islands on the West Virginia side of the channel. It is storied ground, this neighborhood of ours. Over there at the mouth of Yellow Creek was, a hundred and twenty years ago, the camp of Logan, the Mingo chief; opposite, on the West Virginia shore, Baker's Bottom, where occurred the treacherous massacre of Logan's family. The tragedy is interwoven with the history of the trans-Alleghany border; and schoolboys have in many lands and tongues recited the pathetic defense of the poor Mingo, who, more sinned against than sinning, was crushed in the inevitable struggle between savagery and civilization. "Who is there to mourn for Logan?" We are high and dry on our willowed island. Above, just out of sight, are moored a brace of steam pile-drivers engaged in strengthening the dam which unites us with Baker's Bottom. To the left lies a broad stretch of gravel strand, beyond which is the narrow water fed by the overflow of the dam; to the right, the broad steamboat channel rolls between us and the Ohio hills, while the far-reaching vista downstream is a feast of shade and tint, by land and water, with the lights and smoke of New Cumberland and Sloan's Station faintly discernible near the horizon. All about us lies a beautiful world of woodland. The whistle of quails innumerable broke upon us in the twilight, succeeding to the calls of rose-breasted grosbeaks and a goodly company of daylight followers; in this darkening hour, the low, plaintive note of the whip-poor-will is heard on every hand, now and then interrupted by the hoarse bark of owls. There is a gentle tinkling of cowbells on the Ohio shore, and on both are human voices confused by distance. All pervading is the deep, sullen roar of a great wing-dam, a half mile or so down-stream. The camp is gypsy-like. Our washing lies spread on bushes, where it will catch the first peep of morning sun. Perishable provisions rest in notches of trees, where the cool evening breeze will strike them. Seated upon the "grub" box, I am writing up our log by aid of the lantern hung from a branch overhead, while W----, ever busy, sits by with her mending. Lying in the moonlight, which through the sprawling willows gayly checkers our sand bank, the Doctor and the Boy are discussing the doings of Br'er Rabbit--for we are in the Southland now, and may any day meet good Uncle Remus. [Footnote A: On this creek was the hunting-cabin of the Seneca (Mingo) chief, Half King, who sent a message of welcome to Washington, when the latter was on his way to Great Meadows (1754).] CHAPTER IV. An industrial region--Steubenville--Mingo Bottom--In a steel mill--Indian character. Mingo Junction, Ohio, Wednesday, May 9th.--We had a cold night upon our island. Upon arising this morning, a heavy fog enveloped us, at first completely veiling the sun; soon it became faintly visible, a great ball of burnished copper reflected in the dimpled flood which poured between us and the Ohio shore. Weeds and willows were sopping wet, as was also our wash, and the breakfast fire was a comfortable companion. But by the time we were off, the cloud had lifted, and the sun gushed out with promise of a warm day. Throughout the morning, Pilgrim glided through a thickly settled district, reminding us of the Monongahela. Sewer-pipe and vitrified-brick works, and iron and steel plants, abound on the narrow bottoms. The factories and mills themselves generally wear a prosperous look; but the dependent towns vary in appearance, from clusters of shabby, down-at-the-heel cabins, to lines of neat and well-painted houses and shops. We visited the vitrified-brick works at New Cumberland, W. Va. (56 miles), where the proprietor kindly explained his methods, and talked freely of his business. It was the old story, too close a competition for profit, although the use of brick pavements is fast spreading. Fire clay available for the purpose is abundant on the banks of the Ohio all the way from Pittsburg to Kingston (60 miles). A few miles below New Cumberland, on the Ohio shore, we inspected the tile works at Freeman, and admired the dexterity which the workmen had attained. But what interested us most of all was the appalling havoc which these clay and iron industries are making with the once beautiful banks of the river. Each of them has a large daily output of debris, which is dumped unmercifully upon the water's edge in heaps from fifty to a hundred feet high. Sometimes for nearly a mile in length, the natural bank is deep buried out of sight; and we have from our canoe naught but a dismal wall of rubbish, crowding upon the river to the uttermost limit of governmental allowance. Fifty years hence, if these enterprises multiply at the present ratio, and continue their present methods, the Upper Ohio will roll between continuous banks of clay and iron offal, down to Wheeling and beyond. Before noon we had left behind us this industrial region, and were again in rustic surroundings. The wind had gone down, the atmosphere was oppressively warm, the sun's reflection from the glassy stream came with almost scalding effect upon our faces. We had rigged an awning over some willow hoops, but it could not protect us from this reflection. For an hour or two--one may as well be honest--we fairly sweltered upon our pilgrimage, until at last a light breeze ruffled the water and brought blessed relief. The hills are not as high as hitherto, and are more broken. Yet they have a certain majestic sweep, and for the most part are forest-mantled from base to summit. Between them the river winds with noble grace, continually giving us fresh vistas, often of surpassing loveliness. The bottoms are broader now, and frequently semicircular, with fine farms upon them, and prosperous villages nestled in generous groves. Many of the houses betoken age, or what passes for it in this relatively new country, being of the colonial pattern, with fan-shaped windows above the doors, Grecian pillars flanking the front porch, and wearing the air of comfortable respectability. Beautiful islands lend variety to the scene, some of them mere willowed "tow-heads" largely submerged in times of flood, while others are of a permanent character, often occupied by farms. We have with us a copy of Cuming's _Western Pilot_ (Cincinnati, 1834), which is still a practicable guide for the Ohio, as the river's shore lines are not subject to so rapid changes as those of the Mississippi; but many of the islands in Cuming's are not now to be found, having been swept away in floods, and we encounter few new ones. It is clear that the islands are not so numerous as sixty years ago. The present works of the United States Corps of Engineers tend to permanency in the _status quo_; doubtless the government map of 1881 will remain an authoritative chart for a half century or more to come. W----'s enthusiasm for botany frequently takes us ashore. Landing at the foot of some eroded steep which, with ragged charm, rises sharply from the gravelly beach, we fasten Pilgrim's painter to a stone, and go scrambling over the hillside in search of flowers, bearing in mind the Boy's constant plea, to "Get only one of a kind," and leave the rest for seed; for other travelers may come this way, and 'tis a sin indeed to exterminate a botanical rarity. But we find no rarities to-day--only solomon's seal, trillium, wild ginger, cranebill, jack-in-the-pulpit, wild columbine. Poison ivy is on every hand, in these tangled woods, with ferns of many varieties--chiefly maidenhair, walking leaf, and bladder. The view from projecting rocks, in these lofty places, is ever inspiring; the country spread out below us, as in a relief map; the great glistening river winding through its hilly trough; a rumpled country for a few miles on either side, gradually trending into broad plains, checkered with fields on which farmsteads and rustic villages are the chessmen. At one o'clock we were at Steubenville, Ohio (67 miles), where the broad stoned wharf leads sharply up to the smart, well-built, substantial town of some sixteen thousand inhabitants. W---- and I had some shopping to do there, while the Doctor and the Boy remained down at the inevitable wharf-boat, and gossiped with the philosophical agent, who bemoaned the decadence of steamboat traffic in general, and the rapidly falling stage of water in particular. Three miles below Steubenville is Mingo Junction, where we are the guests of a friend who is superintendent of the iron and steel works here. The population of Mingo is twenty-five hundred. From seven to twelve hundred are employed in the works, according to the exigencies of business. Ten per cent of them are Hungarians and Slavonians--a larger proportion would be dangerous, our host avers, because of the tendency of these people to "run the town" when sufficiently numerous to make it possible. The Slavs in the iron towns come to America for a few years, intent solely on saving every dollar within reach. They are willing to work for wages which from the American standard seem low, but to them almost fabulous; herd together in surprising promiscuity; maintain a low scale of clothing and diet, often to the ruin of health; and eventually return to Eastern Europe, where their savings constitute a little fortune upon which they can end their days in ease. This sort of competition is fast degrading legitimate American labor. Its regulation ought not to be thought impossible. A visit to a great steel-making plant, in full operation, is an event in a man's life. Particularly remarkable is the weird spectacle presented at night, with the furnaces fiercely gleaming, the fresh ingots smoking hot, the Bessemer converter "blowing off," the great cranes moving about like things of life, bearing giant kettles of molten steel; and amidst it all, human life held so cheaply. Nearer to mediæval notions of hell comes this fiery scene than anything imagined by Dante. The working life of one of these men is not over ten years, B---- says. A decade of this intense heat, compared to which a breath of outdoor air in the close mill-yard, with the midsummer sun in the nineties, seems chilly, wears a man out--"only fit for the boneyard then, sir," was the laconic estimate of an intelligent boss whom I questioned on the subject. Wages run from ninety cents to five dollars a day, with far more at the former rate than the latter. A ninety-cent man working in a place so hot that were water from a hose turned upon him it would at once be resolved into scalding steam, deserves our sympathy. It is pleasing to find in our friend, the superintendent, a strong fellow-feeling for his men, and a desire to do all in his power to alleviate their condition. He has accomplished much in improving the _morale_ of the town; but deep-seated, inexorable economic conditions, apparently beyond present control, render nugatory any attempts to better the financial condition of the underpaid majority. Mingo Junction--"Mingo Bottom" of old--was an interesting locality in frontier days. On this fertile river beach was long one of the strongest of the Mingo villages. During the last week of May, 1782, Crawford's little army rendezvoused here, en route to Sandusky, a hundred and fifty miles distant, and intent on the destruction of the Wyandot towns. But the Indians had not been surprised, and the army was driven back with slaughter, reaching Mingo the middle of June, bereft of its commander. Crawford, who was a warm friend of Washington, suffered almost unprecedented torture at the stake, his fate sending a thrill of horror through all the Western settlements. Let us not be too harsh in our judgment of these red Indians. At first, the white colonists from Europe were regarded by them as of supernatural origin, and hospitality, veneration, and confidence were displayed toward the new-comers. But the mortality of the Europeans was soon made painfully evident to them. When the early Spaniards, and afterward the English, kidnaped tribesmen for sale into slavery, or for use as captive guides, and even murdered them on slight provocation, distrust and hatred naturally succeeded to the sentiment of awe. Like many savage races, like the earlier Romans, the Indian looked upon the member of every tribe with which he had not made a formal peace as a public enemy; hence he felt justified in wreaking his vengeance on the race, whenever he failed to find individual offenders. He was exceptionally cruel, his mode of warfare was skulking, he could not easily be reached in the forest fastnesses which he alone knew well, and his strokes fell heaviest on women and children; so that whites came to fear and unspeakably to loathe the savage, and often added greatly to the bitterness of the struggle by retaliation in kind. The white borderers themselves were frequently brutal, reckless, lawless; and under such conditions, clashing was inevitable. But worse agents of discord than the agricultural colonists were the itinerants who traveled through the woods visiting the tribes, exchanging goods for furs; these often cheated and robbed the Indian, taught him the use of intoxicants, bullied and browbeat him, appropriated his women, and in general introduced serious demoralization into the native camps. The bulk of the whites doubtless intended to treat the Indian honorably; but the forest traders were beyond the pale of law, and news of the details of their transactions seldom reached the coast settlements. As a neighbor, the Indian was difficult to deal with, whether in the negotiation of treaties of amity, or in the purchase of lands. Having but a loose system of government, there was no really responsible head, and no compact was secure from the interference of malcontents, who would not be bound by treaties made by the chiefs. The English felt that the red men were not putting the land to its full use, that much of the territory was growing up as a waste, that they were best entitled to it who could make it the most productive. On the other hand, the earlier cessions of land were made under a total misconception; the Indians supposed that the new-comers would, after a few years of occupancy, pass on and leave the tract again to the natives. There was no compromise possible between races with precisely opposite views of property in land. The struggle was inevitable--civilization against savagery. No sentimental notions could prevent it. It was in the nature of things that the weaker must give way. The Indian was a formidable antagonist, and there were times when the result of the struggle seemed uncertain; but in the end he went to the wall. In judging the vanquished enemy of our civilization, let us not underestimate his intellect, or the many good qualities which were mingled with his savage vices, or fail to credit him with sublime courage, and a tribal patriotism which no disaster could cool. CHAPTER V. Houseboat life--Decadence of steamboat traffic--Wheeling, and Wheeling Creek. Above Moundsville, W. Va., Thursday, May 10th.--Our friends saw us off at the gravelly beach just below the "works." There was a slight breeze ahead, but the atmosphere was agreeable, and Pilgrim bore a happy crew, now as brown as gypsies; the first painful effects of sunburn are over, and we are hardened in skin and muscle to any vicissitudes which are likely to be met upon our voyage. Rough weather, river mud, and all the other exigencies of a moving camp, are beginning to tell upon clothing; we are becoming like gypsies in raiment, as well as color. But what a soul-satisfying life is this gypsying! We possess the world, while afloat on the Ohio! There are, in the course of the summer, so many sorts of people traveling by the river,--steamboat passengers, campers, fishers, house-boat folk, and what not,--that we attract little attention of ourselves, but Pilgrim is indeed a curiosity hereabout. What remarks we overhear are about her,--"Honey skiff, that!" "Right smart skiff!" "Good skiff for her place, but no good for this yere river!" and so on. She is a lap-streak, square-sterned craft, of white cedar three-eighths of an inch thick; fifteen feet in length and four of beam; weighs just a hundred pounds; comfortably holds us and our luggage, with plenty of spare room to move about in; is easily propelled, and as stanch as can be made. Upon these waters, we meet nothing like her. Not counting the curious floating boxes and punts, which are knocked together out of driftwood, by boys and poor whites, and are numerous all along shore, the regulation Ohio river skiff is built on graceful lines, but of inch boards, heavily ribbed, and is a sorry weight to handle. The contention is, that to withstand the swash of steamboat wakes breaking upon the shore, and the rush of drift in times of flood, a heavy skiff is necessary; there is a tendency to decry Pilgrim as a plaything, unadapted to the great river. A reasonable degree of care at all times, however, and keeping the boat drawn high on the beach when not in use,--such care as we are familiar with upon our Wisconsin inland lakes,--would render the employment of such as she quite practicable, and greatly lessen the labor of rowing on this waterway. The houseboats, dozens of which we see daily, interest us greatly. They are scows, or "flats," greatly differing in size, with low-ceilinged cabins built upon them--sometimes of one room, sometimes of half a dozen, and varying in character from a mere shanty to a well-appointed cottage. Perhaps the greater number of these craft are afloat in the river, and moored to the bank, with a gang-plank running to shore; others are "beached," having found a comfortable nook in some higher stage of water, and been fastened there, propped level with timbers and driftwood. Among the houseboat folk are young working couples starting out in life, and hoping ultimately to gain a foothold on land; unfortunate people, who are making a fresh start; men regularly employed in riverside factories and mills; invalids, who, at small expense, are trying the fresh-air cure; others, who drift up and down the Ohio, seeking casual work; and legitimate fishermen, who find it convenient to be near their nets, and to move about according to the needs of their calling. But a goodly proportion of these boats are inhabited by the lowest class of the population,--poor "crackers" who have managed to scrape together enough money to buy, or enough energy and driftwood to build, such a craft; and, near or at the towns, many are occupied by gamblers, illicit liquor dealers, and others who, while plying nefarious trades, make a pretense of following the occupation of the Apostles. Houseboat people, whether beached or afloat, pay no rent, and heretofore have paid no taxes. Kentucky has recently passed, more as a police regulation than as a means of revenue, an act levying a State tax of twenty-five dollars upon each craft of this character; and the other commonwealths abutting upon the river are considering the policy of doing likewise. The houseboat men have, however, recently formed a protective association, and propose to fight the new laws on constitutional grounds, the contention being that the Ohio is a national highway, and that commerce upon it cannot be hampered by State taxes. This view does not, however, affect the taxability of "beached" boats, which are clearly squatters on State soil. Both in town and country, the riffraff of the houseboat element are in disfavor. It is not uncommon for them, beached or tied up, to remain unmolested in one spot for years, with their pigs, chickens, and little garden patch about them, mayhap a swarm or two of bees, and a cow enjoying free pasturage along the weedy bank or on neighboring hills. Occasionally, however, as the result of spasmodic local agitation, they are by wholesale ordered to betake themselves to some more hospitable shore; and not a few farmers, like our friend at Beaver River, are quick to pattern after the city police, and order their visitors to move on the moment they seek a mooring. For the truth is, the majority of those who "live on the river," as the phrase goes, have the reputation of being pilferers; farmers tell sad tales of despoiled chicken-roosts and vegetable gardens. From fishing, shooting, collecting chance driftwood, and leading a desultory life along shore, like the wreckers of old they naturally fall into this thieving habit. Having neither rent nor taxes to pay, and for the most part not voting, and having no share in the political or social life of landsmen, they are in the State, yet not of it,--a class unto themselves, whose condition is well worthy the study of economists. Interspersed with the houseboat folk, although of different character, are those whose business leads them to dwell as nomads upon the river--merchant peddlers, who spend a day or two at some rustic landing, while scouring the neighborhood for oil-barrels and junk, which they load in great heaps upon the flat roofs of their cabins, giving therefor, at goodly prices, groceries, crockery, and notions,--often bartering their wares for eggs and dairy products, to be disposed of to passing steamers, whose clerks in turn "pack" them for the largest market on their route; blacksmiths, who moor their floating shops to country beach or village levee, wherever business can be had; floating theaters and opera companies, with large barges built as play-houses, towed from town to town by their gaudily-painted tugs, on which may occasionally be perched the vociferous "steam piano" of our circus days, "whose soul-stirring music can be heard for four miles;" traveling sawyers, with old steamboats made over into sawmills, employed by farmers to "work up" into lumber such logs as they can from time to time bring down to the shore--the product being oftenest used in the neighborhood, but occasionally rafted, and floated to the nearest large town; and a miscellaneous lot of traveling craftsmen who live and work afloat,--chairmakers, upholsterers, feather and mattress renovators, photographers,--who land at the villages, scatter abroad their advertising cards, and stay so long as the ensuing patronage warrants. A motley assortment, these neighbors of ours, an uncultivated field for the fiction writers. We have struck up acquaintance with many of them, and they are not bad fellows, as the world goes. Philosophers all, and loquacious to a degree. But they cannot, for the life of them, fathom the mystery of our cruise. We are not in trade? we are not fishing? we are not canvassers? we are not show-people? "What 'n 'tarnation air ye, anny way? Oh, come now! No fellers is do'n' th' river fur fun, that's sartin--ye're jist gov'm'nt agints! That's my way o' think'n'. Well, 'f ye kin find fun in 't, then done go ahead, I say! But all same, we'll be friends, won't we? Yew bet strangers! Ye're welcome t' all in this yere shanty boat--ain't no bakky 'bout yer close, yew fellers?" We meet with abundant courtesy of this rude sort, and weaponless sleep well o' nights, fearing naught from our comrades for the nonce. We again have railways on either bank. The iron horse has almost eclipsed the "fire canoe," as the Indians picturesquely styled the steamboat. We occasionally see boats tied up to the wharves, evidently not in commission; but, in actual operation, we seldom meet or pass over one or two daily. To be sure, the low stage of water,--from six to eight feet thus far, and falling daily,--and the coal strike, militate against navigation interests. But the truth is, there is very little business now left for steamboats, beyond the movement of coal, stone, bricks, and other bulky material, some way freight, and a light passenger traffic. The railroads are quicker and surer, and of course competition lowers the charges. The heavy manufacturing interests along the river now depend little upon the steamers, although originally established here because of them. I asked our friend, the superintendent at Mingo, what advantage was gained by having his plant upon the river. He replied: "We can get all the water we want, and we use a great deal of it; and it is convenient to empty our slag upon the banks; but our chief interest here is in the fact that Mingo is a railway junction." By rail he gets his coal and ore, and ships away his product. Were the coal to come a considerable distance, the river would be the cheaper road; but it is obtained from neighboring hill mines that are practically owned by the railways. This coal, by the way, costs $1.10 at the shaft mouth, and $1.75 landed at the Mingo works. As for the sewer-pipe, brick, and pottery works, they are along stream because of the great beds of clay exposed by the erosion of the river. It is fortunate for the stability of these towns, that the Ohio flows along the transcontinental pathway westward, so that the great railway lines may serve them without deflection from their natural course. Had the great stream flowed south instead of west, the industries of the valley doubtless would gradually have been removed to the transverse highways of the new commerce, save where these latter crossed the river, and thus have left scores of once thriving communities mere 'longshore wrecks of their former selves. This is not possible, now. The steamboat traffic may still further waste, until the river is no longer serviceable save as a continental drainage ditch; but, chiefly because of its railways, the Ohio Valley will continue to be the seat of an industrial population which shall wax fat upon the growth of the nation's needs. By the middle of the afternoon, we were at Wheeling (91 miles). The town has fifty thousand inhabitants, is substantially built, of a distinctly Southern aspect; well stretched out along the river, but narrow; with gaunt, treeless, gully-washed hills of clay rising abruptly behind, giving the place a most forbidding appearance from the water. There are several fine bridges spanning the Ohio; and Wheeling Creek, which empties on the lower edge of town, is crossed by a maze of steel spans and stone arches; the well-paved wharf, sloping upward from the Ohio, is nearly as broad and imposing as that of Pittsburg;[A] houseboats are here by the score, some of them the haunts of fishing clubs, as we judge from the names emblazoned on their sides--"Mystic Crew," "South Side Club," and the like. For the first time upon our tour, negroes are abundant upon the streets and lounging along the river front. They vary in color from yellow to inky blackness, and in raiment from the "dude," smart in straw hat, collars and cuffs, and white-frilled shirt with glass-diamond pin, to the steamboat roustabout, all slouch and rags, and evil-eyed. Wheeling Island (300 acres), up to thirty years ago mentioned in travelers' journals as a rare beauty-spot, is to-day thick-set with cottages of factory hands and small villas, and commonplace; while smoky Bridgeport, opposite on the Ohio side, was from our vantage-point a mere smudge upon the landscape. Wheeling Creek is famous in Western history. The three Zane brothers, Ebenezer, Jonathan and Silas,--typical, old-fashioned names these, bespeaking the God-fearing, Bible-loving, Scotch-Presbyterian stock from which sprang so large a proportion of trans-Alleghany pioneers,--explored this region as early as 1769, built cabins, and made improvements--Silas at the forks of the creek, and Ebenezer and Jonathan at the mouth. During three or four years, it was a hard fight between them and the Indians; but, though several times driven from the scene, the Zane brothers stubbornly reappeared, and rebuilt their burned habitations. Before the Revolutionary War broke out, the fortified home of the Zanes, at the creek mouth, was a favorite stopping stage in the savage-haunted wilderness; and many a traveler in those early days has left us in his journal a thankful account of his tarrying here. The Zane stockade developed into Fort Fincastle, in Lord Dunmore's time; then, Fort Henry, during the Revolution; and everyone who knows his Western history at all has read of the three famous sieges of Wheeling (1777, 1781, and 1782), and the daring deeds of its men and women, which help illumine the pages of border annals. Finally, by 1784, the fort at Wheeling, that had never surrendered, was demolished as no longer necessary, for the wall of savage resistance was now pushed far westward. Wheeling had become the western end of a wagon road across the Panhandle, from Redstone, and here were fitted out many flatboat expeditions for the lower Ohio; later, in steamboat days, the shallow water of the upper river caused Wheeling to be in midsummer the highest port attainable; and to this day it holds its ground as the upper terminus of several steamboat lines. Below Wheeling are several miles of factory towns nestled by the strand, and numerous coal tipples, with their begrimed villages. Fishermen have been frequent to-day, in houseboats of high and low degree, and in land camps composed of tents and board shanties, with rows of seines and tarred pound-nets stretched in the sun to dry; tow-headed children abound, almost as nude as the pigs and dogs and chickens amongst which they waddle and roll; women-folk busy themselves with the multifarious cares of home-keeping, while their lords are in shady nooks mending nets, or listlessly examining trout lines which appear to yield but empty hooks; they tell us that when the river is falling, fish bite not, and yet they serenely angle on, dreaming their lives away. A half mile above Big Grave Creek (101 miles), we, too, hurry into camp on a shelving bank of sand, deep-fringed with willows; for over the western hills thunder-clouds are rising, with wind gusts. Level fields stretch back of us for a quarter of a mile, to the hills which bound the bottom; at our front door majestically rolls the growing river, perhaps a third of a mile in width, black with the reflection of the sky, and wrinkled now and then with squalls which scurry over its bubbling surface.[B] The storm does not break, but the bending tree-tops crone, and toads innumerable rend the air with their screaming whistles. We had great ado, during the cooking of dinner, to prevent them from hopping into our little stove, as it gleamed brightly in the early dusk; and have adopted special precautions to keep them from the tent, as they jump about in the tall grass, appeasing their insectivorous appetites. [Footnote A: Upon the Ohio and kindred rivers, the term "wharf" applies to the river beach when graded and paved, ready for the reception of steamers. Such a wharf must not be confounded with a lake or seaside wharf, a staging projected into the water.] [Footnote B: It was in this neighborhood, a mile or two above our camp, where the bottom is narrower, that Capt. William Foreman and twenty other Virginia militiamen were killed in an Indian ambuscade, Sept. 27, 1777. An inscribed stone monument was erected on the spot in 1835, but we could not find it.] CHAPTER VI. The Big Grave--Washington, and Round Bottom--A lazy man's Paradise--Captina Creek--George Rogers Clark at Fish Creek--Southern types. Near Fishing Creek, Friday, May 11th.--There had been rain during the night, with fierce wind gusts, but during breakfast the atmosphere quieted, and we had a genial, semi-cloudy morning. Off at 8 o'clock, Pilgrim's crew were soon exploring Moundsville. There are five thousand people in this old, faded, countrified town. They show you with pride the State Penitentiary of West Virginia, a solemn-looking pile of dark gray stone, with the feeble battlements and towers common to American prison architecture. But the chief feature of the place is the great Indian mound--the "Big Grave" of early chroniclers. This earthwork is one of the largest now remaining in the United States, being sixty-eight feet high and a hundred in diameter at the base, and has for over a century attracted the attention of travelers and archæologists. We found it at the end of a straggling street, on the edge of the town, a quarter of a mile back from the river. Around the mound has been left a narrow plat of ground, utilized as a cornfield; and the stout picket fence which encloses it bears peremptory notice that admission is forbidden. However, as the proprietor was not easily accessible, we exercised the privilege of historical pilgrims, and, letting ourselves in through the gate, picked our way through rows of corn, and ascended the great cone. It is covered with a heavy growth of white oaks, some of them three feet in diameter, among which the path picturesquely zigzags. The summit is fifty-five feet in diameter, and the center somewhat depressed, like a basin. From the middle of this basin a shaft some twenty-five feet in diameter has been sunk by explorers, for a distance of perhaps fifty feet; at one time, a level tunnel connected the bottom of this shaft with the side of the cone, but it has been mostly obliterated. A score of years ago, tunnel and shaft were utilized as the leading attractions of a beer garden--to such base uses may a great historical landmark descend! Dickens, who apparently wrote the greater part of his _American Notes_ while suffering from dyspepsia, has a note of appreciation for the Big Grave: "... the host of Indians who lie buried in a great mound yonder--so old that mighty oaks and other forest trees have struck their roots into its earth; and so high that it is a hill, even among the hills that Nature planted around it. The very river, as though it shared one's feelings of compassion for the extinct tribes who lived so pleasantly here, in their blessed ignorance of white existence, hundreds of years ago, steals out of its way to ripple near this mound; and there are few places where the Ohio sparkles more brightly than in the Big Grave Creek." There is a sharp bend in the river, just below Moundsville, with Dillon's Bottom stretching long and wide at the apex on the Ohio shore--flat green fields, dotted with little white farmsteads, each set low in its apple grove, and a convoluted wall of dark hills hemming them in along the northern horizon. Then below this comes Round Bottom, its counterpart on the West Virginia side, and coursing through it a pretty meadow creek, Butler's Run. Writes Washington, in 1781, to a correspondent who is thinking of renting lands in this region: "I have a small tract called the round bottom containing about 600 Acres, which would also let. It lyes on the Ohio, opposite to pipe Creek, and a little above Capteening." Across the half mile of river are the little levels and great slopes of the Ohio hills, through which breaks this same Pipe Creek; and hereabout Cresap's band murdered a number of inoffensive Shawanese, a tragedy which was one of the inciting causes of Lord Dunmore's War (1774). We crossed over into Ohio, and pulled up on the gravelly spit at the mouth of Pipe. While the others were botanizing high on the mountain side, I went along a beach path toward a group of whitewashed cabins, intent on replenishing the canteen. Upon opening the gate of one of them, two grizzly dogs came bounding out, threatening to test the strength of my corduroy trousers. The proprietor cautiously peered from a window, and, much to my relief, called off the animals. Satisfied, apparently, that I was not the visitor he expected, the fellow lounged out and sat upon the steps, where I joined him. He was a tall, raw-boned, loose-jointed young man, with a dirty, buttonless flannel shirt which revealed a hairy breast; upon his trousers hung a variety of patches, in many stages of grease and decrepitude; a gray slouch hat shaded his little fishy eyes and hollow, yellow cheeks; and the snaky ends of his yellow mustache were stiff with accumulations of dried tobacco juice. His fat, waddling wife, in a greasy black gown, followed with bare feet, and, arms akimbo, listened in the open door. A coal company owns the rocky river front, here and at many places below, and lets these cabins to the poor-white element, so numerous on the Ohio's banks. The renter is privileged to cultivate whatever land he can clear on the rocky, precipitous slopes, which is seldom more than half an acre to the cabin; and he may, if he can afford a cow, let her run wild in the scrub. The coal vein, a few rods back of the house, is only a few inches thick, and poor in quality, but is freely resorted to by the cotters. He worked whenever he could find a job, my host said--in the coal mines and quarries, or on the bottom farms, or the railroad which skirts the bank at his feet. "But I tell ye, sir, th' _I_talians and Hungarians is spoil'n' this yere country fur white men; 'n' I do'n' see no prospect for hits be'n' better till they get shoved out uv 't!" Yet he said that life wasn't so hard here as it was in some parts he had heard tell of--the climate was mild, that he "'lowed;" a fellow could go out and get a free bucket of coal from the hillside "back yon;" he might get all the "light wood 'n' patchin' stuff" he wanted, from the river drift; could, when he "hankered after 'em," catch fish off his own front-door yard; and pick up a dollar now and then at odd jobs, when the rent was to be paid, or the "ol' woman" wanted a dress, or he a new coat. This is clearly the lazy man's Paradise. I do not remember to have heard that the South Sea Islanders, in the ante-missionary days, had an easier time of it than this. What new fortune will befall my friend when he gets the Italians and Hungarians "shoved out," and "things pick up a bit," I cannot conceive. A pleasing panorama he has from his doorway--across the river, the fertile fields of Round Bottom, once Washington's; Captina Island, just below, long and thickly-willowed, dreamily afloat in a glassy sea, reflecting every change of light; the whole girt about with the wide uplands of the winding valley, and overhead the march of sunny clouds. Captina Creek (108 miles) is not far down on the Ohio bank, and beside it the little hamlet of Powhattan Point, with the West Virginia hills thereabout exceptionally high and steep, and wooded to the very top. Washington, who knew the Ohio well, down to the Great Kanawha, wrote of this creek in 1770: "A pretty large creek on the west side, called by Nicholson [his interpreter] Fox-Grape-Vine, by others Captema creek, on which, eight miles up, is the town called Grape-Vine Town." Captina village is its white successor. But there were also Indians at the mouth of the creek; for when George Rogers Clark and his missionary companion, Jones, two years later camped opposite on the Virginia shore, they went over to make a morning call on the natives, who repaid it in the evening, doubtless each time receiving freely from the white men's bounty. The next day was Sunday, and the travelers remained in camp, Jones recording in his journal that he "instructed what Indians came over." In the course of his prayer, the missionary was particularly impressed by the attitude of the chief of Grape-Vine Town, named Frank Stephens, who professed to believe in the Christian God; and he naively writes, "I was informed that, all the time, the Indians looked very seriously at me." Jones appears to have been impressed also with the hardness of the beach, where they camped in the open, doubtless to avoid surprises: "Instead of feathers, my bed was gravel-stones, by the river side ... which at first seemed not to suit me, but afterward it became more natural." In those days, traveling was beset with difficulties, both ashore and afloat. Eight years later (spring of 1780), three flatboats were descending the Ohio, laden with families intending to settle in Kentucky, when they suffered a common fate, being attacked by Indians off Captina Creek. Several men and a child were killed, and twenty-one persons were carried into captivity--among them, Catherine Malott, a girl in her teens, who subsequently became the wife of that most notorious of border renegades, Simon Girty. On the West Virginia shore, not over a third of a mile below Captina Creek, empties Grave Yard Run, a modest rivulet. It would of itself not be noticeable amid the crowd of minor creeks and runs, coursing down to the great river through rugged ravines which corrugate the banks. But it has a history. Here, late in October or early in November, 1772, young George Rogers Clark made his first stake west of the Alleghanies, rudely cultivating a few acres of forest land on what is now called Cresap's Bottom, surveying for the neighbors, and in the evenings teaching their children in the little log cabin of his friend, Yates Conwell, at the mouth of Fish Creek, a few miles below. Fish Creek was in itself famous as one of the sections of the great Indian trail, "The Warrior Branch," which, starting in Tennessee, came northward through Kentucky and Southern Ohio, and, proceeding by way of this creek, crossed over to Dunkard Creek, thence to the mouth of Redstone. Washington stopped at Conwell's in March or April, 1774; but Clark was away from home at the time, and the "Father of his Country" never met the man who has been dubbed the "Washington of the West." Lord Dunmore's War was hatching, and a few months later the Fish Creek surveyor and schoolmaster had entered upon his life work as an Indian fighter. At Bearsville (126 miles) we first meet a phenomenon common to the Ohio--the edges of the alluvial bottom being higher than the fields back of them, forming a natural levee, above which curiously rise to our view the spires and chimneys of the village. Harris' _Journal_ (1803) made early note of this, and advanced an acceptable theory: "We frequently remarked that the banks are higher at the margin than at a little distance back. I account for it in this manner: Large trees, which are brought down the river by the inundations, are lodged upon the borders of the bank, but cannot be floated far upon the champaign, because obstructed by the growth of wood. Retaining their situation when the waters subside, they obstruct and detain the leaves and mud, which would else recoil into the stream, and thus, in process of time, form a bank higher than the interior flats." Tied up to Bearsville landing is a gayly painted barge, the home of Price's Floating Opera Company, and in front its towing-steamer, "Troubadour." A steam calliope is part of the visible furniture of the establishment, and its praises as a noise-maker are sung in large type in the handbills which, with numerous colored lithographs of the performers, adorn the shop windows in the neighboring river towns. Two miles farther down, on a high bank at the mouth of Fishing Creek, lies New Martinsville, West Va. (127 miles), a rather shabby town of fifteen hundred souls. As W---- and I passed up the main street, seeking for a grocery, we noticed that the public hall was being decorated for a dance to come off to-night; and placards advertising the event were everywhere rivaling the gaudy prints of the floating opera. Meanwhile, a talkative native was interviewing the Doctor, down at the river side. It required some good-natured fencing on the part of our skipper to prevent the Virginian from learning all about our respective families away back to the third generation. He was a short, chubby man, with a Dixie goatee, his flannel shirt negligée, and a wide-brimmed straw hat jauntily set on the back of his head. He was sociable, and sat astride of our beached prow, punctuating his remarks with squirts of tobacco juice, and a bit of lath with which he meditatively tapped the gunwale, the meantime, with some skill, casting pebbles into the water with his bare toes. "Ax'n yer pardon, ma'm!" he said, scrambling from his perch upon W----'s appearance; and then, pushing us off, he bowed with much Southern gallantry, and hat in hand begged we would come again to New Martinsville, and stay longer. The hills lining these reaches are lower than above, yet graceful in their sweeping lines. Conical mounds sometimes surmount them, relics of the prehistoric time when our Indians held to the curious fashion of building earthworks. We no longer entertain the notion that a separate and a prouder race of wild men than we know erected these tumuli. That pleasant fiction has departed from us; but the works are none the less interesting, now that more is known of their origin. Two miles below New Martinsville, on the West Virginia shore, we pitch camp, just as the light begins to sink over the Ohio hills. The atmosphere is sweet with the odor of wild grape blossoms, and the willow also is in bloom. Poison ivy, to whose baneful touch fortunately none of us appear susceptible, grows everywhere about. From the farmhouse on the narrow bottom to our rear comes the melodious tinkle-tinkle of cow bells. The operatic calliope is in full blast, at Bearsville, its shrieks and snorts coming down to us through four miles of space, all too plainly borne by the northern breeze; and now and then we hear the squeak of the New Martinsville fiddles. There are no mosquitoes as yet, but burly May-chafers come stupidly dashing against our tent, and the toads are piping merrily. CHAPTER VII. In Dixie--Oil and natural gas, at Witten's Bottom--The Long Reach--Photographing crackers--Visitors in camp. Above Marietta, Saturday, May 12th.--Since the middle of yesterday afternoon we have been in Dixie,--that is, when we are on the West Virginia shore. The famous Mason and Dixon Line (lat. 39° 43' 26") touches the Ohio at the mouth of Proctor's Run (121-1/2 miles). There was a heavy fog this morning, on land and river. But through shifting rifts made by the morning breeze, we had kaleidoscopic, cloud-framed pictures of the dark, jutting headlands which hem us in; of little white cabins clustered by the country road which on either bank crawls along narrow terraces between overtopping steeps and sprawling beach, or winds through fertile bottoms, according to whether the river approaches or recedes from its inclosing bluffs; of hillside fields, tipped at various angles of ascent, sometimes green with springing grain, but oftenest gray or brown or yellow, freshly planted,--charming patches of color, in this somber-hued world of sloping woodland. At Williamson's Island (134 miles) the fog lifted. The air was heavy with the odor of petroleum. All about us were the ugly, towering derricks of oil and natural gas wells--Witten's Bottom on the right, with its abutting hills; the West Virginia woods across the river, and the maple-strewn island between, all covered with scaffolds. The country looks like a rumpled fox-and-geese board, with pegs stuck all over it. A mile and a half below lies Sistersville, W. Va., the emporium of this greasy neighborhood--great red oil-tanks and smoky refineries its chiefest glory; crude and raw, like the product it handles. We landed at Witten's Bottom,--W----, the Boy, and I,--while the Doctor, philosophically preferring to take the oily elephant for granted, piloted Pilgrim to the rendezvous a mile below. Oil was "struck" here two or three years ago, and now within a distance of a few miles there are hundreds of wells--"two hun'rd in this yere gravel alone, sir!" I was told by a red-headed man in a red shirt, who lived with his numerous family in a twelve-foot-square box at the rear of a pumping engine. An engine serves several wells,--the tumbling-rods, rudely boxed in, stretching off through the fields and over the hills to wherever needed. The operatives dwell in little shanties scattered conveniently about; in front of each is a vertical half-inch pipe, six or eight feet high, bearing a half bushel of natural-gas flame which burns and tosses night and day, winter and summer, making the Bottom a warm corner of the earth, when the unassisted temperature is in the eighties. It is a bewildering scene, with all these derricks thickly scattered around, engines noisily puffing, walking-beams forever rearing and plunging, the country cobwebbed with tumbling-rods and pipe lines, the shanties of the operatives with their rude lamp-posts, and the face of Nature so besmeared with the crude output of the wells that every twig and leaf is thick with grease. Just above Witten's commences the Long Reach of the Ohio--a charming panorama, for sixteen and a half miles in a nearly straight line to the southwest. Little towns line the alternating bottoms, and farmsteads are numerous on the slopes. But they are rocky and narrow, these gentle shoulders of the hills, and a poor class of folk occupy them--half fishers, half farmers, a cross between my Round Bottom friend and the houseboat nomads. A picturesquely-dilapidated log house, with whitewashed porch in front, and a vine arbor at the rear, attracted our attention at the foot of the reach, near Grape Island. I clambered up, to photograph it. The ice was broken by asking for a drink of water. A gaunt girl of eighteen, the elder of two, with bare feet, her snaky hair streaming unkempt about a smirking face, went with a broken-nosed pitcher to a run, which could be heard splashing over its rocky bed near by. The meanwhile, I took a seat in the customary arcade between the living room and kitchen, and talked with her fat, greasy, red-nosed father, who confided to me that he was "a pi'neer from way back." He occupied his own land--a rare circumstance among these riverside "crackers;" had a hundred and thirty acres, worth twenty dollars the acre; "jist yon ways," back of the house, in the cliff-side, there was a coal vein two feet thick, as yet only "worked" for his own fuel; and lately, he had struck a bank of firebrick clay which might some day be a "good thing for th' gals." On leaving, I casually mentioned my desire to photograph the family on the porch, where the light was good. While I walked around the house outside, they passed through the front room, which seemed to be the common dormitory as well as parlor. To my surprise and chagrin, the girls and their dowdy mother had, in those brief moments of transition, contrived to arrange their hair and dress to a degree which took from them all those picturesque qualities with which they had been invested at the time of my arrival. The father was being reproved, as he emerged upon the porch, for not "slick'n' his ha'r, and wash'n' and fix'n' up, afore hay'n' his pictur' taken;" but the old fellow was obdurate, and joined me in remonstrance against this transformation to the commonplace, on the part of his women-folk. However, there was no profit in arguing with them, and I took my snap-shot with a conviction that the film was being wasted. We were in several small towns to-day, in pursuance of the policy of distributing our shopping, so as to see as much of the shore life as practicable. Chief among them have been New Matamoras (141 miles) and St. Mary's (154 miles), in West Virginia, and Newport, in Ohio (155 miles). Rather dingy villages, these--each, after their kind, with a stone wharf thick-grown with weeds; a flouring mill at the head of the landing; a few cheap-looking, battlemented stores; boys and men lounging about with that air of comfortable idling which impresses one as the main characteristic of rustic hamlets, where nobody seems ever to have anything to do; a ferry running to the opposite shore--for cattle and wagons, a heavy flat, with railings, made to drift with the current; and for foot passengers, a lumbering skiff, with oars chucking noisily in their roomy locks. Every now and then we run across bunches of oil and gas wells; and great signs, like those advertising boards which greet railway travelers approaching our large cities, are here and there perched upon the banks, notifying steamboat pilots, in letters a foot high, that a pipe line here crosses the river, the vicinity being consequently unsafe for mooring. Our camp, to-night, is on a bit of grassy ledge at the summit of a rocky bank, ten miles above Marietta, on the Ohio side. A rod or so back of us is the country road, which winds along at the foot of a precipitous steep. It is narrow quarters here, and too near the highway for comfort, but nothing better seemed to offer at the time we needed it; and the outlook is pleasant, through the fringing oaks and elms, across the broad river into West Virginia. We had not yet pitched tent, and all hands were still clambering over the rocks with Pilgrim's cargo, rather glad that there was no more of it, when our first camp-bore appeared--a middling-sized man, florid as to complexion, with a mustache and goatee, and in a suit of seedy black, surmounted by a crushed-in Derby hat; and, after the fashion of the country, giving evidence, on his collarless white shirt, of a free use of chewing tobacco. I have seldom met a fellow with better staying qualities. He was a strawberry grower, he said, and having been into Newport, a half dozen miles up river, was walking to his home, which was a mile or two off in the hills. Would we object if, for a few moments, he tarried here by the roadside? and perhaps we could accommodate him with a drink of water? Patiently did he watch the preparation of dinner, and spice each dish with commendations of W----'s skill at making the most of her few utensils. Right glibly he chattered on; now about the decadence of womankind; now about strawberry-growing upon these Ohio hills--with the crop just coming on, and berries selling at a shilling to-day, in Marietta, when they ought to be worth twenty cents; now on politics, and of course he was a Populist; now on the hard times, and did we believe in free silver? He would take no bite with us, but sat and talked and talked, despite plain hints, growing plainer with the progress of time, that his family needed him at nightfall. Dinner was eaten, and dishes washed; the others left on a botanical round-up, and I produced my writing materials, with remarks upon the lateness of the hour. At last our guest arose, shook the grass from his clothes, with a shake of hands bade me good-night, wishing me to convey his "good-bye" to the rest of our party, and as politely as possible expressed the great pleasure which the visit had given him. Some farmer boys came down the hillside to fish at the bank, and talked pleasantly of their work and of the ever-changing phases of the river. Other farmers passed our roadside door, in wagons, on buckboards, by horseback, and on foot; in neighborly tone, but with ill-disguised curiosity in their eyes, wishing me good evening. When the long twilight was almost gone, and the moon an hour high over the purple dusk of the West Virginia hills, the botanists returned, aglow with their exercise, and rich with trophies of blue and dwarf larkspur, pink and white stone-crop, trailing arbutus, and great laurel. And then, as we were preparing to retire, a sleek and dapper fellow, though with clothes rather the worse for wear, came trudging along the road toward Marietta. Seeing our camp, he asked for a drink. Being apparently disposed to tarry, the Doctor, to get him started, offered to walk a piece with him. Our comrade staid out so long, that at last I went down the road in search of him, and found the pair sitting on a moonlit bank, as cozily as if they had been always friends. The stranger had revealed to the Doctor that he was a street fakir, "by perfesh," and had "struck it rich" in Chicago during the World's Fair, but somehow had lost the greater part of his gains, and was now associated with his brother, who had a junk-boat; the brother was "well heeled," and staid and kept store at the boat, while the fakir, as the walking partner, "rustled 'round 'mong th' grangers, to stir up trade." The Doctor had, in their talk, let slip something about certain Florida experiences, and when I arrived on the scene was being skillfully questioned by his companion as to the probabilities of "a feller o' my perfesh ketch'n' on, down thar?" The result of this pumping process must have been satisfactory: for when we parted with him, the fakir declared he was "go'n' try't on thar, next winter, 'f I bust me bottom dollar!" CHAPTER VIII. Life ashore and afloat--Marietta, "the Plymouth Rock of the West"--The Little Kanawha--The story of Blennerhassett's Island. Blennerhassett's Island, Sunday, May 13th.--The day broke without fog, at our camp on the rocky steep above Marietta. The eastern sky was veiled with summer clouds, all gayly flushed by the rising sun, and in the serene silence of the morning there hung the scent of dew, and earth, and trees. In the east, the distant edges of the West Virginia hills were aglow with the mounting light before it had yet peeped over into the river trough, where a silvery haze lent peculiar charm to flood and bank. Up river, one of the Three Brothers isles, dark and heavily forested, seemed in the middle ground to float on air. A bewitching picture this, until at last the sun sprang clear and strong above the fringing hills, and the spell was broken. The steamboat traffic is improving as we get lower down. Last evening, between landing and bedtime, a half dozen passed us, up and down, breathing heavily as dragons might, and leaving behind them foamy wakes which loudly broke upon the shore. Before morning, I was at intervals awakened by as many more. A striking spectacle, the passage of a big river steamer in the night; you hear, fast approaching, a labored pant; suddenly, around the bend, or emerging from behind an island, the long white monster glides into view, lanterns gleaming on two lines of deck, her electric searchlight uneasily flitting to and fro, first on one landmark, then on another, her engine bell sharply clanging, the measured pant developing into a burly, all-pervading roar, which gradually declines into a pant again--and then she disappears as she came, her swelling wake rudely ruffling the moonlit stream. We caught up with a large lumber raft this morning, descending from Pittsburg to Cincinnati. The half-dozen men in charge were housed midway in a rude little shanty, and relieved each other at the sweeps--two at bow, and two astern. It is an easy, lounging life, most of the way, with some difficulties in the shallows, and in passing beneath the great bridges. They travel night and day, except in the not infrequent wind-storms blowing up stream; and it will take them another week to cover the three hundred miles between this and their destination. Far different fellows, these commonplace raftsmen of to-day, from the "lumber boys" of a half-century or more ago, when the river towns were regularly "painted red" by the men who followed the Ohio by raft or flatboat. Life along shore was then more picturesque than comfortable. Later, we stopped on the Ohio shore to chat with a group of farmers having a Sunday talk, their seat a drift log, in the shade of a willowed bank. They proved to be market gardeners and fruit-growers--well-to-do men of their class, and intelligent in conversation; all of them descendants of the sturdy New Englanders who settled these parts. While the others were discussing small fruits with these transplanted Yankees, who proved quite as full of curiosity about us as we concerning them, I went down shore a hundred yards, struggling through the dense fringe of willows, to photograph a junk-boat just putting off into the stream. The two rough-bearded, merry-eyed fellows at the sweeps were setting their craft broadside to the stream--that "the current might have more holt of her," the chief explained. They were interested in the kodak, and readily posed as I wished, but wanted to see what had been taken, having the common notion that it is like a tintype camera, with results at once attainable. They offered our party a ride for the rest of the day, if we would row alongside and come aboard, but I thanked them, saying their craft was too slow for our needs; at which they laughed heartily, and "'lowed" we might be traders, too, anxious to get in ahead of them--"but there's plenty o' room o' th' river, for yew an' we, stranger! Well, good luck to yees! We'll see yer down below, somewhar, I reckon!" Just before lunch, we were at Marietta, at the mouth of the Muskingum (171 miles), a fine stream, here two hundred and fifty yards wide. A storied river, this Muskingum. We first definitely hear of it in 1748, the year the original Ohio Company was formed. Céloron was here the year following, with his little band of French soldiers and Indians, vainly endeavoring to turn English traders out of the Ohio Valley. Christopher Gist came, some months later; then the trader Croghan, for "Old Wyandot Town," the Indian village at the mouth, was a noted center in Western forest traffic. Moravian missionaries appeared in due time, establishing on the banks of the Muskingum the ill-fated convert villages of Schönbrunn, Gnadenhütten, and Salem. In 1785, Fort Harmar was reared on the site of Wyandot Town. Lastly, in the early spring of 1788, came, in Ohio river flatboats, that famous body of New England veterans of the Revolution, under Gen. Rufus Putnam, and planted Marietta--"the Plymouth Rock of the West." We smile at these Ohio pilgrims, for dignifying the hills which girt in the Marietta bottom, with the names of the seven on which Rome is said to be built--for having a Campus Martius and a Sacra Via, and all that, out here among the sycamore stumps and the wild Indians. But a classical revival was just then vigorously affecting American thought, and it would have been strange if these sturdy New Englanders had not felt its influence, fresh as they were from out the shadows of Harvard and Yale, and in the awesome presence of crowds of huge monumental earthworks, whose age, in their day, was believed to far outdate the foundations of the Eternal City itself. They loved learning for learning's sake; and here, in the log-cabins of Marietta, eight hundred miles west of their beloved Boston, among many another good thing they did for posterity, they established the principle of public education at public cost, as a national principle. They were soldier colonists. Washington, out of a full heart, for he dearly loved the West, said of them: "No colony in America was ever settled under such favorable auspices as that which has just commenced at the Muskingum. Information, property, and strength will be its characteristics. I know many of the settlers personally, and there never were men better calculated to promote the welfare of such a community." And when, in 1825, La Fayette had read to him the list of Marietta pioneers,--nearly fifty military officers among them,--he cried: "I know them all! I saw them at Brandywine, Yorktown, and Rhode Island. They were the bravest of the brave!" Yet, for a long time, Marietta met with small measure of success. Miasma, Indian ravages, and the conservative temperament of the people combined to render slow the growth of this Western Plymouth. There were, for a time, extensive ship-building yards here; but that industry gradually declined, with the growth of railway systems. In our day, Marietta, with its ten thousand inhabitants, prospers chiefly as a market town and an educational center, with some manufacturing interests. We were struck to-day, as we tarried there for an hour or two, with the remarkable resemblance it has in public and private architecture, and in general tone, to a typical New England town--say, for example, Burlington, Vt. Omitting its river front, and its Mound Cemetery, Marietta might be set bodily down almost anywhere in Massachusetts, or Vermont, or Connecticut, and the chance traveler would see little in the place to remind him of the West. I know of no other town out of New England of which the same might be said. Below Marietta, the river bottoms are, for miles together, edged with broad stretches of sloping beach, either deep with sand or naturally paved with pebbles--sometimes treeless, but often strewn with clumps of willow and maple and scrub sycamore. The hills, now rounder, less ambitious, and more widely separated, are checkered with fields and forests, and the bottom lands are of more generous breadth. Pleasant islands stud the peaceful stream. The sylvan foliage has by this time attained very nearly its fullest size. The horse chestnut, the pawpaw, the grape, and the willow are in bloom. A gentle pastoral scene is this through which we glide. It is evident that it would be a scalding day but for the gentle breeze astern; setting sail, we gladly drop our oars, and, with the water rippling at our prow, sweep blithely down the long southern reach to Parkersburg, W. Va., at the mouth of the Little Kanawha (183 miles). In the full glare of the scorching sun, Parkersburg looks harsh and dry. But it is well built, and, as seen from the river, apparently prosperous. The Ohio is here crossed by the once famous million-dollar bridge of the Baltimore & Ohio railway. The wharf is at the junction of the two streams, but chiefly on the shore of the unattractive Little Kanawha, which is spanned by several bridges, and abounds in steamers and houseboats moored to the land. Clark and Jones did not think well of Little Kanawha lands, yet there were several families on the river as early as 1763, and Trent, Croghan, and other Fort Pitt fur-traders had posts here. There were only half-a-dozen houses in 1800, and Parkersburg itself was not laid out until ten years later. Blennerhassett's Island lies two miles below--a broad, dark mass of forest, at the head joined by a dam to the West Virginia shore, from which it is separated by a slender channel. Blennerhassett's is some three and a half miles long; of its five hundred acres, four hundred are under cultivation in three separate tenant farms. We landed at the upper end, where Blennerhassett had his wharf, facing the Ohio shore, and found that we were trespassing upon "The Blennerhassett Pleasure Grounds." A seedy-looking man, who represented himself to be the proprietor, promptly accosted us and levied a "landing fee" of ten cents per head, which included the right to remain over night. A little questioning developed the fact that thirty acres at the head of the island belong to this man, who rents the ground to a market gardener,--together with the comfortable farmhouse which occupies the site of Blennerhassett's mansion,--but reserves to himself the privilege of levying toll on visitors. He declared to me that fifteen thousand people came to the island each summer, generally in large railway and steamboat excursions, which gives him an easily-acquired income sufficient for his needs. It is a pity that so famous a place is not a public park. The touching story of the Blennerhassetts is one of the best known in Western annals. Rich in culture and worldly possessions, but wildly impracticable, Harman Blennerhassett and his beautiful wife came to America in 1798. Buying this lovely island in the Ohio, six hundred miles west of tidewater, they built a large mansion, which they furnished luxuriously, adorning it with fine pictures and statuary. Here, in the midst of beautiful grounds, while Blennerhassett studied astronomy, chemistry, and galvanism, his brilliant spouse dispensed rare hospitality to their many distinguished guests; for, in those days, it was part of a rich young man's education to take a journey down the Ohio, into "the Western parts," and on returning home to write a book about it. But there came a serpent to this Eden. Aaron Burr was among their visitors (1805), while upon his journey to New Orleans, where he hoped to set on foot a scheme to seize either Texas or Mexico, and set up a republic with himself at the head. He interested the susceptible Blennerhassetts in his plans, the import of which they probably little understood; but the fantastic Englishman had suffered a considerable reduction of fortune, and was anxious to recoup, and Burr's representations were aglow with the promise of such rewards in the golden southwest as Cortes and Coronado sought. Blennerhassett's purse was opened to the enterprise of Burr; large sums were spent in boats and munitions, which were, tradition says, for a time hid in the bayou which, close by our camp, runs deep into the island forest. It has been filled in by the present proprietor, but its bold shore lines, all hung with giant sycamores, are still in evidence. President Jefferson's proclamation (October, 1806) shattered the plot, and Blennerhassett fled to join Burr at the mouth of the Cumberland. Both were finally arrested (1807), and tried for treason, but acquitted on technical grounds. In the meantime, people from the neighboring country sacked Blennerhassett's house; then came creditors, and with great waste seized his property; the beautiful place was still further pillaged by lawless ruffians, and turned into ignoble uses; later, the mansion itself was burned through the carelessness of negroes--and now, all they can show us are the old well and the noble trees which once graced the lawn. As for the Blennerhassetts themselves, they wandered far and wide, everywhere the victims of misfortune. He died on the Island of Guernsey (1831), a disappointed office-seeker; she, returning to America to seek redress from Congress for the spoliation of her home, passed away in New York, before the claim was allowed, and was buried by the Sisters of Charity. CHAPTER IX. Poor whites--First library in the West--An hour at Hockingport--A hermit fisher. Long Bottom, Monday, May 14th.--Pushing up stream for two miles this morning, the commissary department replenished the day's stores at Parkersburg. Forepaugh's circus was in town, and crowds of rustics were coming in by wagon road, railway trains, and steamers and ferries on both rivers. The streets of the quaint, dingy Southern town were teeming with humanity, mainly negroes and poor whites. Among the latter, flat, pallid faces, either flabby or too lean, were under the swarms of blue, white, and yellow sunbonnets--sad faces, with lack-luster eyes, coarse hair of undecided hue, and coarser speech. These Audreys of Dixie-land are the product of centuries of ill-treatment on our soil; indented white servants to the early coast colonists were in the main their ancestors; with slave competition, the white laborer in the South lost caste until even the negro despised him; and ill-nurture has done the rest. Then, too, in these bottoms, malaria has wrought its work, especially among the underfed; you see it in the yellow skin and nerveless tone of these lanky rustics, who are in town to enjoy the one bright holiday of their weary year. Across the river, in Ohio, is Belpré (short for Belle Prairie, and now locally pronounced Bel'pry), settled by Revolutionary soldiers, on the Marietta grant, in 1789-90. I always think well of Belpré, because here was established the first circulating library in the Northwest. Old Israel Putnam, he of the wolf-den and Bunker Hill, amassed many books. His son Israel, on moving to Belpré in 1796, carried a considerable part of the collection with him--no small undertaking this, at a time when goods had to be carted all the way from Connecticut, over rivers and mountains to the Ohio, and then floated down river by flatboat, with a high tariff for every pound of freight. Young Israel was public-spirited, and, having been at so great cost and trouble to get this library out to the wilderness, desired his fellow-colonists to enjoy it with him. It would have been unfair not to distribute the expense, so a stock company was formed, and shares were sold at ten dollars each. Of the blessings wrought in this rude frontier community by the books which the elder Israel had collected for his Connecticut fireside, there can be no more eloquent testimony than that borne by an old settler, who, in 1802, writes to an Eastern friend: "In order to make the long winter evenings pass more smoothly, by great exertion I purchased a share in the Belpré library, six miles distant. Many a night have I passed (using pine knots instead of candles) reading to my wife while she sat hatcheling, carding or spinning." The association was dissolved in 1815 or 1816, and the books distributed among the shareholders; many of these volumes are still extant in this vicinity, and several are in the college museum at Marietta. There are few descendants hereabout of the original New England settlers, and they live miles apart on the Ohio shore. We went up to visit one, living opposite Blennerhassett's Island. Notice of our coming had preceded us, and we were warmly welcomed at a substantial farmhouse in the outskirts of Belpré, with every evidence about of abundant prosperity. The maternal great-grandfather of our host for an hour was Rufus Putnam, an ancestor to be proud of. Five acres of gooseberries are grown on the place, and other small-fruits in proportion--all for the Parkersburg market, whence much is shipped north to Cleveland. Our host confessed to a little malaria, even on this upper terrace--or "second bottom," as they style it--but "the land is good, though with many stones--natural conditions, you know, for New Englanders." It was pleasant for a New England man, not long removed from his native soil, to find these people, who are a century away from home, still claiming kinship. At the Big Hockhocking River (197 miles), on a high, semicircular bottom, is Hockingport, a hamlet with a population of three hundred. Here, on a still higher bench, a quarter of a mile back from the river, Lord Dunmore built Fort Gower, one of a chain of posts along his march against the Northwest Indians (1774). It was from here that he marched to the Pickaway Plains, on the Scioto (near Circleville, O.), and concluded that treaty of peace to which Chief Logan refused his consent. There are some remains yet left of this palisaded earthwork of a century and a quarter ago, but the greater part has been obliterated by plowing, and a dwelling occupies a portion of the site. It had been very warm, and we had needed an awning as far down as Hockingport, where we cooled off by lying on the grass in the shade of the village blacksmith's shop, which is, as well, the ferry-house, with the bell hung between two tall posts at the top of the bank, its rope dangling down for public use. The smith-ferryman came out with his wife--a burly, good-natured couple--and joined us in our lounging, for it is not every day that river travelers put in at this dreamy, far-away port. The wife had camped with her husband, when he was boss of a railway construction gang, and both of them frankly envied us our trip. So did a neighboring storekeeper, a tall, lean, grave young man, clean-shaven, coatless and vestless, with a blue-glass stud on his collarless white shirt. Apparently there was no danger of customers walking away with his goods, for he left his store-door open to all comers, not once glancing thitherward in the half-hour he sat with us on a stick of timber, in which he pensively carved his name. Life goes easily in Hockingport. Years ago there was some business up the Big Hocking (short for Big Hockhocking), a stream of a half-dozen rods' width, but now no steamer ventures up--the railroads do it all; as for the Ohio--well, the steamers now and then put off a box or bale for the four shop-keepers, and once in a while a passenger patronizes the landing. There is still a little country traffic, and formerly a sawmill was in operation here; you see its ruins down there below. Hockingport is a type of several rustic hamlets we have seen to-day; they are often in pairs, one either side of the river, for companionship's sake. We are idling, despite the knowledge that on turning every big bend we are getting farther and farther south, and mid-June on the Lower Ohio is apt to be sub-tropical. But the sinking sun gives us a shadowy right bank, and that is most welcome. The current is only spasmodically good. Every night the river falls from three to six inches, and there are long stretches of slack-water. The steamers pick their way carefully; we do not give them as wide a berth as formerly, for the wakes they turn are no longer savage--but wakes, even when sent out by stern-wheelers at full speed, now give us little trouble; it did not take long to learn the knack of "taking" them. Whether you meet them at right angles, or in the trough, there is the same delicious sensation of rising and falling on the long swells--there is no danger, so long as you are outside the line of foaming breakers; within those, you may ship water, which is not desirable when there is a cargo. But the boys at the towns sometimes put out in their rude punts into the very vortex of disturbance, being dashed about in the white roar at the base of the ponderous paddle wheels, like a Fiji Islander in his surf-boat. We heard, the other day, of a boatload of daring youngsters being caught by the wheel, their craft smashed into kindling-wood, and they themselves all drowned but one. The hills, to-day, sometimes break sharply off, leaving an eroded, often vine-festooned palisade some fifty feet in height, at the base of which is a long, tree-clad slope of debris; then, a narrow, level terrace from fifty to a hundred yards in width, which drops suddenly to a rocky beach; this in turn is often lined along the water's edge with irregularly-shaped boulders, from the size of Pilgrim to fifteen or twenty feet in height, and worn smooth with the grinding action of the river. The effect is highly picturesque. We shall have much of this below. At the foot of one of these palisades lay a shanty-boat, with nets sprawled over the roof to dry, and a live-box anchored hard by. "Hello, the boat!" brought to the window the head of the lone fisherman, who dreamily peered at us as we announced our wish to become his customers. A sort of poor-white Neptune, this tall, lean, lantern-jawed old fellow, with great round, iron-rimmed spectacles over his fishy eyes, his hair and beard in long, snaky locks, and clothing in dirty tatters. As he put out in his skiff to reach the live-box, he continuously spewed tobacco juice about him, and in an undertone growled garrulously, as though used to soliloquize in his hermitage, where he lay at outs with the world. He had been in this spot for two years, he said, and sold fish to the daily Parkersburg steamer--when there were any fish. But, for six months past, he "hadn't made enough to keep him in grub," and had now and then to go up to the city and earn something. For forty years had he followed the apostles' calling on "this yere Ohio," and the fishing was never so poor as now--yes, sir! hard times had struck his business, just like other folks'. He thought the oil wells were tainting the water, and the fish wouldn't breed--and the iron slag, too, was spoiling the river, and he knew it. He finally produced for us, out of his box, a three-pound fish,--white perch, calico bass, and catfish formed his stock in trade,--but, before handing it over, demanded the requisite fifteen cents. Evidently he had had dealings with a dishonest world, this hermit fisher, and had learned a thing or two. Perfect camping places are not to be found every day. There are so many things to think of--a good landing place; good height above the water level, in case of a sudden rise; a dry, shady, level spot for the tent; plenty of wood, and, if possible, a spring; and not too close proximity to a house. Occasionally we meet with what we want, when we want it; but quite as often, ideal camping places, while abundant half the day, are not to be found at five o'clock, our usual hour for homeseeking. The Doctor is our agent for this task, for, being bow oar, he can clamber out most easily. This evening, he ranged both shores for a considerable distance, with ill success, so that we are settled on a narrow Ohio sand-beach, in the midst of a sparse willow copse, only two feet above the river. Dinner was had at the very water's edge. After a time, a wind-storm arose and flapped the tent right vigorously, causing us to pin down tightly and weight the sod-cloth; while, amid distant thundering, every preparation was made for a speedy embarkation in the event of flood. The bellow of the frogs all about us, the scream of toads, and the heavy swash of passing steamers dangerously near our door, will be a sufficient lullaby to-night. CHAPTER X. Cliff-dwellers on Long Bottom--Pomeroy Bend--Letart's Island and Rapids--Game in the early day--Rainy weather--In a "cracker" home. Letart's Island, Tuesday, May 15th.--After we had gone to bed last night,--we in the tent, the Doctor and Pilgrim under the fly, which serves as a porch roof,--the heavenly floodgates lifted; the rain, coming in sheets, beat a fierce tattoo on the tightly-stretched canvas, and visions of a sudden rise in the fickle river were uppermost in our dreams. Everything about us was sopping at daybreak; but the sun rose clear and warm from a bed of eastern clouds, and the midnight gale had softened to a gentle breeze. Palisades were frequent to-day. We stopped just below camp, at an especially picturesque Ohio hamlet,--Long Bottom (207 miles),--where the dozen or so cottages are built close against the bald rock. Clambering over great water-worn boulders, at the river's brink, the Doctor and I made our way up through a dense tangle of willows and poison ivy and grape-vines, emerging upon the country road which passes at the foot of this row of modern cliff-dwellings. For the most part, little gardens, with neat palings, run down from the cottages to the road. One sprawling log house, fairly embowered in vines, and overtopped by the palisade rising sheer for thirty feet above its back door, looked in this setting for all the world like an Alpine chalet, lacking only stones on the roof to complete the picture. I took a kodak shot at this, also at a group of tousle-headed children at the door of a decrepit shanty built entirely within a crevice of the rock--their Hibernian mother, with one hand holding an apron over her head, and the other shielding her eyes, shrilly crying to a neighboring cliff-dweller: "Miss McCarthy! Miss McCarthy! There's a feller here, a photergraph'n' all the people in the Bottom! Come, quick!" Then they eagerly pressed around me, Germans and Irish, big and little, women and children mostly, asking for a view of the picture, which I gave all in turn by letting them peep into the ground-glass "finder"--a pretty picture, they said it was, with the colors all in, and "wonderfully like," though a wee bit small. Speaking of color, we are daily struck with the brilliant hues in the workaday dresses of women and children seen along the river. Red calico predominates, but blues and yellows, and even greens, are seen, brightly splashing the somber landscape. After Long Bottom, we enter upon the south-sweeping Pomeroy Bend of the Ohio, commencing at Murraysville (208 miles) and ending at Pomeroy (247 miles). It is of itself a series of smaller bends, and, as we twist about upon our course, the wind strikes us successively on all quarters; sometimes giving the Doctor a chance to try his sail, which he raises on the slightest provocation,--but at all times agreeably ruffling the surface that would otherwise reflect the glowing sun like a mirror. The sloping margins of the rich bottoms are now often cultivated almost to the very edge of the stream, with a line of willow trees left as a protecting fringe. Farmers doing this take a gambling risk of a summer rise. Where the margins have been left untouched by the plow, there is a dense mass of vegetation--sycamores, big of girth and towering to a hundred feet or more, abound on every hand; the willows are phenomenally-rapid growers; and in all available space is the rank, thick-standing growth of an annual locally styled "horse-weed," which rears a cane-like stalk full eighteen or twenty feet high--it has now attained but four or five feet, but the dry stalks of last year's growth are everywhere about, showing what a formidable barrier to landing these giant weeds must be in midsummer. We chose for a camping place Letart's Island (232 miles), on the West Virginia side, not far below Milwood. From the head, where our tent is pitched on a sandy knoll thick-grown to willows, a long gravel spit runs far over toward the Ohio shore. The West Virginia channel is narrow, slow and shallow; that between us and Ohio has been lessened by the island to half its usual width, and the current sweeps by at a six-mile gait, in which the Doctor and I found it difficult to keep our footing while having our customary evening dip. Our island is two long, forested humps of sand, connected by a stretch of gravel beach, giving every evidence of being submerged in times of flood; everywhere are chaotic heaps of driftwood, many cords in extent; derelict trees are lodged in the tops of the highest willows and maples--ghostly giants sprawling in the moonlight; there is an abandon of vegetable debris, layer after layer laid down in sandy coverlids. Wild grasses, which flourish on all these flooded lands, here attain enormous size. Dispensing with our cots for the nonce, we have spread our blankets over heaps of dried grass pulled from the monster tufts of last year's growth. The Ohio is capable of raising giant floods; it is still falling with us, but there are signs at hand, beyond the slight sprinkle which cooled the air for us at bedtime, of rainy weather after the long drouth. When the feeders in the Alleghanies begin to swell, we shall perch high o' nights. * * * * * Near Cheshire, O., Wednesday, May 16th.--The fine current at the island gave us a noble start this morning. The river soon widens, but Letart's Falls, a mile or two below, continue the movement, and we went fairly spinning on our way. These so-called falls, rapids rather, long possessed the imagination of early travelers. Some of the chroniclers have, while describing them, indulged in flights of fancy.[A] They are of slight consequence, however, even at this low stage of water, save to the careless canoeist who has had no experience in rapid water, well-strewn with sunken boulders. The scenery of the locality is wild, and somewhat impressive. The Ohio bank is steep and rugged, abounding in narrow little terraces of red clay, deeply gullied, and dotted with rough, mean shanties. It all had a forbidding aspect, when viewed in the blinding sun; but before we had passed, an intervening cloud cast a deep shadow over the scene, and, softening the effect, made the picture more pleasing. Croghan was at Letart (1765), on one of his land-viewing trips for the Ohio Company, and tells us that he saw a "vast migrating herd" of buffalo cross the river here. In the beginning of colonization in this valley, buffalo and elk were to be seen in herds of astonishing size; traces of their well-beaten paths through the hills, and toward the salt licks of Kentucky and Illinois, were observable until within recent years. Gordon, an early traveler down the Ohio (1766), speaks of "great herds of buffalo, we observed on the beaches of the river and islands into which they come for air, and coolness in the heat of the day;" he commenced his raids on them a hundred miles below Pittsburg. Hutchins (1778) says, "the whole country abounds in Bears, Elks, Buffaloe, Deer, Turkies, &c."[B] Bears, panthers, wolves, eagles, and wild turkeys were indeed very plenty at first, but soon became extinct. The theory is advanced by Dr. Doddridge, in his _Notes on Virginia_, that hunters' dogs introduced hydrophobia among the wolves, and this ridded the country of them sooner than they would naturally have gone; but they were still so numerous in 1817, that the traveler Palmer heard them nightly, "barking on both banks." Venomous serpents were also numerous in pioneer days, and stayed longer. The story is told of a tumulus up toward Moundsville, that abounded in snakes, particularly rattlers. The settlers thought to dig them out, but they came to such a mass of human bones that that plan was abandoned. Then they instituted a blockade, by erecting a tight-board fence around the mound, and, thus entrapping the reptiles, extirpated the colony in a few days. Paroquets were once abundant west of the Alleghanies, up to the southern shore of the Great Lakes, and great flocks haunted the salt springs; but to-day they may be found only in the middle Southern states. There were, in a state of nature, no crows, blackbirds, or song-birds in this valley; they followed in the wake of the colonist. The honey bee came with the white man,--or rather, just preceded him. Rats followed the first settlers, then opossums, and fox squirrels still later. It is thought, too, that the sand-hill and whooping cranes, and the great blue herons which we daily see in their stately flight, are birds of these later days, when the neighborhood of man has frightened away the enemies which once kept them from thriving in the valley. Turkey buzzards appear to remain alone of the ancient birds; the earliest travelers note their presence in great flocks, and to-day there are few vistas open to us, without from one to dozens of them wheeling about in mid-air, seeking what they may devour. Public opinion in the valley is opposed to the wanton killing of these scavengers, so useful in a climate as warm as this. Three miles below Letart's Rapids, is the motley settlement of Antiquity, O., a long row of cabins and cottages nestled at the base of a high, vine-clad palisade, similar to that which yesterday we visited at Long Bottom. Some of these cliff-dwellings are picturesque, some exhibit the prosperity of their owners, but many are squalid. At the water's edge is that which has given its name to the locality, an ancient rock, which once bore some curious Indian carving. Hall (1820) found only one figure remaining, "a man in a sitting posture, making a pipe;" to-day, even thus much has been largely obliterated by the elements. But Antiquity itself is not quite dead. There is a ship-yard here; and a sawmill in active operation, besides the ruins of two others. We also passed Racine (240 miles), another Ohio town--a considerable place, no doubt, although only the tops of the buildings were, from the river level, to be seen above the high bank; these, and an enticing view up the wharf-street. Of more immediate interest, just then, were the heavens, now black and threatening. Putting in hurriedly to the West Virginia shore, we pitched tent on a shelving clay beach, shielded by the ever-present willows, and in five minutes had everything under shelter. With a rumble and bang, and a great flurry of wind, the thunder-storm broke upon us in full fury. There had been no time to run a ditch around the tent, so we spread our cargo atop of the cots. The Boy engineered riverward the streams of water which flowed in beneath the canvas; W----, ever practical, caught rain from the dripping fly, and did the family washing, while the Doctor and I prepared a rather pasty lunch. An hour later, we bailed out Pilgrim, and once more ventured upon our way. It is a busy district between Racine and Sheffield (251 miles). For eleven miles, upon the Ohio bank, there are few breaks between the towns,--Racine, Syracuse, Minersville, Pomeroy, Coalport, Middleport, and Sheffield. Coal mines and salt works abound, with other industries interspersed; and the neighborhood appears highly prosperous. Its metropolis is Pomeroy, in shape a "shoe-string" town,--much of it not over two blocks wide, and stretching along for two miles, at the foot of high palisades. West Virginia is not far behind, in enterprise, with the salt-work towns of New Haven, Hartford, and Mason City,--bespeaking, in their names, a Connecticut ancestry. The afternoon sun gushed out, and the face of Nature was cleanly beautiful, as, leaving the convolutions of the Pomeroy Bend, we entered upon that long river-sweep to the south-by-southwest, which extends from Pomeroy to the Big Sandy, a distance of sixty-eight miles. A mile or two below Cheshire, O. (256 miles), we put in for the night on the West Virginia shore. There is a natural pier of rocky ledge, above that a sloping beach of jagged stone, and then the little grassy terrace which we have made our home. Searching for milk and eggs, I walked along a railway track and then up through a cornfield, to a little log farm-house, whose broad porch was shingled with "shakes" and shaded by a lusty grape-vine. Fences, house, and outbuildings had been newly whitewashed, and there was all about an uncommon air of neatness. A stout little girl of eleven or twelve, met me at the narrow gate opening through the garden palings. It may be because a gypsying trip like this roughens one in many ways,--for man, with long living near to Nature's heart, becomes of the earth, earthy,--that she at first regarded me with suspicious eyes, and, with one hand resting gracefully on her hip, parleyed over the gate, as to what price I was paying in cash, for eggs and milk, and where I hailed from. With her wealth of blond hair done up in a saucy knot behind; her round, honest face; her lips thick, and parted over pearly teeth; her nose saucily _retrousse_; and her flashing, outspoken blue eyes, this barefooted child of Nature had a certain air of authority, a consciousness of power, which made her womanly beyond her years. She must have seen that I admired her, this little "cracker" queen, in her clean but tattered calico frock; for her mood soon melted, and with much grace she ushered me within the house. Calling Sam, an eight-year-old, to "keep the gen'lem'n comp'ny," she prettily excused herself, and scampered off up the hillside in search of the cows. A barefooted, loose-jointed, gaunt, sandy-haired, freckled, open-eyed youngster is Sam. He came lounging into the room, and, taking my hat, hung it on a peg above the fireplace; then, dropping into a big rocking-chair, with his muddy legs hanging over an arm, at once, with a curious, old-fashioned air, began "keeping company" by telling me of the new litter of pigs, with as little diffidence as though I were an old neighbor who had dropped in on the way to the cross-roads. "And thet thar new Shanghai rooster, mister, ain't he a beauty? He cost a dollar, he did--a dollar in silver, sir!" There was no difficulty in drawing Sam out. He is frankness itself. What was he going to make of himself? Well, he "'lowed" he wanted to be either a locomotive engineer or a steamboat captain--hadn't made up his mind which. "But whatever a boy wants to be, he will be!" said Sam, with the decided tone of a man of the world, who had seen things. I asked Sam what the attractions were in the life of an engine driver. He "'lowed" they went so fast through the world, and saw so many different people; and in their lifetime served on different roads, maybe, and surely they must meet with some excitement. And in that of a steamboat captain? "Oh! now yew're talk'n', mister! A right smart business, thet! A boss'n' o' people 'round, a seein' o' th' world, and noth'n' 't all to do! Now, that's right smart, I take it!" It was plain where his heart lay. He saw the steamers pass the farm daily, and once he had watched one unload at Point Pleasant--well, that was the life for him! Sam will have to be up and doing, if he is to be the monarch of a stern-wheeler on the Ohio; but many another "cracker" boy has attained this exalted station, and Sam is of the sort to win his way. Soon the kine came lowing into the yard, and my piquant young friend who had met me at the gate stood in the doorway talking with us both, while their brother Charley, an awkward, self-conscious lad of ten, took my pail and milked into it the required two quarts. It is a large, square room, where I was so agreeably entertained. The well-chinked logs are scrupulously whitewashed; the parental bed, with gay pillow shams, bought from a peddler, occupies one corner; a huge brick fireplace opens black and yawning, into the base of a great cobblestone chimney reared against the house without, after the fashion of the country; on pegs about, hang the best clothes of the family; while a sewing-machine, a deal table, a cheap little mirror as big as my palm, a few unframed chromos, and a gaudy "Family Record" chart hung in an old looking-glass frame,--with appropriate holes for tintypes of father, mother and children,--complete the furnishings of the apartment, which is parlor, sitting-room, dining-room, and bedroom all in one. My little queen was evidently proud of her throne-room, and noted with satisfaction my interest in the Family Record. When I had paid her for butter and eggs, at retail rates, she threw in an extra egg, and, despite my protests, would have Charley take the pail out to the cow, "for an extra squirt or two, for good measure!" I was bidding them all good-bye, and the queen was pressing me to come again in the morning "fer more stuff, ef ye 'lowed yew wanted any," when the mother of the little brood appeared from over the fields, where she had been to carry water to her lord. A fair, intelligent, rather fine-looking woman, but barefooted like the rest; from her neck behind, dangled a red sunbonnet, and a sunny-haired child of five was in her arms--"sort o' weak in her lungs, poor thing!" she sadly said, as I snapped my fingers at the smiling tot. I tarried a moment with the good mother, as, sitting upon the porch, she serenely smiled upon her children, whose eyes were now lit with responsive love; and I wondered if there were not some romance hidden here, whereby a dash of gentler blood had through this sweet-tempered woman been infused into the coarse clay of the bottom. [Footnote A: Notably, Ashe's _Travels_; but Palmer, while saying that "they are the only obstruction to the navigation of the Ohio, except the rapids at Louisville," declares them to be of slight difficulty, and, referring to Ashe's account, says, "Like great part of his book, it is all romance."] [Footnote B: The last buffalo on record, in the Upper Ohio region, was killed in the Great Kanawha Valley, a dozen miles from Charleston, W. Va., in 1815. Five years later, in the same vicinity, was killed probably the last elk seen east of the Ohio.] CHAPTER XI. Battle of Point Pleasant--The story of Gallipolis--Rosebud--Huntington--The genesis of a house-boater. Near Glenwood, W. Va., Thursday, May 17th.--By eight o'clock this morning we were in Point Pleasant, W. Va., at the mouth of the Great Kanawha River (263 miles). Céloron was here, the eighteenth of August, 1749, and on the east bank of the river, the site of the present village, buried at the foot of an elm one of his leaden plates asserting the claim of France to the Ohio basin. Ninety-seven years later, a boy unearthed this interesting but futile proclamation, and it rests to-day in the museum of the Virginia Historical Society. The Great Kanawha Valley long had a romantic interest for Englishmen concerned in Western lands. It was in the grant to the old Ohio Company; but that corporation, handicapped in many ways, was practically dead by the time of Lord Dunmore's war. It had many rivals, more or less ephemeral, among them the scheme of George Mercer (1773) to have the territory between the Alleghanies and the Ohio--the West Virginia of to-day--erected into the "Province of Vandalia," with himself as governor, and his capital at the mouth of the Great Kanawha. Washington owned a ten-thousand-acre tract on both sides of the river, commencing a short distance above the mouth, which he surveyed in person, in October, 1770; and in 1773 we find him advertising to sell or lease it; among the inducements he offered was, "the scheme for establishing a new government on the Ohio," and the contiguity of his lands "to the seat of government, which, it is more than probable, will be fixed at the mouth of the Great Kanawha." Had not the Revolution broken out, and nipped this and many another budding plan for Western colonization, there is little doubt that what we call West Virginia would have been established as a state, a century earlier than it was.[A] A few days ago we were at Mingo Bottom, where lived Chief Logan, whose family were treacherously slaughtered by border ruffians (1774). The Mingos, ablaze with the fire of vengeance, carried the war-pipe through the neighboring villages; runners were sent in every direction to rouse the tribes; tomahawks were unearthed, war-posts were planted; messages of defiance sent to the Virginians; and in a few days Lord Dunmore's war was in full swing, from Cumberland Gap to Fort Pitt, from the Alleghanies to the Wabash. His lordship, then governor of Virginia, was full of energy, and proved himself a competent military manager. The settlers were organized; the rude log forts were garrisoned; forays were made against the Indian villages as far away as Muskingum, and an army of nearly three thousand backwoodsmen, armed with smooth-bores and clad in fringed buckskin hunting-shirts, was put in the field. One division of this army, eleven hundred strong, under Gen. Andrew Lewis, descended the Great Kanawha River, and on Point Pleasant met Cornstalk, a famous Shawnee chief, who, while at first peaceful, had by the Logan tragedy been made a fierce enemy of the whites, and was now the leader of a thousand picked warriors, gathered from all parts of the Northwest. On the 10th of October, from dawn until dusk, was here waged in a gloomy forest one of the most bloody and stubborn hand-to-hand battles ever fought between Indians and whites--especially notable, too, because for the first time the rivals were about equal in number. The combatants stood behind trees, in Indian fashion, and it is hard to say who displayed the best generalship, Cornstalk or Lewis.[B] When the pall of night covered the hideous contest, the whites had lost one-fifth of their number, while the savages had sustained but half as many casualties. Cornstalk's followers had had enough, however, and withdrew before daylight, leaving the field to the Americans. A few days later, General Lewis joined Lord Dunmore--who headed the other wing of the army, which had proceeded by the way of Forts Pitt and Gower--on the Pickaway plains, in Ohio; and there a treaty was made with the Indians, who assented to every proposition made them. They surrendered all claim to lands south of the Ohio River, returned their white prisoners and stolen horses, and gave hostages for future good behavior. Here at Point Pleasant, a year later, Fort Randolph was built, and garrisoned by a hundred men; for, despite the treaty, the Indians were still troublesome. For a long time, Pittsburg, Redstone, and Randolph were the only garrisoned forts on the frontier. The Point Pleasant of to-day is a dull, sleepy town of twenty-five hundred inhabitants, with that unkempt air and preponderance of lounging negroes, so common to small Southern communities. The bottom is rolling, fringed with large hills, and on the Ohio side drops suddenly for fifty feet to a shelving beach of gravel and clay. Crooked Creek, in whose narrow, winding valley some of the severest fighting was had, empties into the Kanawha a half-mile up the stream, at the back of the town. It was painful to meet several men of intelligence, who had long been engaged in trade here, to whom the Battle of Point Pleasant was a shadowy event, whose date they could not fix, nor whose importance understand; it seemed to be little more a part of their lives, than an obscure contest between Matabeles and whites, in far-off Africa. It is time that our Western and Southern folk were awakened to an appreciation of the fact that they have a history at their doors, quite as significant in the annals of civilization as that which induces pilgrimages to Ticonderoga and Bunker Hill. Four miles below, Pilgrim was beached for a time at Gallipolis, O. (267 miles), which has a story all its own. The district belonged, a century ago, to the Scioto Company, an offshoot of the Marietta enterprise. Joel Barlow, the "poet of the Revolution," was sent to Paris (May, 1788) as agent for the sale of lands. As the result of his personal popularity there, and his flaming immigration circulars and maps, he disposed of a hundred thousand acres; to settle on which, six hundred French emigrants sailed for America, in February, 1790. They were peculiarly unsuited for colonization, even under the most favorable conditions--being in the main physicians, jewelers and other artisans, a few mechanics, and noblemen's servants, while many were without trade or profession. Upon arrival in Alexandria, Va., they found that their deeds were valueless, the land never having been paid for by the Scioto speculators; moreover, the tract was filled with hostile Indians. However, five hundred of them pushed on to the region, by way of Redstone, and reached here by flatboat, in a destitute condition. The Marietta neighbors were as kind as circumstances would allow, and cabins were built for them on what is now the Public Square of Gallipolis. But they were ignorant of the first principles of forestry or gardening; the initial winter was exceptionally severe, Indian forays sapped the life of the colony, yellow fever decimated the survivors; and, altogether, the little settlement suffered a series of disasters almost unparalleled in the story of American colonization. Although finally reimbursed by Congress with a special land grant, the emigrants gradually died off, until now, so at least we were assured, but three families of descendants of the original Gauls are now living here. It was the American element, aided by sturdy Germans, who in time took hold of the decayed French settlement, and built up the prosperous little town of six thousand inhabitants which we find to-day. It is a conservative town, with little perceptible increase in population; but there are many fine brick blocks, the stores have large stocks attractively displayed, and there is in general a comfortable tone about the place, which pleases a stranger. The Public Square, where the first Gauls had their little forted town, appears to occupy the space of three or four city blocks; there is the customary band-stand in the center, and seats plentifully provided along the graveled walks which divide neat plots of grass. Over the riverward entrance to the square, is an arch of gas-pipe, perforated for illumination, and bearing the dates, "1790-1890,"--a relic, this, of the centennial which Gallipolis celebrated in the last-named year. It was with some difficulty that we found a camping-place, this evening. For several miles, the approaches were nearly knee-deep in mud for a dozen feet back from the water's edge, or else the banks were too steep, or the farmers had cultivated so closely to the brink as to leave us no room for the tent. In one gruesome spot on the Ohio bank, where a projecting log fortunately served as a pier, the Doctor landed for a prospecting tour; while I ascended a zigzag path, through steep and rugged land, to a nest of squalid cabins perched by a shabby hillside road. A vicious dog came down to meet me half-way, and might have succeeded in carrying off a portion of my clothing had not his owner whistled him back. A queer, dingy, human wasp-nest, this dirty little shanty hamlet of Rosebud. Pigs and children wallowed in comradeship, and as every cabin on the precipitous slope necessarily has a basement, this is used as the common barn for chickens, goats, pigs, and cow. It was pleasant to find that there was no sweet milk to be had in Rosebud, for it is kept in open pans, in these fetid rooms, and soon sours--and the cows had not yet come down from the hills. Water, too, was at a premium. There was none to be had, save what had fallen from the clouds, and been stored in a foul cistern, which seemed common property. I drew a pailful of it, not to displease the disheveled group which surrounded me, full of questions; but on the first turning in the lane, emptied the vessel upon the back of a pig, which was darting by with murderous squeal. The long twilight was well nigh spent, when, on the Ohio side a mile or two above Glenwood, W. Va. (287 miles), we came upon a wide, level beach of gravel, below a sloping, willowed terrace, above which sharply rose the "second bottom." Ascending an angling farm roadway, while the others pitched camp, I walked over the undulating bottom to the nearest of a group of small, neat farmhouses, and applied for milk. While a buxom maid went out and milked a Jersey, that had chanced to come home ahead of her fellows, I sat on the rear porch gossiping with the farm-wife--a Pennsylvania-Dutch dame of ample proportions, attired in light-blue calico, and with huge spectacles over her broad, flat nose. She and her "man" own a hundred and fifty acres on the bottom, with three cows and other stock in proportion, and sell butter to those neighbors who have no cows, and to houseboat people. As for these latter, though they were her customers, she had none too good an opinion of them; they pretended to fish, but in reality only picked up a living from the farmers; nevertheless, she did know of some "weakly, delicate people" who had taken to boat life for economy's sake, and because an invalid could at least fish, and his family help him at it. * * * * * Near Huntington, W. Va., Friday, May 18th.--Backed by ravine-grooved hills, and edged at the waterside with great picturesque boulders, planed and polished by the ever-rushing river, the little bottom farms along our path to-day are pretty bits. But the houses are the reverse of this, having much the aspect of slave-cabins of the olden time--small, one-story, log and frame shanties, roof and gables shingled with "shakes," and little vegetable gardens inclosed by palings. The majority of these small farmers--whose tracts seldom exceed a hundred acres--rent their land, rather than own it. The plan seems to be half-and-half as to crops, with a rental fee for house and pasturage. One man, having a hundred-and-twenty acres, told me he paid three dollars a month for his house, and for pasturage a dollar a month per head. We were in several of the small towns to-day. At Millersport, O. (293 miles), while W---- and the Doctor were up town, the Boy and I remained at the wharf-boat to talk with the owner. The wharf-boat is a conspicuous object at every landing of importance, being a covered barge used as a storehouse for coming and going steamboat freight. It is a private enterprise, for public convenience, with certain monopolistic privileges at the incorporated towns. This Millersport boat cost twelve hundred dollars; the proprietor charges twenty per cent of each freight-bill, for handling and storing goods, a fee of twenty-five cents for each steamer that lands, and certain special fees for live stock. Athalia, Haskellville and Guyandotte were other representative towns. Stave-making appears to be the chief industry, and, as timber is getting scarce, the communities show signs of decay. We had been told, above, that Huntington, W. Va. (306 miles), was "a right smart chunk of a town." And it is. There are sixteen thousand people here, in a finely-built city spread over a broad, flat plain. Brick and stone business buildings abound; the broad streets are paved with brick, and an electric-car line runs out along the bottom, through the suburb of Ceredo, W. Va., to Catlettsburg, Ky., nine miles away. Huntington is the center of a large group of riverside towns supported by iron-making and other industries--Guyandotte and Ceredo, in West Virginia; Catlettsburg, just over the border in Kentucky; and Proctorville, Broderickville, Frampton, Burlington, and South Point, on the opposite shore. We are camping to-night in the dense willow grove which lines the West Virginia beach from Huntington to the Big Sandy. Above us, on the wide terrace, are fields and orchards, beyond which we occasionally hear the gong of electric cars. A public path runs by the tent, leading from the lower settlements into Huntington. Among our visitors have been two houseboat men, whose craft is moored a quarter of a mile below. One of them is tall, thick-set, forty, with a round, florid face, and huge mustaches,--evidently a jolly fellow at his best, despite a certain dubious, piratical air; a jaunty, narrow-brimmed straw hat is perched over one ear, to add to the general effect; and between his teeth a corn-cob pipe. His younger companion is medium-sized, slim, and loose-jointed, with a baggy gait, his cap thrown over his head, with the visor in the rear--a rustic clown, not yet outgrown his freckles. But three weeks from the parental farm in Putnam County, Ky., the world is as yet a romance to him. The fellow is interesting, because in him can be seen the genesis of a considerable element of the houseboat fraternity. I wonder how long it will be before his partner has him broken in as a river-pirate of the first water. [Footnote A: Washington was much interested in a plan to connect, by a canal, the James and Great Kanawha Rivers, separated at their sources by a portage of but a few miles in length. The distance from Point Pleasant to Richmond is 485 miles. In 1785, Virginia incorporated the James River Company, of which Washington was the first president. The project hung fire, because of "party spirit and sectional jealousies," until 1832, when a new company was incorporated, under which the James was improved (1836-53), but the Kanawha was untouched. In 1874, United States engineers presented a plan calling for an expenditure of sixty millions, but there the matter rests. The Kanawha is navigable by large steamers for sixty miles, up to the falls at Charleston, and beyond almost to its source, by light craft.] [Footnote B: Hall, in _Romance of Western History_ (1820), says that when Washington was tendered command of the Revolutionary army, he replied that it should rather be given to Gen. Andrew Lewis, of whose military abilities he had a high opinion. Lewis was a captain in the Little Meadows affair (1752), and a companion of Washington in Braddock's defeat (1755).] CHAPTER XII. In a fog--The Big Sandy--Rainy weather--Operatic gypsies--An ancient tavern. Ironton, O., Saturday, May 19th.--When we turned in, last night, it was refreshingly cool. Heavy clouds were scurrying across the face of the moon. By midnight, a copious rain was falling, wind-gusts were flapping our roof, and a sudden drop in temperature rendered sadly inadequate all the clothing we could muster into service. We slept late, in consequence, and, after rigging a wind-break with the rubber blankets, during breakfast huddled around the stove which had been brought in to replace Pilgrim under the fly. When, at half-past nine, we pushed off, our houseboat neighbors thrust their heads from the window and waved us farewell. A dense fog hung like a cloud over land and river. There was a stiff north-east wind, which we avoided by seeking the Ohio shore, where the high hills formed a break; there too, the current was swift, and carried us down right merrily. Shattered by the wind, great banks of fog rolled up stream, sometimes enveloping us so as to narrow our view to a radius of a dozen rods,--again, through the rifts, giving us momentary glimpses on the right, of rich green hills, towering dark and steep above us, iridescent with browns, and grays, and many shades of green; of whitewashed cabins, single or in groups, standing out with startling distinctness from sombre backgrounds; of houseboats, many-hued, moored to willowed banks or bolstered high upon shaly beaches; of the opposite bottom, with its corrugated cliff of clay; and, now and then, a slowly-puffing steamboat cautiously feeling its way through the chilling gloom--a monster to be avoided by little Pilgrim and her crew, for the possibility of being run down in a fog is not pleasant to contemplate. On board one of these steamers was a sorry company--apparently a Sunday-school excursion. Children in gala dress huddled in swarms on the lee of the great smoke-stacks, and in imagination we heard their teeth chatter as they glided by us and in another moment were engulfed in the mist. We catch sight for a moment, through a cloud crevasse, of Ceredo, the last town in West Virginia--a small saw-milling community stuck upon the edge of the clay cliff, with the broad level bottom stretching out behind like a prairie. A giant railway bridge here spans the Ohio--a weird, impressive thing, as we sweep under it in the swirling current, and crane our necks to see the great stone piers lose themselves in the cloud. But the Big Sandy River (315 miles), which divides West Virginia and Kentucky, was wholly lost to view. In an opening a few moments later, however, we had a glimpse of the dark line of her valley, below which the hills again descend to the Ohio's bank. Catlettsburg, the first Kentucky town, is at the junction, and extends along the foot of the ridge for a mile or two, apparently not over two blocks wide, with a few outlying shanties on the shoulders of the uplands. Washington was surveying here, on the Big Sandy, in 1770, and entered for one John Fry 2,084 acres round the site of Louisa, a dozen miles up the river; this was the first survey made in Kentucky--but a few months later than Boone's first advent as a hunter on the "dark and bloody ground," and five years before the first permanent settlement in the State. Washington deserves to be remembered as a Kentucky pioneer. We have not only steamers to avoid,--they appear to be unusually numerous about here,--but snags as well. With care, the whereabouts of a steamer can be distinguished as it steals upon us, from the superior whiteness of its column of "exhaust," penetrating the bank of dark gray fog; and occasionally the echoes are awakened by the burly roar of its whistle, which, in times like this, acts as a fog-horn. But the snag is an insidious enemy, not revealing itself until we are within a rod or two, and then there is a quick cry of warning from the stern sheets--"Hard a-port!" or "Starboard, quick!" and only a strong side-pull, aided by W----'s paddle, sends us free from the jagged, branching mass which might readily have swamped poor Pilgrim had she taken it at full tilt. At Ashland, Ky. (320 miles), we stopped for supplies. There are six thousand inhabitants here, with some good buildings and a fine, broad, stone wharf, but it is rather a dingy place. The steamer "Bonanza" had just landed. On the double row of flaggings leading up to the summit of the bank, were two ant-like processions of Kentucky folk--one, leisurely climbing townward with their bags and bundles, the other hurrying down with theirs to the boat, which was ringing its bell, blowing off steam, and in other ways creating an uproar which seemed to turn the heads of the negro roustabouts and draymen, who bustled around with a great chatter and much false motion. The railway may be doing the bulk of the business, but it does it unostentatiously; the steamboat makes far more disturbance in the world, and is a finer spectacle. Dozens of boys are lounging at the wharf foot, watching the lively scene with fascinated eyes, probably every one of them stoutly possessed of an ambition akin to that of my young friend in the Cheshire Bottom. A rain-storm broke the fog--a cold, raw, miserable rain. No clothing we could don appeared to suffice against the chill; and so at last we pitched camp upon the Ohio shore, three miles above the Ironton wharf (325 miles). It is a muddy, dreary nest up here, among the dripping willows. Just behind us on the slope, is the inclined track of the Norfolk & Western railway-transfer, down which trains are slid to a huge slip, and thence ferried over the river into Kentucky; above that, on a narrow terrace, is an ordinary railway line; and still higher, up a slippery clay bank, lies the cottage-strewn bottom which stretches on into Ironton (13,000 inhabitants). We were a sorry-looking party, at lunch this noon, hovering over the smoking stove which was set in the tent door, with a wind-screen in front, and moist bedding hung all about in the vain hope of drying it in the feeble heat. And sorrier still, through the long afternoon, as, each encased in a sleeping-bag, we sat upon our cots circling around the stove, W---- reading to us between chattering teeth from Barrie's _When a Man's Single_. 'Tis good Scottish weather we're having; but somehow our thoughts could not rest on Thrums, and we were, for the nonce, a wee bit miserable. Dinner degenerated into a smoky bite, and then at dusk there was a council of war. The air hangs thick with moisture, our possessions are in various stages from damp to sopping wet, and efforts at drying over the little stove are futile under such conditions. It was demonstrated that there was not bed-clothing enough, in such an emergency as this; indeed, an inspection of that which was merely damp, revealed the fact that but one person could be made comfortable to-night. Our bachelor Doctor volunteered to be that one. So we bade him God-speed, and with toilet bag in hand I led my little family up a tortuous path, so slippery in the rain that we were obliged in our muddy climb to cling to grass-clumps and bushes. And thus, wet and bedraggled, did we sally forth upon the Ironton Bottom, seeking shelter for the night. Fortunately we had not far to seek. A kindly family took us in, despite our gruesome aspect and our unlikely story--for what manner of folk are we, that go trapesing about in a skiff, in such weather as this, coming from nobody knows where and camping o' nights in the muddy river bottoms? Instead of sending us on, in the drenching rain, to a hotel, three miles down the road, or offering us a ticket on the Associated Charities, these blessed people open their hearts and their beds to us, without question, and what more can weary pilgrims pray for? * * * * * Sciotoville, O., Sunday, May 20th.--After breakfast, and settling our modest score, we rejoined the Doctor, and at ten o'clock pulled out again; being bidden good-bye at the landing, by the children of our hostess, who had sent us by them a bottle of fresh milk as a parting gift. It had rained almost continuously, throughout the night. To-day we have a dark gray sky, with fickle winds. A charming color study, all along our path; the reds and grays and yellows of the high clay-banks which edge the reciprocating bottoms, the browns and yellows of hillside fields, the deep greens of forest verdure, the vivid white of bankside cabins, and, in the background of each new vista, bold headlands veiled in blue. W---- and the Boy are in the stern sheets, wrapped in blankets, for there is a smart chill in the air, and we at the oars pull lively for warmth. In our twisting course, sometimes we have a favoring breeze, and the Doctor rears the sail; but it is a brief delight, for the next turn brings the wind in our teeth, and we set to the blades with renewed energy. In the main, we make good time. The sugar-loaf hills, with their castellated escarpments, go marching by with stately sweep. Greenup Court House (334 miles) is a bright little Kentucky county-seat, well-built at the feet of thickly-forested uplands. At the lower end of the village, the Little Sandy enters through a wooded dale, which near the mouth opens into a broad meadow. Not many miles below, is a high sloping beach, picturesquely bestrewn with gigantic boulders which have in ages past rolled down from the hill-tops above. Here, among the rocks, we again set up a rude screen from the still piercing wind; and, each wrapped in a gay blanket, lunch as operatic gypsies might, in a romantic glen, enjoying mightily our steaming chocolate, and the warmth of our friendly stove--for dessert, taking a merry scamper for flowers, over the ragged ascent from whence the boulders came. Everywhere about is the trumpet creeper, but not yet in bloom. The Indian turnip is in blossom here, and so the smaller Solomon's seal, yellow spikes of toad-flax, blue and pink phlox, glossy May apple; high up on the hillside, the fire pink and wintergreen; and, down by the sandy shore, great beds of blue wild lupin, and occasionally stately spikes of the familiar moth mullein. With the temperature falling rapidly, and a drizzling rain taking the starch out of our enthusiasm, we early sought a camping ground. For miles along here, springs ooze from the base of the high clay bank walling in the wide and rocky Ohio beach, and dry spots are few and far between. We found one, however, a half mile above Little Scioto River (346 miles),[A] with drift-wood enough to furnish us for years, and the beach thick-strewn with fossils of a considerable variety of small bivalves, which latter greatly delighted the Doctor and the Boy, who have brought enough specimens to the tent door to stock a college museum. Dinner over, the crew hauled Pilgrim under cover, and within prepared for her sailing-master a cosy bed, with the entire ship's stock of sleeping-bags and blankets. W----, the Boy, and I then started off to find quarters in Sciotoville (1,000 inhabitants), which lies just below the river's mouth, here a dozen rods wide. Scrambling up the slimy bank, through a maze of thorn trees, brambles, and sycamore scrubs, we gained the fertile bottom above, all luscious with tall grasses bespangled with wild red roses and the showy pentstemon. The country road leading into the village is some distance inland, but at last we found it just beyond a patch of Indian corn waist high, and followed it, through a covered bridge, and down to a little hotel at the lower end of town. A quaint, old-fashioned house, the Sciotoville tavern, with an inner gallery looking out into a small garden of peaches, apples, pears, plums, and grapes--a famous grape country this, by the way. In our room, opening from the gallery, is an antique high-post bedstead; everywhere about are similar relics of an early day. In keeping with the air of serene old age, which pervades the hostelry, is the white-haired landlady herself. In well-starched apron, white cap, and gold-rimmed glasses, she benignly sits rocking by the office stove, her feet on the fender, reading Wallace's _Prince of India_; and looking, for all the world, as if she had just stepped out of some old portrait of--well, of a tavern-keeping Martha Washington. [Footnote A: Two miles up the Little Scioto, Pine Creek enters. Perhaps a mile and a half up this creek was, in 1771, a Mingo town called Horse Head Bottom, which cuts some figure in border history as a nest of Indian marauders.] CHAPTER XIII. The Scioto, and the Shawanese--A night at Rome--Limestone--Keels, flats, and boatmen of the olden time. Rome, O., Monday, May 21st.--At intervals through the night, rain fell, and the temperature was but 46° at sunrise. However, by the time we were afloat, the sun was fitfully gleaming through masses of gray cloud, for a time giving promise of a warmer day. Dark shadows rested on the romantic ravines, and on the deep hollows of the hills; but elsewhere over this gentle landscape of wooded amphitheatres, broad green meadows, rocky escarpments, and many-colored fields, light and shade gayly chased each other. Never were the vistas of the widening river more beautiful than to-day. There are saw-mill and fire-brick industries in the little towns, which would be shabby enough in the full glare of day. But they are all glorified in this changing light, which brings out the rich yellows and reds in sharp relief against the gloomy background of the hills, and mellows into loveliness the soft grays of unpainted wood. At the mouth of the Scioto (354 miles), is Portsmouth, O. (15,000 inhabitants), a well-built, substantial town, with good shops. It lies on a hill-backed terrace some forty feet above the level of the neighboring bottoms, which give evidence of being victims of the high floods periodically covering the low lands about the junction of the rivers. Just across the Scioto is Alexandria, and on the Kentucky side of the Ohio can be seen the white hamlet of Springville, at the feet of the dentated hills which here closely approach the river. The country about the mouth of the Scioto has long figured in Western annals. Being a favorite rendezvous for the Shawanese, it naturally became a resort for French and English fur-traders. The principal part of the first Shawanese village--Shannoah Town, in the old journals--was below the Scioto's mouth, on the site of Alexandria; it was the chief town of this considerable tribe, and here Gist was warned back, when in March, 1751, he ventured thus far while inspecting lands for the Ohio Company. Two years later, there was a great--perhaps an unprecedented--flood in the Ohio, the water rising fifty feet above the ordinary level, and destroying the larger part of the Shawanese village. Some of the Indians moved to the Little Miami, and others up the Scioto, where they built, successively, Old and New Chillicothe; but the majority remained, and rebuilt their town on the higher land north of the Scioto, where Portsmouth now stands. An outlying band had had, from before Gist's day, a small town across the Ohio, the site of Springville; and it was here that George Croghan had his stone trading house, which was doubtless, after the manner of the times, a frontier fortress. In the French and Indian war (1758), the Shawanese, tiring of continual conflict, withdrew from their Ohio River settlements to Old (or Upper) Chillicothe, and thus closed the once important fur-trade at the mouth of the Scioto. It was while the Indian town at Portsmouth was still new (1755), that a party of Shawanese brought here a Mrs. Mary Inglis, whom they had captured while upon a scalping foray into Southwestern Virginia. The story of the remarkable escape of this woman, at Big Bone Lick, of her long and terrible flight through the wilderness along the southern bank of the Ohio and up the Great Kanawha Valley, and her final return to home and kindred, who viewed her as one delivered from the grave, is one of the most thrilling in Western history.[A] Although the Shawanese had removed from their villages on the Ohio, they still lived in new towns in the north, within easy striking distance of the great river; and, until the close of the eighteenth century, were a continual source of alarm to those whose business led them to follow this otherwise inviting highway to the continental interior. Flatboats bearing traders, immigrants, and travelers were frequently waylaid by the savages, who exhausted a fertile ingenuity in luring their victims to an ambuscade ashore; and, when not successful in this, would in narrow channels, or when the current swept the craft near land, subject the voyagers to a fierce fusilade of bullets, against which even stout plank barricades proved of small avail. Vanceburgh, Ky. (375 miles), is a little town at the bottom of a pretty amphitheatre of hills. There was a floating photographer there, as we passed, with a gang-plank run out to the shore, and framed specimens of his work hung along the town side of his ample barge. Men with teams were getting wagon-loads of sand from the beach, for building purposes. And, a mile or two down, a floating saw and planing-mill--the "Clipper," which we had seen before, up river--was busied upon logs which were being rolled down the beach from the bank above. There are several such mills upon the river, all seemingly occupied with "tramp work," for there is a deal of logging carried on, in a small and careful way, by farmers living on these wooded hills. Vanceburgh was for the time bathed in sunlight; but, as we continued on our way, a heavy rain-cloud came creeping up over the dark Ohio hills, and, descending, cut off our view, at last lustily pelting us as we sat encased in rubber. We had been in our ponchos most of the day, as much for warmth as for shelter; for there was an all-pervading chill, which the fickle sun, breaking its early promise, had failed to dissipate. Thus, amid showers alternating with sunbeams, we proceeded unto Rome (381 miles). An Ohio village, this Rome, and so fallen from its once proud estate that its postoffice no longer bears the name--it is simply "Stout's," if, in these degenerate days, you would send a letter hither. It was smartly raining, when we put in on the stony beach above Rome. The tent went up in a hurry, and under it the cargo; but by the time all was housed the sun gushed out again, and, stretching a line, we soon had our bedding hung to dry. It is a charming situation; in this melting atmosphere, we have perhaps the most striking effects of cloud, hill, bottom, islands, and glancing river, which have yet been vouchsafed us. The Romans, like most rural folk along the river below Wheeling, chiefly drink cistern water. Earlier in our pilgrimage, we stoutly declined to patronize these rain-water reservoirs, and I would daily go far afield in search of a well; but lately, necessity has driven us to accept the cistern, and often we find it even preferable to the well, on those rare occasions when the latter can be found at villages or farm-houses. But there are cisterns and cisterns--foul holes like that at Rosebud, others that are neatness itself, with all manner of grades between. As for river water, ever yellow with clay, and thick as to motes, much of it is used in the country parts. This morning, a bevy of negroes came down the bank from a Kentucky field; and each in turn, creeping out on a drift log,--for the ground is usually muddy a few feet up from the water's edge,--lay flat on his stomach and drank greedily from the roily mess. At dusk, there was again a damp chill, and for the third time we left the Doctor to keep bachelor's hall upon the beach. It was raining smartly by the time the tavern was reached, nearly a mile down the bank. Our advent caused a rare scurrying to and fro, for two commercial "drummers," who were to depart by the early morning boat, occupied the "reg'lar spar' room," the landlady informed us, and a bit of a cubby-hole off the back stairs had to be arranged for us. Guests are rarities, at the hostelry in Rome. * * * * * Near Ripley, O., Tuesday, May 22nd.--There was an inch of snow last night, on the hills about, and a morning Cincinnati paper records a heavy fall in the Pennsylvania mountains. The storm is general, and the river rose two feet over night. When we set off, in mid-morning, it was raining heavily; but in less than an hour the clouds broke, and the rest of the day has been an alternation of chilling showers and bursts of warm sunshine, with the same succession, of alluring vistas, over which play broad bands of changing light and shade, and overhead the storm clouds torn and tossed in the upper currents. Our landlord at Rome asserted at breakfast that Kentucky was fifty years behind the Ohio side, in improvements of every sort. Thus far, we have not ourselves noticed differences of that degree. Doubtless before the late civil war,--all the ante-bellum travelers agree in this,--when the blight of slavery was resting on Virginia and Kentucky, the south shore of the Ohio was as another country; but to-day, so far as we can ascertain from a surface view, the little villages on either side are equally dingy and woe-begone, and large Southern towns like Wheeling, Parkersburg, Point Pleasant, and Maysville are very nearly an offset to Steubenville, Marietta, Pomeroy, Ironton, and Portsmouth. North-shore towns of wealth and prominence are more numerous than on the Dixie bank, and are as a rule larger and somewhat better kept, with the negro element less conspicuous; but to say that the difference is anywhere near as marked as the landlord averred, or as my own previous reading on the subject led me to expect, is grossly to exaggerate. After leaving Manchester, O. (394 miles), with a beautiful island at its door, there are spasmodic evidences of the nearness of a great city market. A large proportion of the hills are completely denuded of their timber, and patched with rectangular fields of green, brown, and yellow; upon the bottoms there are frequent truck farms; now and then are stone quarries upon the banks, with capacious barges moored in front; and upon one or two rocky ledges were stone-crushers, getting out material for concrete pavements. When we ask the bargemen, in passing, whither their loads are destined, the invariable reply is, "The city"--meaning Cincinnati, still seventy miles away. Limestone Creek (405 miles) occupies a large space in Western story, for so insignificant a stream. It is now not over a rod in width, and at no season can it be over two or three. One finds it with difficulty along the mill-strewn shore of Maysville, Ky., the modern outgrowth of the Limestone village of pioneer days. Limestone, settled four years before Marietta or Cincinnati, was long Kentucky's chief port of entry on the Ohio; immigrants to the new state, who came down the Ohio, almost invariably booked for this point, thence taking stage to Lexington, and travelers in the early day seldom passed it by unvisited. But years before there was any settlement here, the valley of Limestone Creek, which comes gently down from low-lying hills, was regarded as a convenient doorway into Kentucky. When (1776) George Rogers Clark was coming down the river from Pittsburg, with powder given by Patrick Henry, then governor of Virginia, for the defence of Kentucky settlers from British-incited savages, he was chased by the latter, and, putting into this creek, hastily buried the precious cargo on its banks. From here it was cautiously taken overland to the little forts, by relays of pioneers, through a gauntlet of murderous fire. About twenty-five miles from Limestone, too, was another attraction of the early time,--the great Blue Lick sulphur spring; here, in a valley surrounded by wooded hills, formerly congregated great herds of buffalo and deer, which licked the salty earth, and hunters soon learned that this was a royal ground for game. The Battle of the Blue Lick (1782) will ever be famous in the annals of Kentucky. The Ohio was a mighty waterway into the continental interior, in the olden days of Limestone. Its only compeer was the so-called "Wilderness Road," overland through Cumberland Gap--the successor of "Boone's trail," just as Braddock's Road was the outgrowth of "Nemacolin's path." Until several years after the Revolutionary War, the country north of the Ohio was still Indian land, and settlement was restricted to the region south of the river; so that practically all West-going roads from the coast colonies centered either on Fort Pitt or Redstone, or on Cumberland Gap. On the out-going trip, the Wilderness Road was the more toilsome of the two, but it was safer, for the Ohio's banks were beset with thieving and often murdering savages. In returning east, many who had descended the river preferred going overland through the Gap, to painfully pulling up stream through the shallows, with the danger of Indians many times greater than when gliding down the deep current. The distance over the two routes from Philadelphia, was nearly equal, when the windings of the river were taken into account; but the Carolinians and the Georgians found Boone's Wilderness Road the shorter of the two, in their migrations to the promised land of "Ol' Kaintuck." And we should not overlook the fact, that of much importance was still a third route, up the James and down the Great Kanawha; a route whose advantage to Virginia, Washington early saw, and tried in vain to have improved by a canal connecting the two rivers.[B] Even before the opening of the Revolution, the Ohio was the path of a considerable emigration. We have seen Washington going down to the Great Kanawha with his surveying party, in 1770, and finding that settlers were hurrying into the country for a hundred miles below Fort Pitt. By the close of the Revolution, the Ohio was a familiar stream. Pittsburg, from a small trading hamlet and fording-place, had grown by 1785 to have a thousand inhabitants, chiefly supported by boat-building and the Kentucky carrying trade; and boat-yards were common up both the Monongahela and the Youghiogheny, for a distance of sixty miles. Nevertheless, it was not until 1792 that there were regular conveniences for carrying passengers and freight down the Ohio; the emigrant or trader, on arrival at Pittsburg or Redstone, had generally to wait until he could either charter a boat or have one built for him, although sometimes he found a chance "passenger flat" going down.[C] This difficulty in securing river transportation was one of the reasons why the majority chose the Wilderness Road. "The first thing that strikes a stranger from the Atlantic," says Flint (1814), "is the singular, whimsical, and amusing spectacle of the varieties of water-craft, of all shapes and structures." These, Flint, who knew the river well, separates into seven classes: (1) "Stately barges," the size of an Atlantic schooner, with "a raised and outlandish-looking deck;" one of these required a crew of twenty-five to work it up stream. (2) Keel-boats--long, slender, and graceful in form, carrying from fifteen to thirty tons, easily propelled over the shallows, and much used in low water, and in hunting trips to Missouri, Arkansas, and the Red River country. (3) Kentucky flats (or "broad-horns"), "a species of ark, very nearly resembling a New England pig-stye;" these were from forty to a hundred feet in length, fifteen feet in beam, and carried from twenty to seventy tons. Some of these flats were not unlike the house-boats of to-day. "It is no uncommon spectacle to see a large family, old and young, servants, cattle, hogs, horses, sheep, fowls, and animals of all kinds," all embarked on one such bottom. (4) Covered "sleds," ferry-flats, or Alleghany skiffs, carrying from eight to twelve tons. (5) Pirogues, of from two to four tons burthen, "sometimes hollowed from one big tree, or the trunks of two trees united, and a plank rim fitted to the upper part." (6) Common skiffs and dug-outs. (7) "Monstrous anomalies," not classifiable, and often whimsical in design. To these might be added the "floating shops or stores, with a small flag out to indicate their character," so frequently seen by Palmer (1817), and thriftily surviving unto this day, minus the flag. And Hall (1828) speaks of a flat-bottomed row-boat, "twelve feet long, with high sides and roof," carrying an aged couple down the river, they cared not where, so long as they could find a comfortable home in the West, for their declining and now childless years. The first four classes here enumerated, were allowed to drift down stream with the current, being steered by long sweeps hung on pivots. The average speed was about three miles an hour, but the distances made were considerable, from the fact that in the earliest days they were, from fear of Indians, usually kept on the move through day and night,--the crew taking turns at the sweeps, that the craft might not be hung up on shore or entangled in the numerous snags and sawyers. In going up stream, the sweeps served as oars, and in the shallows long pushing-poles were used. As for the boatmen who professionally propelled the keels and flats of the Ohio, they were a class unto themselves--"half horse, half alligator," a contemporary styled them. Rough fellows, much given to fighting, and drunkenness, and ribaldry, with a genius for coarse drollery and stinging repartee. The river towns suffered sadly at the hands of this lawless, dissolute element. Each boat carried from thirty to forty boatmen, and a number of such boats frequently traveled in company. After the Indian scare was over, they generally stopped over night in the settlements, and the arrival of a squadron was certain to be followed by a disturbance akin to those so familiar a few years ago in our Southwest, when the cowboys would undertake to "paint a town red." The boatmen were reckless of life, limb, and reputation, and were often more numerous than those of the villagers who cared to enforce the laws; while there was always present an element which abetted and throve on the vice of the river-men. The result was that mischief, debauchery, and outrage ran riot, and in the inevitable fights the citizens were generally beaten. The introduction of steamboats (1814) soon effected a revolution. A steamer could carry ten times as much as a barge, could go five times as fast, and required fewer men; it traveled at night, quickly passing from one port to another, pausing only to discharge or receive cargo; its owners and officers were men of character and responsibility, with much wealth in their charge, and insisted on discipline and correct deportment. The flatboat and the keel-boat were soon laid up to rot on the banks; and the boatmen either became respectable steamboat hands and farmers, or went into the Far West, where wild life was still possible. Shipment on the river, in the flatboat days, was only during the spring and autumnal floods; although an occasional summer rise, such as we are now getting, would cause a general activity. In the autumn of 1818, Hall reports that three millions of dollars' worth of merchandise were lying on the shores of the Monongahela, waiting for a rise of water to float them to their destination. "The Western merchants were lounging discontentedly about the streets of Pittsburg, or moping idly in its taverns, like the victims of an ague." The steamers did something to alleviate this condition of affairs; but it was not until the coming of railways, to carry goods quickly and cheaply across country to deep-water ports like Wheeling, that permanent relief was felt. But what of the Maysville of to-day? It extends on both sides of Limestone Creek for about two miles along the Kentucky shore, at no point apparently over five squares wide, and for the most part but two or three; for back of it forested hills rise sharply. There is a variety of industries, the business quarter is substantially built, and there are numerous comfortable homes with pretty lawns. On the opposite shore is Aberdeen, where Kentucky swains and lasses, who for one reason or another fail to get a license at home, find marriage made easy--a peaceful, pleasant, white village, with trees a-plenty, and romantic hills shutting out the north wind. We are camped to-night on a picturesque sand-slope, at the foot of a willow-edged bottom, and some seven feet above the river level. We need to perch high, for the storm has been general through the basin, and the Ohio is rising steadily. [Footnote A: See Shaler's _Kentucky_ (Amer. Commonwealth series), Collins's _History of Kentucky_, and Hale's _Trans-Alleghany Pioneers_. Shaler gives the date as 1756; but Hale, a specialist in border annals, makes it 1755.] [Footnote B: See _ante_, p. 126.] [Footnote C: Palmer (1817) paid five dollars for his passage from Pittsburg to Cincinnati (465 miles), without food, and fifty cents per hundred pounds for freight to Marietta. Imlay (1792) says the rate in his time from Pittsburg to Limestone was twenty-five cents per hundred. In 1803, Harris paid four dollars-and-a-half per hundred for freight, by wagon from Baltimore to Pittsburg.] CHAPTER XIV. Produce boats--A dead town--On the Great Bend--Grant's birthplace--The Little Miami--The genesis of Cincinnati. Point Pleasant, O., Wednesday, May 23rd.--The river rose three feet during the night. Steamers go now at full speed, no longer fearing the bars; and the swash upon shore was so violent that I was more than once awakened, each time to find the water line creeping nearer and nearer to the tent door. As we sweep onward to-day, upon an accelerated current, the fringing willows, whose roots before the rise were many feet up the slopes of sand and gravel, are gracefully dipping their boughs in the rushing flood. With the rise, come the sweepings of the beaches--bits of lumber, fallen trees, barrels, boxes, 'longshore rubbish of every sort; sometimes it hangs in ragged rafts, and we steer clear of such, for Pilgrim's progress is greater than that of these unwelcome companions of the voyage, and we wish no entangling alliances. Much tobacco is raised on the rounded, gently-sloping hills below Maysville. Away up on the acclivities, in sheltered spots near the fields in which they are to be transplanted, or in fence-corners in the ever-broadening bottoms, we note white patches of thin cloth pinned down over the young plants to protect them from untoward frosts. There are many tobacco warehouses to be seen along the banks--apparently farmers coöperate in maintaining such; and in front of each, a roadway leads down to the water's edge, indicating a steamboat landing. On the town wharves are often seen portly barrels,--locally, "puncheons,"--filled with the weed, awaiting shipment by boat; most of the product goes to Louisville, but there are also large buyers in the smaller Kentucky towns. Occasionally, to-day, we have seen moored to some rustic landing a great covered barge, quite of the fashion of the golden age of Ohio boating. At one end, a room is partitioned off to serve as cabin, and the sweeps are operated from the roof. These are produce-boats, which are laden with coarse vegetables and sometimes live stock, and floated down to Cincinnati or Louisville, and even to St. Louis and New Orleans. In ante-bellum days, produce-boats were common enough, and much money was made by speculative buyers who would dispose of their cargo in the most favorable port, sell the barge, and then return by rail or steamer; just as, in still earlier days, the keel or flatboat owner would sell both freight and vessel on the Lower Mississippi,--or abandon the craft if he could not sell it,--and "hoof it home," as a contemporary chronicler puts it. Ripley, Levanna (417 miles), Higginsport (421 miles), Chilo (431 miles), Neville (435 miles), and Point Pleasant (442 miles) are the Ohio towns to-day; and Dover (417 miles), Augusta (424 miles), and Foster (435 miles), their rivals on the Kentucky shore. Sawmills and distilleries are the leading industries, and there are broad paved wharves; but a listless air pervades them all, as if once they basked in the light of better days. Foster is rather the shabbiest of the lot. As I passed through to find the postoffice, at the upper edge of town, where the hills come down to meet the bottom, I saw that half of the store buildings still intact were closed, many dwellings and warehouses were in ruins, and numerous open cellars were grown to grass and weeds. Few people were in sight, and they loafing at the corners. The postoffice occupied a vacated store, evidently not swept these six months past. The youthful master, with chair tilted back and his feet on an old washstand which did duty as office table, was listlessly whittling a finger-ring from a peach-stone; but shoving his feet along, he made room for me to write a postal card which I had brought for the purpose. "What is the matter with this town?" I asked, as I scratched away. "Daid, I reck'n!" and he blew away the peach-stone dust which had accumulated in the folds of his greasy vest. "Yes, I see it is dead. What killed it?" "Oh! just gone daid--sort o' nat'ral daith, I reck'n." We had a pretty view this morning, three or four miles below Augusta, from the top of a tree-denuded Kentucky hill, some two hundred and fifty feet high. Hauling Pilgrim into the willows, we set out over a low, cultivated bottom, whose edges were being lapped by the rising river, to the detriment of the springing corn; then scrambling up the terrace on which the Chesapeake & Ohio railway runs, we crawled under a barb-wire fence, and ascended through a pasture, our right of way contested for a moment by a gigantic Berkshire boar, which was not easily vanquished. When at last we gained the top, by dint of clambering over rail-fences and up steep slopes bestrewn with mulleins and boulders, and over patches of freshly-plowed hardscrabble, the sight was well worth the rough climb. The broad Ohio bottom, opposite, was thick-dotted with orchard clumps, from which rose the white houses and barns of small tillers. On the generous slopes of the Kentucky hills, all corrugated with wooded ravines, were scores of fertile farmsteads, each with its ample tobacco shed--the better class of farmers on the hilltops, their buildings often silhouetted against the western sky, and the meaner sort down low on the river's bank. Through this pastoral scene, the broad river winds with noble sweep, until, both above and below, it loses itself in the purple mist of the distant hills. We are now upon the Great Bend of the Ohio, beginning at Neville (435 miles) and ending at Harris's Landing (519 miles), with North Bend (482 miles) at the apex. The bend is itself a series of convolutions, and our point of view is ever changing, so that we have kaleidoscopic vistas,--and with each new setting, good-humoredly dispute with each other, we at the oars, and the others in the stern-sheets, as to which is the more beautiful, the unfolding or the dissolving view. Our camp to-night is beside a little hillside torrent on the lower edge of Point Pleasant. We are well up on the rocky slope; an abandoned stone-quarry lies back of us, up the hill a bit; and leading into the village, half a mile away, is a picturesque country road, overhung with sumacs and honey locusts--overtopped on one side by a precipitous pasture, and on the other dropping suddenly to a beach thick-grown to willows, maples, and scrub sycamores. The Boy and I made an expedition into the town, for milk and water, but were obliged to climb one of the sharpest ascents hereabout, before our search was rewarded. A pretty little farmstead it is, up there on the lofty hill above us, with a wealth of chickens and an ample dairy, and fat fields and woods gently sloping backward into the interior. The good farm-wife was surprised that I was willing to "pack" commodities, so plentiful with her, down so steep a path; but canoeing pilgrims must not falter at trifles such as this. Point Pleasant is the birthplace of General Grant. Not every hamlet has its hero, hereabout. Everyone we met this evening,--seeing we were strangers, the Boy and I,--told us of this halo which crowns their home. * * * * * Cincinnati, Thursday, May 24th.--During the night there were frequent heavy downpours, during which the swollen torrent by our side roared among its boulders right lustily; and occasionally a heavy farm-wagon crossed the country bridge which spans the ravine just above us, its rumblings echoing in the quarried glen for all the world like distant thunder. Before turning in, each built a cairn upon the beach, at the point which he thought the water might reach by morning. The Boy, more venturesome than the rest, piled his cairn highest up the slope; and when daylight revealed the fact that the river, in its four-feet rise, had crept nearest his goal, there was much juvenile rejoicing. There is a gray sky, this morning. With a cold headwind on the starboard quarter, we hug the lee of the Ohio shore. The river is well up in the willows now. Crowding Pilgrim as closely as we may, within the narrow belt of unruffled water, our oars are swept by their bending boughs, which lightly tremble on the surface of the flood. The numerous rock-cumbered ravines, coursing down the hills or through the bottom lands, a few days since held but slender streams, or were, the most of them, wholly dry; but now they are brimming with noisy currents all flecked with foam--pretty pictures, these yawning gullies, overhung with cottonwoods and sycamores, with thick undergrowth of green-brier and wild columbine, and the yellow buds of the celandine poppy. The hills are showing better cultivation, as we approach the great city. The farm-houses are in better style, the market gardens larger, prosperity more evident. Among the pleasing sights are frequent farmsteads at the summits of the slopes, with orchards and vineyards, and gardens and fields, stretching down almost to the river--quite, indeed, on the Ohio side, but in Kentucky flanked at the base by the railway terrace. Numerous ferries connect the Kentucky railway stations with the eastern bank; one, which we saw just above New Richmond, O. (446 miles), was run by horse power, a weary nag in a tread-mill above each side-paddle. Although Kentucky has the railway, there is just here apparent a greater degree of thrift in Ohio--the towns more numerous, fields and truck-gardens more ample, on the whole a better class of farm-houses, and frequently, along the country road which closely skirts the shore, comfortable little broad-balconied inns, dependent on the trade of fishing and outing parties. Just below the Newport waterworks are several coal-barge harbors--mooring-grounds where barges lie in waiting, until hauled off by tugs to the storage wharves. In the rear of one of these fleets, at the base of a market garden, we found a sunny nook for lunch--for here on the Kentucky side the cold wind has full sweep, and we are glad of shelter when at rest. Across the river is a broad, low bottom given up to market gardeners, who jealously cultivate down to the water's edge, leaving the merest fringe of willows to protect their domain. At the foot of this fertile plain, the Little Miami River (460 miles) pours its muddy contribution into the Ohio; and beyond this rises the amphitheater of hills on which Cincinnati (466 miles) is mainly built. We see but the outskirts here, for two miles below us there is a sharp bend in the river, and only a dark pall of smoke marks where the city lies. But these outlying slopes are well dotted with gray and white groups of settlement, separated by stretches of woodland over which play changing lights, for cloud masses are sweeping the Ohio hills while we are still basking in the sun. Above us, crowning the Kentucky ascents, or nestled on their wooded shoulders, are many beautiful villas, evidently the homes of the ultra-wealthy. Close at hand we have the pleasant chink-chink of caulking hammers, for barges are built and repaired in this snug harbor. Now and then a river tug comes, with noisy bluster of smoke and steam, and amid much tightening and slackening of rope, and wild profanity, takes captive a laden barge,--as a cowboy might a refractory steer in the midst of a herd,--and hauls it off to be disgorged down stream. And just as we conclude our lunch, German women come with hoes to practice the gentle art of horticulture--a characteristic conglomeration, in the heart of our busy West; the millionaire on the hill-top, the tiller on the slope, shipwright on the beach, and grimy Commerce master of the flood. Setting afloat on a boiling current, thick with driftwood, we soon were coursing between city-lined shores--on the Kentucky side, Newport and Covington, respectively above and below Licking River; and in an hour were making our way through the labyrinth of steamers thickly moored with their noses to land, and cautiously creeping around to a quiet spot at the stern of a giant wharf-boat--no slight task this, with the river "on the jump," and a false move liable to swamp us if we strike an obstruction at full gait. No doubt we all breathed freer when Pilgrim, too, was beached,--although it be only confessed in the privacy of the log. With her and her cargo safely stored in the wharf-boat, we sought a hotel, and, regaining our bag of clothing,--shipped ahead of us from McKee's Rocks,--donned urban attire for an inspection of the city. And a noble city it is, that has grown out of the two block-houses which George Rogers Clark planted here in 1780, on his raid against the Indians of Chillicothe. In 1788, John Cleves Symmes, the first United States judge of the Northwest Territory, purchased from Congress a million acres of land, lying on the Ohio between the two Miami Rivers. Matthias Denman bought from him a square mile at the eastern end of the grant, "on a most delightful high bank" opposite the Licking, and--on a cash valuation for the land, of two hundred dollars--took in with him as partners Robert Patterson and John Filson. Filson was a schoolmaster, had written the first history of Kentucky, and seems to have enjoyed much local distinction. To him was entrusted the task of inventing a name for the settlement which the company proposed to plant here. The outcome was "Losantiville," a pedagogical hash of Greek, Latin, and French: _L_, for Licking; _os_, mouth; _anti_, opposite; _ville_, city--Licking-opposite-City, or City-opposite-Licking, whichever is preferred. This was in August. The Fates work quickly, for in October poor Filson was scalped by the Indians in the neighborhood of the Big Miami, before a settler had yet been enticed to Losantiville. But the survivors knew how to "boom" a town; lots were given away by lottery to intending actual settlers; and in a few months Symmes was able to write that "It populates considerably." A few weeks previous to the planting of Losantiville, a party of men from Redstone had settled Columbia, at the mouth of the Little Miami, about where the suburb of California now is; and, a few weeks later, a third colony was started by Symmes himself at North Bend, near the Big Miami, at the western extremity of his grant; and this, the judge wished to make the capital of the new Northwest Territory. At first, it was a race between these three colonies. A few miles below North Bend, Fort Finney had been built in 1785-86, hence the Bend had at first the start; but a high flood dampened its prospects, the troops were withdrawn from this neighborhood to Louisville, and in the winter of 1789-90 Fort Washington was built at Losantiville by General Harmar. The neighborhood of the new fortress became, in the ensuing Indian war, the center of the district. To Losantiville, with its fort, came Arthur St. Clair, the new governor of the Northwest Territory (January, 1790); and, making his headquarters here, laid violent hands on Filson's invention, at once changing the name to Cincinnati, in honor of the Society of the Cincinnati, of which the new official was a prominent member--"so that," Symmes sorrowfully writes, "Losantiville will become extinct." Five years of Indian campaigning followed, the features of which were the crushing defeats of Harmar and St. Clair, and the final victory of Mad Anthony Wayne at Fallen Timbers. It was not until the Treaty of Greenville (1795), the result of Wayne's brilliant dash into the wilderness, that the Revolutionary War may properly be said to have ended in the West. Those were stirring times on the Ohio, both ashore and afloat; but, amidst them all, Cincinnati grew apace. Ellicott, in 1796, speaks of it as "a very respectable place," and in 1814, Flint found it the only port that could be called a town, from Steubenville to Natchez, a distance of fifteen hundred miles; in 1825 he reports it greatly grown, and crowded with immigrants from Europe and from our own Eastern states. The impetus thus early gained has never lessened, and Cincinnati is to-day one of the best built and most substantial cities in the Union. CHAPTER XV. The story of North Bend--The "shakes"--Driftwood--Rabbit Hash--A side-trip To Big Bone Lick. Near Petersburg, Ky., Friday, May 25th.--This morning, an hour before noon, as we looked upon the river from the top of the Cincinnati wharf, a wild scene presented itself. The shore up and down, as far as could be seen, was densely lined with packets and freighters; beyond them, the great stream, here half a mile wide, was rushing past like a mill-race, and black with all manner of drift, some of it formed into great rafts from each of which sprawled a network of huge branches. Had we been strangers to this offscouring of a thousand miles of beach, swirling past us at a six-mile gait, we might well have doubted the prudence of launching little Pilgrim upon such a sea. But for two days past, we had been amidst something of the sort, and knew that to cautious canoeists it was less dangerous than it appeared. A strong head wind, meeting this surging tide, is lashing it into a white-capped fury. But lying to with paddle and oars, and dodging ferries and towing-tugs as best we may, Pilgrim bears us swiftly past the long line of steamers at the wharf, past Newport and Covington, and the insignificant Licking,[A] and out under great railway bridges which cobweb the sky. Soon Cincinnati, shrouded in smoke, has disappeared around the bend, and we are in the fast-thinning suburbs--homes of beer-gardens and excursion barges, havens for freight-flats, and villas of low and high degree. When we are out here in the swim, the drift-strewn stream has a more peaceful aspect than when looked at from the shore. Instead of rushing past as if dooming to destruction everything else afloat, the debris falls behind, when we row, for our progress is then the greater. Dropping our oars, our gruesome companions on the river pass us slowly, for they catch less wind than we; and then, so silent the steady march of all, we seem to be drifting up-stream, until on glancing at the shore the hills appear to be swiftly going down and the willow fringes up,--until the sight makes us dizzy, and we are content to be at quits with these optical delusions. We no longer have the beach of gravel or sand, or strip of clay knee-deep in mud. The water, now twelve feet higher than before the rise, has covered all; it is, indeed, swaying the branches of sycamores and willows, and meeting the edges of the corn-fields of venturesome farmers who have cultivated far down, taking the risk of a "June fresh." Often could we, if we wished, row quite within the bulwark of willows, where a week ago we would have ventured to camp. The Kentucky side, to-day, from Covington out, has been thoroughly rustic, seldom broken by settlement; while Ohio has given us a succession of suburban towns all the way out to North Bend (482 miles), which is a small manufacturing place, lying on a narrow bottom at the base of a convolution of gentle, wooded hills. One sees that Cincinnati has a better and a broader base; North Bend was handicapped by nature, in its early race. When Ohio came into the Union (1803), it was specified that the boundary between her and Indiana should be a line running due north from the mouth of the Big Miami. But the latter, an erratic stream, frequently the victim of floods, comes wriggling down to the Ohio through a broad bottom grown thick to willows, and in times of high water its mouth is a changeable locality. The boundary monument is planted on the meridian of what was the mouth, ninety-odd years ago; but to-day the Miami breaks through an opening in the quivering line of willow forest, a hundred yards eastward (487 miles). Garrison Creek is a modest Kentucky affluent, just above the Miami's mouth. At the point, a group of rustics sat on a log at the bank-top, watching us approach. Landing in search of milk and water, I was taken by one of them in a lumbersome skiff a short distance up the creek, and presented to his family. They are genuine "crackers," of the coarsest type--tall, lean, sallow, fishy-eyed, with tow-colored hair, an ungainly gait, barefooted, and in nondescript clothing all patches and tatters. The tousle-headed woman, surrounded by her copies in miniature, keeps the milk neatly, in an outer dairy, perhaps because of market requirements; but in the crazy old log-house, pigs and chickens are free comers, and the cistern from which they drink is foul. Here in this damp, low pocket of a bottom, annually flooded to the door-sill, in the midst of vegetation of the rankest order, and quite unheedful of the simplest of sanitary laws, these yellow-skinned "crackers" are cradled, wedded, and biered. And there are thousands like unto them, for we are now in the heart of the "shake" country, and shall hear enough of the plague through the remainder of our pilgrimage. As for ourselves, we fear not, for it is not until autumn that danger is imminent, and we are taking due precaution under the Doctor's guidance. Two miles beyond, is the Indiana town of Lawrenceburg, with the unkempt aspect so common to the small river places; and two miles still farther, on a Kentucky bottom, Petersburg, whose chiefest building, as viewed from the stream, is a huge distillery. On a high sandy terrace, a mile or so below, we pitch our nightly camp. All about are willows, rustling musically in the evening breeze, and, soaring far aloft, the now familiar sycamores. Nearly opposite, in Indiana, the little city of Aurora is sparkling with points of light, strains of dance music reach us over the way, and occasional shouts and gay laughter; while now and then, in the thickening dusk of the long day, we hear skiffs go chucking by from Petersburg way, and the gleeful voices of men and women doubtless being ferried to the ball. * * * * * Near Warsaw, Ky., Saturday, May 26th.--Our first mosquito appeared last night, but he was easily slaughtered. It has been a comfort to be free, thus far, from these pests of camp life. We had prepared for them by laying in a bolt of black tarlatan at Wheeling,--greatly superior this, to ordinary white mosquito bar,--but thus far it has remained in the shopman's wrapper. The fog this morning was of the heaviest. At 4 o'clock we were awakened by the sharp clanging of a pilot's signal bell, and there, poking her nose in among our willows, a dozen feet from the tent, was the "Big Sandy," one of the St. Louis & Cincinnati packet line. She had evidently lost her bearings in the mist; but with a deal of ringing, and a noisy churning of the water by the reversed paddle-wheel, pulled out and disappeared into the gloom. The river, still rising, is sweeping down an ever-increasing body of rubbish. Islands and beaches, away back to the Alleghanies on the main stream, and on thousands of miles of affluents, are yielding up those vast rafts of drift-wood and fallen timber, which have continually impressed us on our way with a sense of the enormous wastage everywhere in progress--necessary, of course, in view of the prohibitive cost of transportation. Nevertheless, one thinks pitifully of the tens of thousands who, in congested districts, each winter suffer unto death for want of fuel; and here is this wealth of forest debris, the useless plaything of the river. But not only wreckage of this character is borne upon the flood. The thievish river has picked up valuable saw-logs that have run astray, lumber of many sorts, boxes, barrels--and now and then the body of a cow or horse that has tumbled to its death from some treacherous clay-cliff or rocky terrace. The beaches have been swept clean by the rushing flood, of whatever lay upon them, be it good or bad, for the great scavenger exercises no discretion. The bulk of the matter now follows the current in an almost solid raft, as it caroms from shore to shore. Having swift water everywhere at this stage, for the most part we avoid entangling Pilgrim in the procession, but row upon the outskirts, interested in the curious medley, and observant of the many birds which perch upon the branches of the floating trees and sing blithely on their way. The current bears hard upon the Aurora beach, and townsfolk by scores are out in skiffs or are standing by the water's edge, engaged with boat-hooks in spearing choice morsels from the debris rushing by their door--heaping it upon the shore to dry, or gathering it in little rafts which they moor to the bank. It is a busy scene; the wreckers, men, women, and children alike, are so engaged in their grab-bag game that they have no eyes for us; unobserved, we watch them at close range, and speculate upon their respective chances. Rabbit Hash, Ky. (502 miles), is a crude hamlet of a hundred souls, lying nestled in a green amphitheater. A horse-power ferry runs over to the larger village of Rising Sun, its Indiana neighbor. There is a small general store in Rabbit Hash, with postoffice and paint-shop attachment, and near by a tobacco warehouse and a blacksmith shop, with a few cottages scattered at intervals over the bottom. The postmaster, who is also the storekeeper and painter, greeted me with joy, as I deposited with him mail-matter bearing eighteen cents' worth of stamps; for his is one of those offices where the salary is the value of the stamps cancelled. It is not every day that so liberal a patron comes along. "Jemimi! Bill! but guv'm'nt business 's look'n' up--there'll be some o' th' rest o' us a-want'n this yere off'c', a ter nex' 'lection, I reck'n'." It was the blacksmith, who is also the ferryman, who thus bantered the delighted postmaster,--a broad-faced, big-chested, brown-armed man, with his neck-muscles standing out like cords, and his mild blue eyes dancing with fun, this rustic disciple of Tubal Cain. He sat just without the door, leather apron on, and his red shirt-sleeves rolled up, playing checkers on an upturned soap-box, with a jolly fat farmer from the hill-country, whose broad straw hat was cocked on the back of his bald head. The merry laughter of the two was infectious. The half-dozen spectators, small farmers whose teams and saddle-horses were hitched to the postoffice railing, were themselves hilarious over the game; and a saffron-skinned, hollow-cheeked woman in a blue sunbonnet, and with a market-basket over her arm, stopped for a moment at the threshold to look on, and then passed within the store, her eyes having caught the merriment, although her facial muscles had apparently lost their power of smiling. Joining the little company, I found that the farmer was a blundering player, but made up in fun what he lacked in science. I tried to ascertain the origin of the name Rabbit Hash, as applied to the hamlet. Every one had a different opinion, evidently invented on the spur of the moment, but all "'lowed" that none but the tobacco agent could tell, and he was off in the country for the day; as for themselves, they had, they confessed, never thought of it before. It always had been Rabbit Hash, and like enough would be to the end of time. We are on the lookout for Big Bone Creek, wishing to make a side trip to the famous Big Bone Lick, but among the many openings through the willows of the Kentucky shore we may well miss it, hence make constant inquiry as we proceed. There was a houseboat in the mouth of one goodly affluent. As we hove in sight, a fat woman, whose gunny-sack apron was her chief attire, hurried up the gang-plank and disappeared within. "Hello, the boat!" one of us hailed. The woman's fuzzy head appeared at the window. "What creek is this?" "Gunpowder, I reck'n!"--in a deep, man-like voice. "How far below is Big Bone?" "Jist a piece!" "How many miles?" "Two, I reck'n." Big Bone Creek (512 miles), some fifty or sixty feet wide at the mouth, opens through a willow patch, between pretty, sloping hills. A houseboat lay just within--a favorite situation for them, these creek mouths, for here they are undisturbed by steamer wakes, and the fishing is usually good. The proprietor, a rather distinguished-looking mulatto, despite his old clothes and plantation straw-hat, was sitting in a chair at his cabin door, angling; his white wife was leaning over him lovingly, as we shot into the scene, but at once withdrew inside. This man, with his side-whiskers and fine air, may have been a head-waiter or a dance-fiddler in better days; but his soft, plaintive voice, and hacking cough, bespoke the invalid. He told us what he knew about the creek, which was little enough, as he had but recently come to these parts. At an ordinary stage in the Ohio, the Big Bone cannot be ascended in a skiff for more than half a mile; now, upon the backset, we are able to proceed for two miles, leaving but another two miles of walking to the Lick itself. The creek curves gracefully around the bases of the sugar-loaf hills of the interior. Under the swaying arch of willows, and of ragged, sprawling sycamores, their bark all patched with green and gray and buff and white, we have charming vistas--the quiet water, thick grown with aquatic plants; the winding banks, bearing green-dragons and many another flower loving damp shade; the frequent rocky palisades, oozing with springs; and great blue herons, stretching their long necks in wonder, and then setting off with a stately flight which reminds one of the cranes on Japanese ware. Through the dense fringe of vegetation, we have occasional glimpses of the hillside farms--their sloping fields sprinkled with stones, their often barren pastures, numerous abandoned tracts overgrown with weeds, and blue-grass lush in the meadows. Along the edges of the Creek, and in little pocket bottoms, the varied vegetation has a sub-tropical luxuriance, and in this now close, warm air, there is a rank smell suggestive of malaria. These bottoms are annually overflowed, so that the crude little farmsteads are on the rising ground--whitewashed cabins, many of them of logs, serve as houses; for stock, there are the veriest shanties, affording practically no shelter; best of all, the rude tobacco-drying sheds, in many of which some of last year's crop can still be seen, hanging on the strips. We are out of the world, here; and barefooted men and boys, who with listless air are fishing from the banks, gaze at us in dull wonder as we thread our tortuous way. Finally, we learned that we could with profit go no higher. Before us were two miles of what was described as the roughest sort of hill road, and the afternoon sun was powerful; so W---- accepted the invitation of a rustic fisherman to rest with his "women folks" in a little cabin up the hill a bit. Seeing her safely housed with the good-natured "cracker" farm-wife, the Doctor, the Boy, and I trudged off toward Big Bone Lick. The waxy clay of the roadbed had recently been wetted by a shower; the walking, consequently, was none of the best. But we were repaid with charming views of hill and vale, a softly-rolling scene dotted with little gray and brown fields, clumps of woodland, rail-fenced pastures, and cabins of the crudest sort--for in the autumn-tide, the curse of malaria haunts the basin of the Big Bone, and none but he of fortune spurned would care here in this beauty-spot to plant his vine and fig-tree. Now and then our path leads us across the winding creek, which in these upper reaches tumbles noisily over ledges of jagged rock, above which luxuriant sycamores, and elms, and maples arch gracefully. At each picturesque fording-place, with its inevitable watering-pool, are stepping-stones for foot pilgrims; often a flock of geese are sailing in the pool, with craned necks and flapping wings hissing defiance to disturbers of their sylvan peace. The travelers we meet are on horseback--most of them the yellow-skinned, hollow-cheeked folk, with lack-luster eyes, whom we note in the cabin doors, or dawdling about their daily routine. On nearing the Lick, two young horsewomen, out of the common, look interestedly at us, and I stop to inquire the way, although the village spire is peering above the tree-tops yonder. Pretty, buxom, sweet-faced lassies, these, with soft, pleasant voices, each with her market-basket over her arm, going homeward from shopping. It would be interesting to know their story--what it is that brings these daughters of a brighter world here into this valley of the living death. Two hundred yards farther, where the road forks, and the one at the right hand ascends to the small hamlet of Big Bone Lick, there is an interesting picture beneath the way-post: a girl in a blue calico gown, her face deep hidden in her red sunbonnet, sits upon a chestnut mount, with a laden market-basket before her; while by her side, astride a coal-black pony, which fretfully paws to be on his way, is a roughly dressed youth, his face shaded by a broad slouched hat of the cowboy order. They have evidently met there by appointment, and are so earnestly conversing--she with her hand resting lovingly, perhaps deprecatingly, upon his bridle-arm, and his free hand nervously stroking her horse's mane, while his eyes are far afield--that they do not observe us as we pass; and we are free to weave from the incident any sort of cracker romance which fancy may dictate. The source of Big Bone Creek is a marshy basin some fifty acres in extent, rimmed with gently-sloping hills, and freely pitted with copious springs of a water strongly sulphurous in taste, with a suggestion of salt. The odor is so powerful as to be all-pervading, a quarter of a mile away, and to be readily detected at twice that distance. This collection of springs constitutes Big Bone Lick, probably the most famous of the many similar licks in Kentucky, Indiana, and Illinois. The salt licks of the Ohio basin were from the earliest times resorted to in great numbers by wild beasts, and were favorite camping-grounds for Indians, and for white hunters and explorers. This one was first visited by the French as early as 1729, and became famous because of the great quantities of remains of animals which lay all over the marsh, particularly noticeable being the gigantic bones of the extinct mammoth--hence the name adopted by the earliest American hunters, "Big Bone." These monsters had evidently been mired in the swamp, while seeking to lick the salty mud, and died in their tracks. Pioneer chronicles abound in references to the Lick, and we read frequently of hunting-parties using the ribs of the mammoth for tent poles, and sections of the vertebræ as camp stools and tables. But in our own day, there are no surface evidences of this once rich treasure of giant fossils; although occasionally a "find" is made by enterprising excavators,--several bones having thus been unearthed only a week ago. They are now on exhibition in the neighboring village, preparatory to being shipped to an Eastern museum. As we hurried back over the rolling highway, thunder-clouds grandly rose out of the west, and great drops of rain gave us moist warning of the coming storm. W---- was watching us from the cabin door, as we made the last turning in the road, and, accompanied by the farm-wife and her two daughters, came tripping down to the landing. She had been entertained in the one down-stairs room, as royally as these honest cracker women-folk knew how; seated in the family rocking-chair, she had heard in those two hours the social gossip of a wide neighborhood; learned, too, that the cold, wet weather of the last fortnight had killed turkey-chicks and goslings by the score; heard of the damage being done to corn and tobacco, by the prevalent high water; was told how Bess and Brindle fared, off in the rocky pasture which yields little else than mulleins; and how far back Towser had to go, to claim relationship to a collie. "And weren't we really show-people, going down the river this way, in a skiff? or, if we weren't show-people, had we an agency for something? or, were we only in trade?" It seems a difficult task to make these people on the bottoms believe that we are skiffing it for pleasure--it is a sort of pleasure so far removed from their notions of the fitness of things; and so at last we have given up trying, and let them think of our pilgrimage what they will. The entire family now assembled on the muddy bank, and bade us a really affectionate farewell, as if we had been, in this isolated corner of the world, most welcome guests who were going all too soon. In a few strokes of the oars we were rounding the bend; and waving our hands at the little knot of watchers, went forth from their lives, doubtless forever. The storm soon burst upon us in full fury. Clad in rubber, we rested under giant trees, or beneath projecting rock ledges, taking advantage of occasional lulls to push on for a few rods to some new shelter. The numerous little hillside runs which, in our journey up, were but dry gullies choked with leaves and boulders, were now brimming with muddy torrents, rushing all foam-flecked and with deafening roar into the central stream. At last the cloud curtain rolled away, the sun gushed out with fiery rays, the arch of foliage sparkled with splendor--in meadow and on hillside, the face of Nature was cleanly beautiful. At the creek mouth, the distinguished mulatto still was fishing from his chair, and standing by his side was his wife throwing a spoon. They nodded to us pleasantly, as old friends returned. Gliding by their boat, Pilgrim was soon once more in the full current of the swift-flowing Ohio. We are high up to-night, on a little grass terrace in Kentucky, two miles above Warsaw. The usual country road lies back of us, a rod or two, and then a slender field surmounted by a woodland hill. Fortune favors us, almost nightly, with beautiful abiding-places. In no place could we sleep more comfortably than in our cotton home. [Footnote A: So called from the Big Buffalo Lick, upon its banks.] CHAPTER XVI. New Switzerland--An old-time river pilot--Houseboat life, on the lower reaches--A philosopher in rags--Wooded solitudes--Arrival at Louisville. Near Madison, Ind., Sunday, May 27th.--At supper last night, a houseboat fisherman, going by in his skiff, parted the willows fringing our beach, and offered to sell us some of his wares. We bought from him a two-pound catfish, which he tethered to a bush overhanging the water, until we were ready to dress it; giving us warning, that meanwhile it would be best to have an eye on our purchase, or the turtles would devour it. Hungry thieves, these turtles, the fisherman said; you could leave nothing edible in water or on land, unprotected, without constant fear of the reptiles--which reminds me that yesterday the Doctor and the Boy found on the beach a beautiful box tortoise. Our fish was swimming around finely, at the end of his cord, when the executioner arrived, and when finally hung up in a tree was safe from the marauders. This morning the fisherman was around again, hoping to obtain another dime from the commissariat; but though we had breakfasted creditably from the little "cat," we had no thought of stocking our larder with his kind. So the grizzly man of nets took a fresh chew of tobacco, and sat a while in his boat, "pass'n' th' time o' day" with us, punctuating his remarks with frequent expectorations. The new Kentucky houseboat law taxes each craft of this sort seven-and-a-half dollars, he said: five dollars going to the State, and the remainder to the collector. There was to be a patrol boat, "to see that th' fellers done step to th' cap'n's office an' settle." But the houseboaters were going to combine and fight the law on constitutional grounds, for they had been told that it was clearly an interference with commerce on a national highway. As for the houseboaters voting--well, some of them did, but the most of them didn't. The Indiana registry law requires a six months' residence, and in Kentucky it is a full year, so that a houseboat man who moves about any, "jes' isn't in it, sir, thet's all." However, our visitor was not much disturbed over the practical disfranchisement of his class--it seemed, rather, to amuse him; he was much more concerned in the new tax, which he thought an outrageous imposition. In bidding us a cheery good-bye, he noticed my kodak. "Yees be one o' them photygraph parties, hey?" and laughed knowingly, as though he had caught me in a familiar trick. No child of nature so simple, in these days, as not to recognize a kodak. Warsaw, Ky. (524 miles), just below, has some bankside evidences of manufacturing, but on the whole is rather down at the heel. A contrast this, to Vevay (533 miles), on the Indiana shore, which, though a small town on a low-lying bottom, is neat and apparently prosperous. Vevay was settled in 1803, by John James Dufour and several associates, from the District of Vevay, in Switzerland, who purchased from Congress four square miles hereabout, and, christening it New Switzerland, sought to establish extensive vineyards in the heart of this middle West. The Swiss prospered. The colony has had sufficient vitality to preserve many of its original characteristics unto the present day. Much of the land in the neighborhood is still owned by the descendants of Dufour and his fellows, but the vineyards are not much in evidence. In fact, the grape-growing industry on the banks of the Ohio, although commenced at different points with great promise, by French, Swiss, Germans, and Americans alike, has not realized their expectations. The Ohio has proved to be unlike the Rhine in this respect. In the long run, the vine in America appears to fare better in a more northern latitude. Three miles above Vevay, near Plum Creek, I was interested in the Indiana farm upon which Heathcoat Picket settled in 1795--some say in 1790. In his day, Picket was a notable flatboat pilot. He was credited with having conducted more craft down the river to New Orleans, than any other man of his time--going down on the boat, and returning on foot. It is said that he made over twenty trips of this character, which is certainly a marvelous record at a time when there were only Indian trails through the more than a thousand miles of dense forest between Vevay and New Orleans, and when a savage enemy might be expected to lurk behind any tree, ready to slay the rash pale-face. Picket's must have been a life of continuous adventure, as thrilling as the career of Daniel Boone himself; yet he is now known to but a local antiquarian or two, and one stumbles across him only in foot-notes. The border annals of the West abound with incidents as romantic as any which have been applauded by men. Daniel Boone is not the only hero of the frontier; he is not even the chief hero,--he is but a type, whom an accident of literature has made conspicuous. The Kentucky River (541 miles) enters at Carrollton, Ky.,--a well-to-do town, with busy-looking wharves upon both streams,--through a wide and rather uninteresting bottom. But, over beyond this, one sees that it has come down through a deep-cut valley, rimmed with dark, rolling hills, which speak eloquently of a diversified landscape along its banks. The Indian Kentucky, a small stream but half-a-dozen rods wide, enters from the north, five miles below--"Injun Kaintuck," it was called by a jovial junk-boat man stationed at the mouth of the tributary. There are, on the Ohio, several examples of this peculiar nomenclature: a river enters from the south, and another affluent coming in from the north, nearly opposite, will have the same name with the prefix "Indian." The reason is obvious; the land north of the Ohio remained Indian territory many years after Kentucky and Virginia were recognized as white man's country, hence the convenient distinction--the river coming in from the north, near the Kentucky, for instance, became "Indian Kentucky," and so on through the list. Houseboats are less frequent, in these reaches of the river. The towns are fewer and smaller than above; consequently there is less demand for fish, or for desultory labor. Yet we seldom pass a day, in the most rustic sections, without seeing from half-a-dozen to a dozen of these craft. Sometimes they are a few rods up the mouths of tributaries, half hidden by willows and overhanging sycamores; or, in picturesque little openings of the willow fringe along the main shore; or, boldly planted at the base of some rocky ledge. At the towns, they are variously situated: in the water, up the beach a way, or high upon the bottom, whither some great flood has carried them in years gone by. Occasionally, when high and dry upon the land, they have a bit of vegetable garden about them, rented for a time from the farmer; but, even with the floaters, chickens are commonly kept, generally in a coop on the roof, connected with the shore by a special gang-plank for the fowls; and the other day, we saw a thrifty houseboater who had several colonies of bees. There was a rise of only two feet, last night; evidently the flood is nearly at its greatest. We are now twenty feet above the level of ten days ago, and are frequently swirling along over what were then sharp, stony slopes, and brushing the topmost boughs of the lower lines of willows and scrub sycamores. Thus we have a better view of the country; and, approaching closely to the banks, can from our seats at any time pluck blue lupine by the armful. It thrives mightily on these gravelled shores, and so do the bignonia vine, the poison ivy, and the Virginia creeper. The hills are steeper, now, especially in Indiana; many of them, although stony, worked-out, and almost worthless, are still, in patches, cultivated to the very top; but for the most part they are clothed in restful green. Overhead, in the summer haze, turkey-buzzards wheel gracefully, occasionally chased by audacious hawks; and in the woods, we hear the warble of song-birds. Shadowy, idle scenes, these rustic reaches of the lower Ohio, through which man may dream in Nature's lap, all regardless of the workaday world. It was early evening when we passed Madison, Ind. (553 miles), a fairly-prosperous factory town of about twelve thousand souls. Scores of the inhabitants were out in boats, collecting driftwood; and upon the wharf was a great crowd of people, waiting for an excursion boat which was to return them to Louisville, whence they had come for a day's outing. It was a lifeless, melancholy party, as excursion folk are apt to be at the close of a gala day, and they wearily stared at us as we paddled past. Just below, on the Kentucky shore, on my usual search for milk and water, I landed at a cluster of rude cottages set in pleasant market gardens. While the others drifted by with Pilgrim, I had a goodly walk before finding milk, for a cow is considered a luxury among these small riverside cultivators; the man who owns one sells milk to his poorer neighbors. Such a nabob was at last found. The animal was called down from the rocky hills, by her barefooted owner, who, lank and malaria-skinned, leaned wearily against the well-curb, while his wife, also guiltless of hose and shoes, milked into my pail direct from the lean and hungry brindle. By the time the crew were reunited, storm-clouds, thick and black, were fast rising in the west. Scudding down shore for a mile, with oars and paddle aiding the swift current, we failed to find a proper camping-place on the muddy bank of the far-stretching bottom. Rain-drops were now pattering on our rubber spreads, and it was evident that a blow was coming; but despite this, we bent to the work with renewed vigor, and shot across to the lee shore of Indiana--finally landing in the midst of a heavy shower, and hurriedly pitching tent on a rocky slope at the base of a vertical bank of clay. Above us, a government beacon shines brightly through the persistent storm, with the keeper's neat little house and garden a hundred yards away. In the tree-tops, up a heavily-forested hill beyond, the wind moans right dismally. In this sheltered nook, we shall be but lulled to sleep with the ceaseless pelting of the rain. * * * * * Louisville, Monday, May 28th.--At midnight, the heavens cleared, with a cold north wind; the early morning atmosphere was nipping, and we were glad of the shelter of the tent during breakfast. The river fell eight inches during the night, and on either bank is a muddy strip, which will rapidly widen as the water goes down. Below us, twenty rods or so, moored to the boulder-strewn shore, was a shanty-boat. In the bustle of landing, last night, we had not noticed this neighbor, and it was pitch-dark before we had time to get our bearings. I think it is the most dilapidated affair we have seen on the river--the frame of the cabin is out of plumb, old clothes serve for sides and flap loudly in the wind; while two little boys, who peered at us through slits in the airy walls, looked fairly miserable with cold. The proprietor of the craft came up to visit us, while breakfast was being prepared, and remained until we were ready to depart--a tall, slouchy fellow, clothed in shreds and patches; he was in the prime of life, with a depressed nose set in a battered, though not unpleasant countenance. None of our party had ever before seen such garments on a human being--old bits of flannel, frayed strips of bagging-stuff, and other curious odds and ends of fabrics, in all the primitive colors, the whole roughly basted together with sack-thread. He was a philosopher, was this rag-tag-and-bob-tail of a man, a philosopher with some mother-wit about him. For an hour, he sat on his haunches, crouching over our little stove, and following with cat-like care W----'s every movement in the culinary art; she felt she was under the eye of a critic who, though not voicing his opinions, looked as if he knew a thing or two. As a conversationist, our visitor was fluent to a fault. It required but slight urging to draw him out. His history, and that of his fathers for three generations back, he recited in much detail. He himself had, in his best days, been a sub-contractor in railway construction; but fate had gone against him, and he had fallen to the low estate of a shanty-boatman. His wife had "gone back on him," and he was left with two little boys, whom he proposed to bring up as gentlemen--"yaas, sir-r, gen'lem'n, yew hear me! ef I _is_ only a shanty-boat feller!" "I thote I'd come to visit uv ye," he had said by way of introduction; "ye're frum a city, ain't yer? Yaas, I jist thote hit. City folks is a more 'com'dat'n' 'n country folks. Why? Waal, yew fellers jist go back 'ere in th' hills away, 'n them thar country folks they'd hardly answer ye, they're thet selfish-like. Give me city folks, I say, fer get'n' long with!" And then, in a rambling monologue, while chewing a straw, he discussed humanity in general, and the professions in particular. "I ain't got no use fer lawyers--mighty hard show them fellers has, fer get'n' to heaven. As fer doctors--waal, they'll hev hard sledd'n, too; but them fellers has to do piles o' dis'gree'bl' work, they do; I'd jist rather fish fer a liv'n', then be a doctor! Still, sir-r, give me an eddicated man every time, says I. Waal, sir-r, 'n' ye hear me, one o' th' richest fellers right here in Madison, wuz born 'n' riz on a shanty-boat, 'n' no mistake. He jist done pick up his eddication from folks pass'n' by, jes' as yew fellers is a passin', 'n' they might say a few wuds o' information to him. He done git a fine eddication jes' thet way, 'n' they ain't no flies on him, these days, when money-gett'n' is 'roun'. Jes' noth'n' like it, sir-r! Eddication does th' biz!" An observant man was this philosopher, and had studied human nature to some purpose. He described the condition of the poor farmers along the river, as being pitiful; they had no money to hire help, and were an odd lot, anyway--the farther back in the hills you get, the worse they are. He loved to talk about himself and his lowly condition, in contrast with his former glory as a sub-contractor on the railway. When a man was down, he said, he lost all his friends--and, to illustrate this familiar phase of life, told two stories which he had often read in a book that he owned. They were curious, old-fashioned tales of feudal days, evidently written in a former century,--he did not know the title of the volume,--and he related them in what evidently were the actual words of the author: a curious recitation, in the pedantic literary style of the ancient story-teller, but in the dialect of an Ohio-river "cracker." His greatest ambition, he told us, was to own a floating sawmill; although he carefully inquired about the laws regulating peddlers in our State, and intimated that sometime he might look us up in that capacity, in our Northern home. As we approach Louisville to-day, the settlements somewhat increase in number, although none of the villages are of great size; and, especially in Kentucky, they are from ten to twenty miles apart. The fine hills continue close upon our path until a few miles above Louisville, when they recede, leaving on the Kentucky side a broad, flat plain several miles square, for the city's growth. For the most part, these stony slopes are well wooded with elm, buckeye, maple, ash, oak, locust, hickory, sycamore, cotton-wood, a few cedars, and here and there a catalpa and a pawpaw giving a touch of tropical luxuriance to the hillside forest; while blackberry bushes, bignonia vines, and poison ivy, are everywhere abundant; otherwise, there is little of interest to the botanist. Redbirds, catbirds, bluebirds, blackbirds, and crows are chattering noisily in the trees, and turkey-buzzards everywhere swirl and swoop in mid-air. The narrow little bottoms are sandy; and on lowland as well as highland there is much poor, rock-bewitched soil. The little whitewashed farmsteads look pretty enough in the morning haze, lying half hid in forest clumps; but upon approach they invariably prove unkempt and dirty, and swarming with shiftless, barefooted, unhealthy folk, whom no imagination can invest with picturesque qualities. Their ragged, unpainted tobacco-sheds are straggling about, over the hills; and here and there a white patch in the corner of a gray field indicates a nursery of tobacco plants, soon to be transplanted into ampler soil. It is not uncommon to find upon a hillside a freshly-built log-cabin, set in the midst of a clearing, with bristling stumps all around, reminding one of the homes of new settlers on the far-away logging-streams of Northern Wisconsin or Minnesota; the resemblance is the closer, for such notches cut in the edge of the Indiana and Kentucky wilderness are often found after a row of many miles through a winding forest solitude apparently but little changed from primeval conditions. Now and then we come across quarries, where stone is slid down great chutes to barges which lie moored by the rocky bank; and frequently is the stream lined with great boulders, which stand knee-deep in the flood that eddies and gurgles around them. On the upper edge of the great Louisville plain, we pitched tent in the middle of the afternoon; and, having brought our bag of land-clothes with us in the skiff, from Cincinnati, took turns under the canvas in effecting what transformation was desirable, preparatory to a visit in the city. In the early twilight we were floating past Towhead Island, with its almost solid flank of houseboats, threading our way through a little fleet of pleasure yachts, and at last shooting into the snug harbor of the Boat Club. The good-natured captain of the U. S. Life Saving Station took Pilgrim and her cargo in charge for the night, and by dusk we were bowling over metropolitan pavements _en route_ to the house of our friend--strange contrast, this lap of luxury, to the soldier-like simplicity of our canvas home. We have been roughing it for so long,--less than a month, although it seems a year,--that all these conveniences of civilization, these social conventionalities, have to us a sort of foreign air. Thus easily may man descend into the savage state. CHAPTER XVII. Storied Louisville--Red Indians and white--A night on Sand Island--New Albany--Riverside hermits--The river falling--A deserted village--An ideal camp. Sand Island, Tuesday, May 29th.--Our Louisville host is the best living authority on the annals of his town. It was a delight and an inspiration to go with him, to-day, the rounds of the historic places. Much that was to me heretofore foggy in Louisville story was made clear, upon becoming familiar with the setting. The contention is made that La Salle was here at the Falls of the Ohio, during the closing months of 1669; but it was over a century later, under British domination, before a settlement was thought of. Dr. John Connolly entertained a scheme for founding a town at the Falls, but Lord Dunmore's War (1774), and the Revolution quickly following, combined to put an end to it; so that when George Rogers Clark arrived on the scene with his little band of Virginian volunteers (May, 1778), en route to capture the Northwest for the State of Virginia, he found naught but a savage-haunted wilderness. His log fort on Corn Island, in the midst of the rapids, served as a base of military operations, and was the nucleus of American settlement, although later the inhabitants moved to the mainland, and founded Louisville. The falls at Louisville are the only considerable obstruction to Ohio-River navigation. At an average stage, the descent is but twenty-seven feet in two-and-a-half miles; in high flood, the rapids degenerate into merely swift water, without danger to descending craft. At ordinary height, it was the custom of pioneer boatmen, in descending, to lighten their craft of at least a third of the cargo, and thus pass them down to the foot of the north-side portage (Clarksville, Ind.), which is three-quarters of a mile in length; going up, lightened boats were towed against the stream. With the advent of larger craft, a canal with locks became necessary--the Louisville and Portland Canal of to-day, which is operated by the general government. The action of the water, hastened by the destruction of trees whose roots originally bound the loose soil, has greatly worn the islands in the rapids. Little is now left of historic Corn Island, and that little is, at low water, being blasted and ground into cement by a mill hard by on the main shore. To-day, with a flood of nearly twenty feet above the normal stage of the season, not much of the island is visible,--clumps of willows and sycamores, swayed by the rushing current, giving a general idea of the contour. Goose Island, although much smaller than in Clark's day, is a considerable tract of wooded land, with a rock foundation. Clark was once its owner, his home being opposite on the Indiana shore, where he had a fine view of the river, the rapids, and the several islands. As for Clarksville, somewhat lower down, and back from the river a half mile, it is now but a cluster of dwellings on the outskirts of New Albany, a manufacturing town which is rapidly absorbing all the neighboring territory. Feeling obliged to make an early start, we concluded to pass the night just below the canal on Sand Island, lying between New Albany and Louisville's noisy manufacturing suburb, Portland. An historic spot is this insular home of ours. At the treaty of Fort Charlotte, Cornstalk told Lord Dunmore the legend familiar among Ohio River savages--that here, in ages past, occurred the last great battle between the white and the red Indians. It is one of the puzzles of the antiquarians, this tradition that white Indians once lived in the land, but were swept away by the reds; Cornstalk had used it to spur his followers to mighty deeds, it was a precedent which Pontiac dwelt upon when organizing his conspiracy, and King Philip is said to have been inspired by it. But this is no place to discuss the genesis of the tale. Suffice it, that on Sand Island have been discovered great quantities of ancient remains. No doubt, in its day, it was an over-filled burying-ground. Noises, far different from the clash of savage arms, are in the air to-night. Far above our heads a great iron bridge crosses the Ohio, some of its piers resting on the island,--a busy combination thoroughfare for steam and electric railways, for pedestrians and for vehicles, plying between New Albany and Portland. The whirr of the trolley, the scream and rumble of locomotives, the rattle of wagons; and just above the island head, the burly roar of steamboats signaling the locks,--these are the sounds which are prevalent. Through all this hubbub, electric lamps are flashing, and just now a steamer's search-light swept our island shore, lingering for a moment upon the little camp, doubtless while the pilot satisfied his curiosity. Let us hope that savage warriors never o' nights walk the earth above their graves; for such scenes as this might well cause those whose bones lie here to doubt their senses. * * * * * Near Brandenburg, Ky., Wednesday, 30th.--We stopped at New Albany, Ind. (603 miles), this morning, to stock the larder and to forward our shore-clothes by express to Cairo. It is a neat and busy manufacturing town, with an excellent public market. A gala aspect was prevalent, for it is Memorial Day; the shops and principal buildings were gay with bunting, and men in Grand Army uniforms stood in knots at the street corners. The broad, fertile plain on both sides of the river, upon which Louisville and New Albany are the principal towns, extends for eight or nine miles below the rapids. The first hills to approach the stream are those in Indiana. Salt River, some ten or twelve rods wide, enters from the south twenty-one miles below New Albany, between uninteresting high clay banks, with the lazy-looking little village of West Point, Ky., occupying a small rise of ground just below the mouth. The Kentucky hills come close to the bank, a mile or two farther down, and then the familiar characteristics of the reaches above Louisville are resumed--hills and bottoms, sparsely settled with ragged farmsteads, regularly alternating. At five o'clock we put in at a rocky ledge on the Indiana side, a mile-and-a-half above Brandenburg. Behind us rises a precipitous hill, tree-clad to the summit. The Doctor found up there a new phlox and a pretty pink stone-crop, to add to our herbarium, while here as elsewhere the bignonia grows profusely in every crevice of the rock. At dark, two ragged and ill-smelling young shanty-boat men, who are moored hard by, came up to see us, and by our camp-fire to whittle chips and drone about hard times. But at last we tired of their idle gossip, which had in it no element of the picturesque, and got rid of them by hinting our desire to turn in. The towns were few to-day, and small. Brandenburg, with eight hundred souls, was the largest--a sleepy, ill-paved, shambling place, with apparently nobody engaged in any serious calling; its chief distinction is an architectural monstrosity, which we were told is the court-house. The little white hamlet of New Amsterdam, Ind. (650 miles), looked trim and bright in the midst of a green thicket. Richardson's Landing, Ky., is a disheveled row of old deserted houses, once used by lime-burners, with a great barge wrecked upon the beach. At the small, characterless Indiana village of Leavenworth (658 miles), I sought a traveling photographer, of whom I had been told at Brandenburg. My quest was for a dark-room where I might recharge my exhausted kodak; but the man of plates had packed up his tent and moved on--I would no doubt find him in Alton, Ind., fifteen miles lower down. We have had stately, eroded hills, and broad, fertile bottoms, hemming us in all day, and marvelous ox-bows in the erratic stream. The hillsides are heavily wooded, sometimes the slopes coming straight down to the stony beach, without intervening terrace; where there are such terraces, they are narrow and rocky, and the homes of shanty-men; but upon the bottoms are whitewashed dwellings of frame or log, tenanted by a better class, who sometimes have goodly orchards and extensive corn-cribs. The villages are generally in the deep-cut notches of the hills, where the interior can be conveniently reached by a wagon-road--a country "rumpled like this," they say, for ten or twelve miles back, and then stretching off into level plains of fertility. Now and then, a deserted cabin on the terraces,--windowless and gaunt,--tells the story of some "cracker" family that malaria had killed off, or that has "pulled up stakes" and gone to seek a better land. At Leavenworth, the river, which has been flowing northwest for thirty miles, takes a sudden sweep to the southwest, and thenceforward we have a rapid current. However, we need still to ply our blades, for there is a stiff head-wind, with an eager nip in it, to escape which we seek the lee as often as may be, and bask in the undisturbed sunlight. Right glad we were, at luncheon-time, to find a sheltered nook amidst a heap of boulders on the Kentucky shore, and to sit on the sun-warmed sand and drink hot tea by the side of a camp-fire, rejoicing in the kindness of Providence. There are few houseboats, since leaving Louisville; to-day we have seen but three or four--one of them merrily going up stream, under full sail. Islands, too, are few--the Upper and Lower Blue River, a pretty pair, being the first we have met since Sunday. The water is falling, it now being three or four feet below the stage of a few days since, as can readily be seen from the broad dado of mud left on the leaves of willows and sycamores; while the drift, recently an ever-present feature of the current, is rapidly lodging in the branches of the willows and piling up against the sand-spits; and scrawling snags and bobbing sawyers are catching on the bars, and being held for the next "fresh." There is little life along shore, in these lower waters. There are two lines of ever-widening, willowed beach of rock and sand or mud; above them, perpendicular walls of clay, which edge either rocky terraces backed by grand sweeps of convoluted hills,--sometimes wooded to the top, and sometimes eroded into palisades,--or wide-stretching bottoms given over to small farms or maybe dense tangles of forest. In the midst of this world of shade, nestle the whitewashed cabins of the small tillers; but though they swarm with children, it is not often that the inhabitants appear by the riverside. We catch a glimpse of them when landing on our petty errands, we now and then see a houseboater at his nets, and in the villages a few lackadaisical folk are lounging by the wharf; but as a rule, in these closing days of our pilgrimage, we glide through what is almost a solitude. The imagination has not to go far afield, to rehabilitate the river as it appeared to the earliest voyagers. Late in the afternoon, as usual wishing water and milk, we put ashore in Indiana, where a rustic landing indicated a settlement of some sort, although our view was confined to a pretty, wooded bank, and an unpainted warehouse at the top of the path. It was a fertile bottom, a half-mile wide, and stretching a mile or two along the river. Three neat houses, one of them of logs, constituted the village, and all about were grain-fields rippled into waves by the northwest breeze. The first house, a quarter of a mile inland, I reached by a country roadway; it proved to be the postoffice of Point Sandy. Chickens clucked around me, a spaniel came fawning for attention, a tethered cow mooed plaintively, but no human being was visible. At last I discovered a penciled notice pinned to the horse-block, to the effect that the postmaster had gone into Alton (five miles distant) for the day; and should William Askins call in his absence, the said Askins was to remember that he promised to call yesterday, but never came; and now would he be kind enough to come without fail to-morrow before sundown, or the postmaster would be obliged to write that letter they had spoken about. It was quite evident that Askins had not called; for he surely would not have left that mysterious notice sticking there, for all Point Sandy to read and gossip over. It is to be hoped that there will be no bloodshed over this affair; across the way, in Kentucky, there would be no doubt as to the outcome. I looked at Boss, and wondered whether in Indiana it were felony to milk another man's cow in his absence, with no ginger jar at hand, into which to drop a compensatory dime. Then I saw that she was dry, and concluded that to attempt it might be thought a violation of ethics. The postmaster's well, too, proved to be a cistern,--pardon the Hibernicism,--and so I went farther. The other frame house also turned out to be deserted, but evidently only for the day, for the lilac bushes in the front yard were hung with men's flannel shirts drying in the sun. A buck goat came bleating toward me, with many a flourish of his horns, from which it was plain to be seen why the family wash was not spread upon the grass. From here I followed a narrow path through a wheat-field, the grain up to my shoulders, toward the log dwelling. A mangy little cur disputed my right to knock at the door; but, flourishing my two tin pails at him, he flew yelping to take refuge in the hen-coop. To my summons at the portal, there came no response, save the mewing of the cat within. It was clear that the people of Point Sandy were not at home, to-day. I would have retreated to the boat, but, chancing to glance up at the overhanging hills which edge in the bottom, saw two men sitting on a boulder in front of a rude log hut on the brink of a cliff, curiously watching my movements on the plain. Thankful, now, that the postmaster's cow had gone dry, and that these observant mountaineers had not had an opportunity to misinterpret my conduct, I at once hurried toward the hill, hopeful that at the top some bovine might be housed, whose product could lawfully be acquired. But after a long and laborious climb, over shifting stones and ragged ledges, I was met with the discouraging information that the only cow in these parts was Hawkins' cow, and Hawkins was the postmaster,--"down yon, whar yew were a-read'n' th' notices on th' hoss-block." Neither had they any water, up there on the cliff-top--"don' use very much, stranger; 'n' what we do, we done git at Smithfield's, in th' log-house down yon, 'n' I reck'n their cistern's done gone dry, anyhow!" "But what is the matter down there?" I asked of the old man,--they were father and son, this lounging pair who thus loftily sat in judgment on the little world at their feet; "why are all the folks away from home?" He looked surprised, and took a fresh chew while cogitating on my alarming ignorance of Point Sandy affairs: "Why, ain' ye heared? I thote ev'ry feller on th' river knew thet yere--why, ol' Hawkins, his wife's brother's buried in Alton to-day, 'n' th' neighbors done gwine t' th' fun'ral. Whar your shanty-boat been beached, thet ye ain' heared thet yere?" As the sun neared the horizon, we tried other places below, with no better success; and two miles above Alton, Ind. (673 miles), struck camp at sundown, without milk for our coffee--for water, being obliged to settle and boil the roily element which bears us onward through the lengthening days. Were there no hardships, this would be no pilgrimage worthy of the name. We are out, philosophically to take the world as it is; he who is not content to do so, had best not stir from home. But our camping-place, to-night, is ideal. We are upon a narrow, grassy ledge; below us, the sloping beach astrewn with jagged rocks; behind us rises steeply a grand hillside forest, in which lie, mantled with moss and lichens, and deep buried in undergrowth, boulders as large as a "cracker's" hut; romantic glens abound, and a little run comes noisily down a ravine hard by,--it is a witching back-door, filled with surprises at every turn. Beeches, elms, maples, lindens, pawpaws, tulip trees, here attain a monster growth,--with grape-vines, their fruit now set, hanging in great festoons from the branches; and all about, are the flowers which thrive best in shady solitudes--wild licorice, a small green-brier, and, although not yet in bloom, the sessile trillium. We are thoroughly isolated; a half-mile above us, faintly gleams a government beacon, and we noticed on landing that three-quarters of a mile below is a small cabin flanking the hill. Naught disturbs our quiet, save the calls of the birds at roosting-time, and now and then the hoarse bellow of a passing packet, with its legacy of boisterous wake. CHAPTER XVIII. Village life--A traveling photographer--On a country road--Studies in color--Again among colliers--In sweet content--A ferry romance. Near Troy, Ind., Friday, June 1st.--Below Alton, the hills are not so high as above. We have, however, the same thoroughly rustic landscape, the same small farms on the bottoms and wretched cabins on the slopes, the same frontier-like clearings thick with stumps, the same shabby little villages, and frequent ox-bow windings of the generous stream, with lovely vistas unfolding and dissolving with panoramic regularity. It is not a region where houseboaters flourish--there is but one every ten miles or so; as for steamboats, we see on an average one a day, while two or three usually pass us in the night. A dry, unpainted little place is Alton, Ind., with three down-at-the-heel shops, a tavern, a saloon, and a few dwellings; there was no bread obtainable here, for love or money, and we were fain to be content with a bag of crackers from the postoffice grocery. The promised photographer, who appears to be a rapid traveler, was said to have gone on to Concordia, eight miles below. Deep Water Landing, Ind. (676 miles), is a short row of new, whitewashed houses, with a great board sign displaying the name of the hamlet, doubtless to attract the attention of pilots. A rude little show-case, nailed up beside the door of the house at the head of the landing-path, contains tempting samples of crockery and tinware. Apparently some enterprising soul is trying to grow a town here, on this narrow ledge of clay, with his landing and his shop as a nucleus. But it is an unlikely spot, and I doubt if his "boom" will develop to the corner-lot stage. Rono, Ind., a mile below, with its limewashed buildings set in a bower of trees, at the base of a bald bluff, is a rather pretty study in gray and green and white. The most notable feature is a little school-house-like Masonic hall set high on a stone foundation, with a steep outer stairway--which gives one an impression that Rono is a victim of floods, and that the brethren occasionally come in boats to lodge-meetings. Concordia, Ky. (681 miles), rests on the summit of a steep clay bank, from which men were loading a barge with bark. Great piles of blocks, for staves, ornamented the crest of the rise--a considerable industry for these parts, we were told. But the photographer, whom we were chasing, had "taken" every Concordian who wished his services, and moved on to Derby, another Kentucky village, which at last we found, six miles father down the river. The principal occupation of the people of Derby is getting out timber from the hillside forests, six to ten miles in the interior. Oak, elm, and sycamore railway-ties are the specialty, these being worth twenty cents each when landed upon the wharf. A few months ago, Derby was completely destroyed by fire, but, although the timber business is on the wane here, much of the place was rebuilt on the old foundations; hence the fresh, unpainted buildings, with battlement fronts, which, with the prevalence of open-door saloons and a woodsy swagger on the part of the inhabitants, give the place a breezy, frontier aspect now seldom to be met with this side of the Rockies. Here at last was the traveling photographer. His tent, flapping loudly in the wind, occupied an empty lot in the heart of the village--a saloon on either side, and a lumberman's boarding house across the way, where the "artist" was at dinner, pending which I waited for him at the door of his canvas gallery. He evidently seeks to magnify his calling, does this raw youth of the camera, by affecting what he conceives to be the traditional garb of the artistic Bohemian, but which resembles more closely the costume of the minstrel stage--a battered silk hat, surmounting flowing locks glistening with hair-oil; a loose velveteen jacket, over a gay figured vest; and a great brass watch-chain, from which dangle silver coins. As this grotesque dandy, evidently not long from his native village, came mincing across the road in patent-leather slippers, smoking a cigarette, with one thumb in an arm-hole of his vest, and the other hand twirling an incipient mustache, he was plainly conscious of creating something of a swell in Derby. It was a crazy little dark-room to which I was shown--a portable affair, much like a coffin-case, which I expected momentarily to upset as I stood within, and be smothered in a cloud of ill-smelling chemicals. However, with care I finally emerged without accident, and sufficiently compensated the artist, who seemed not over-favorable to amateur competition, although he chatted freely enough about his business. It generally took him ten days, he said, to "finish" a town of five or six hundred inhabitants, like Derby. He traveled on steamers with his tenting outfit, but next season hoped to have money enough to "do the thing in style," in a houseboat of his own, an establishment which would cost say four hundred dollars; then, in the winter, he could beach himself at some fair-sized town, and perhaps make his board by running a local gallery, taking to the water again on the earliest spring "fresh." "I could live like a fight'n' cock then, cap'n, yew jist bet yer bottom dollar!" The temperature mounted with the progress of the day; and, the wind dying down, the atmosphere was oppressive. By the time Stephensport, Ky. (695 miles), was reached, in the middle of the afternoon, the sun was beating fiercely upon the glassy flood, and our awning came again into play, although it could not save us from the annoyance of the reflection. The barren clay bank at the mouth of Sinking Creek, upon which lies Stephensport, seemed fairly ablaze with heat, as I went up into the straggling hamlet to seek for supplies. There were no eggs to be had here; but, at last, milk was found in the farther end of the village, at a modest little cottage quite embowered in roses, with two century plants in tubs in the back-yard, and a trim fruit and vegetable garden to the rear of that, enclosed in palings. I remained a few minutes to chat with the little housewife, who knows her roses well, and is versed in the gentle art of horticulture. But her horizon is painfully narrow--first and dearest, the plants about her, which is not so bad; in a larger way, Stephensport and its petty affairs; but beyond that very little, and that little vague. It is ever thus, in such far-away, side-tracked villages as this--the world lies in the basin of the hills which these people see from their doors; if they have something to love and do for, as this good woman has in her bushes, seeds, and bulbs, then may they dwell happily in rustic obscurity; but where, as is more common, the small-beer of neighborhood gossip is their meat and drink, there are no folk on the footstool more wretched than the denizens of a dead little hamlet like Stephensport. We are housed this night on the Kentucky side, a mile-and-a-half above Cloverport, whose half-dozen lights are glimmering in the stream. In the gloaming, while dinner was being prepared, a ragged but sturdy wanderer came into camp. He was, he said, a mountaineer looking for work on the bottom farms; heretofore he had, when he wanted it, always found it; but this season no one appeared to have any money to expend for labor, and it seemed likely he would be obliged to return home without receiving an offer. We made the stranger no offer of a seat at our humble board, having no desire that he pass the night in our neighborhood; for darkness was coming on apace, and, if he long tarried, the woodland road would be as black as a pocket before he could reach Cloverport, his alleged destination. So starting him off with a biscuit or two, he was soon on his way toward the village, whistling a lively tune. * * * * * Crooked Creek, Ind., Saturday, 2d.--We had but fairly got to bed last night, after our late dinner, when the heavens suddenly darkened, fierce gusts of wind shook the tent violently, and then rain fell in blinding sheets. For a time it was lively work for the Doctor and me, tightening guy-ropes and ditching in the soft sand, for we were in an exposed position, catching the full force of the storm. At last, everything secured, we in serenity slept it out, awakening to find a beautiful morning, the grape-perfumed air as clear as crystal, the outlines of woods and hills and streams standing out with sharp definition, and over all a hushed charm most soothing to the spirit. Cloverport (705 miles) is a typical Kentucky town, of somewhat less than four thousand inhabitants. The wharf-boat, which runs up and down an iron tramway, according to the height of the flood, was swarming with negroes, watching with keen delight the departure of the "E. D. Rogan," as she noisily backed out into the river and scattered the crowd with great showers of spray from her gigantic stern-wheel. It was a busy scene on board--negro roustabouts shipping the gang-plank, and singing in a low pitch an old-time plantation melody; stokers, stripped to the waist, shoveling coal into the gaping furnaces; chambermaids hanging the ship's linen out to dry; passengers crowded by the shore rail, on the main deck; the bustling mate shouting orders, apparently for the benefit of landsmen, for no one on board appeared to heed him; and high up, in front of the pilot-house, the spruce captain, in gold-laced cap, and glass in hand, as immovable as the Sphinx. At the head of the slope were a picturesque medley of colored folk, of true Southern plantation types, so seldom seen north of Dixie. Two wee picaninnies, drawn in an express cart by a half-dozen other sable elfs, attracted our attention, as W---- and I went up-town for our day's marketing. We stopped to take a snap-shot at them, to the intense satisfaction of the little kink-haired mother of the twins, who, barring her blue calico gown, looked as if she might have just stepped out of a Zulu group. Cloverport has brick-works, gas wells, a flouring-mill, and other industries. The streets are unkempt, as in most Kentucky towns, and mules attached to crazy little carts are the chief beasts of burden; but the shops are well-stocked; there were many farmers in town, on horse and mule back, doing their Saturday shopping; and an air of business confidence prevails. In this district, coal-mines again appear, with their riverside tipples, and their offal defiling the banks. In general, these reaches have many of the aspects of the Monongahela, although the hills are lower, and mining is on a smaller scale. Cannelton, Ind. (717 miles), is the headquarters of the American Cannel Coal Co.; there are, also, woolen and cotton mills, sewer-pipe factories, and potteries. W---- and I went up into the town, on an errand for supplies,--we distribute our small patronage, for the sake of frequently going ashore,--and were interested in noting the cheery tone of the business men, who reported that the financial depression, noticeable elsewhere in the Ohio Valley, has practically been unfelt here. Hawesville, Ky., just across the river, has a similarly prosperous look, but we did not row across to inspect it at close range. Tell City, Ind., three miles below, is another flourishing factory town, whose wharf-boat was the scene of much bustle. Four miles still lower down lies the sleepy little Indiana village of Troy, which appears to have profited nothing from having lively neighbors. From the neighborhood of Derby, the environing hills had, as we proceeded, been lessening in height, although still ruggedly beautiful. A mile or two below Troy, both ranges suddenly roll back into the interior, leaving broad bottoms on either hand, occasionally edged with high clay banks, through which the river has cut its devious way. At other times, these bottoms slope gently to the beach and everywhere are cultivated with such care that often no room is left for the willow fringe, which heretofore has been an ever-present feature of the landscape. Hereafter, to the mouth, we shall for the most part row between parallel walls of clay, with here and there a bankside ledge of rock and shale, and now and then a cragged spur running out to meet the river. We have now entered the great corn and tobacco belt of the Lower Ohio, the region of annual overflow, where the towns seek the highlands, and the bottom farmers erect their few crude buildings on posts, prepared in case of exceptional flood to take to boats. The prevalent eagerness on the part of farmers to obtain the utmost from their land made it difficult, this evening, to find a proper camping-place. We finally found a narrow triangle of clay terrace, in Indiana, at the mouth of Crooked Creek (727 miles), where not long since had tarried a houseboater engaged in making rustic furniture. It is a pretty little bit, in a group of big willows and sycamores, and would be comfortable but for the sand-flies, which for the first time give us annoyance. The creek itself, some four rods wide, and overhung with stately trees, winds gracefully through the rich bottom; we have found it a charming water to explore, being able to proceed for nearly a mile through lovely little wide-spreads abounding in lilies and sweet with the odor of grape-blossoms. Across the river, at Emmerick's Landing,--a little cluster of unpainted cabins,--lies the white barge of a photographer, just such a home as the Derby artist covets. The Ohio is here about half-a-mile wide, but high-pitched voices of people on the opposite bank are plainly heard across the smooth sounding-board; and in the quiet evening air comes to us the "chuck-chuck" of oars nearly a mile away. Following a torrid afternoon, with exasperating headwinds, this cool, fresh atmosphere, in the long twilight, is inspiring. Overhead is the slender streak of the moon's first quarter, its reflection shimmering in the broad and placid stream rushing noiselessly by us to the sea. In blissful content we sit upon the bank, and drink in the glories of the night. The days of our pilgrimage are nearing their end, but our enthusiasm for this _al fresco_ life is in no measure abating. That we might ever thus dream and drift upon the river of life, far from the labored strivings of the world, is our secret wish, to-night. We had long been sitting thus, having silent communion with our thoughts, when the Boy, his little head resting on W----'s shoulder, broke the spell by murmuring from the fullness of his heart, "Mother, why cannot we keep on doing this, always?" * * * * * Yellowbank Island, Sunday, June 3d.--Pilgrim still attracts more attention than her passengers. When we stop at the village wharfs, or grate our keel upon some rustic landing, it is not long before the Doctor, who now always remains with the boat, no matter who goes ashore, is surrounded by an admiring group, who rap Pilgrim on the ribs, try to lift her by the bow, and study her graceful lines with the air of connoisseurs. Barefooted men fishing on the shores, in broad straw hats, and blue jeans, invariably "pass the time o' day" with us as we glide by, crying out as a parting salute, "Ye've a honey skiff, thar!" or, "Right smart skiff, thet yere!" We have many long, dreary reaches to-day. Clay banks twelve to twenty feet in height, and growing taller as the water recedes, rise sheer on either side. Fringing the top of each is often a row of locusts, whose roots in a feeble way hold the soil; but the river cuts in at the base, wherever the changing current impinges on the shore, and at low water great slices, with a gurgling splash, fall into the stream, which now is of the color of dull gold, from the clay held in solution. Often, ruins of buildings may be seen upon the brink, that have collapsed from this undercut of the fickle flood; and many others, still inhabited, are in dangerous proximity to the edge, only biding their time. This morning, we passed the Indiana hamlets of Lewisport (731 miles) and Grand View (736 miles), and by noon were at Rockport (741 miles), a smart little city of three thousand souls, romantically perched upon a great rock, which on the right bank rises abruptly from the wide expanse of bottom. From the river, there is little to be seen of Rockport save two wharves,--one above, the other below, the bold cliff which springs sheer for a hundred feet above the stream,--two angling roads leading up into the town, a house or two on the edge of the hill and a huge water-tower crowning all. A few miles below, we ran through a narrow channel, a few rods wide, separating an elongated island from the Indiana shore. It much resembles the small tributary streams, with a lush undergrowth of weeds down to the water's edge, and arched with monster sycamores, elms, maples and persimmons. Frequently had we seen skiffs upon the shore, arranged with stern paddle-wheels, turned by levers operated by men standing or sitting in the boat. But we had seen none in operation until, shooting down this side channel, we met such a craft coming up, manned by two fellows, who seemed to be having a treadmill task of it; they assured us, however, that when a man was used to manipulating the levers he found it easier than rowing, especially in ascending stream. Yellowbank Island, our camp to-night, lies nearest the Indiana shore, with Owensboro, Ky. (749 miles), just across the way. We have had no more beautiful home on our long pilgrimage than this sandy islet, heavily grown to stately willows. While the others were preparing dinner, I pulled across the rapid current to an Indiana ferry-landing, where there is a row of mean frame cabins, like the negro quarters of a Southern farm, all elevated on posts some four feet above the level. A half-dozen families live there, all of them small tenant farmers, save the ferryman--a strapping, good-natured fellow, who appears to be the nabob of the community. Several hollow sycamore stumps house sows and their litters; but the only cow in the neighborhood is owned by a young man who, when I came up, was watering some refractory mules at a pump-trough. He paused long enough to summon Boss and milk a half-gallon into my pail, accepting my dime with a degree of thankfulness which was quite unnecessary, considering that it was _quid pro quo_. Tobacco is a more important crop than corn hereabout, he said; farmers are rather impatiently waiting for rain, to set out the young plants. His only outbuilding is a monster corn-crib, set high on posts--the airy basement, no better than an open shed, serving for a stable; during the few weeks of severe winter weather, horses and cow are removed to the main floor, and canvas nailed around the sides to keep out the wind. Even this slight protection is not vouchsafed stock by all planters; the majority of them appear to provide only rain shelters, and even these can be of slight avail in a driving storm. Later, in the failing light, W---- and I pulled together over to the "cracker" settlement, seeking drinking-water. A stout young man was seated on the end of the ferry barge, talking earnestly with the ferryman's daughter, a not unattractive girl, but pale and thin, as these women are apt to be. Evidently they are lovers, and not ashamed of it, for they gave us a friendly smile as we knotted our painter to the barge-rail, and expressed great interest in Pilgrim, she being of a pattern new to them. We are in a noisy corner of the world. Over on the Indiana bottom, a squeaky fiddle is grinding out dance-tunes, hymns and ballads with charming indifference. We thought we detected in a high-pitched "Annie Laurie" the voice of the ferryman's daughter. There seems, too, to be a deal of rowing on the river, evidently Owensboro folk getting back to town from a day in the country, and country folk hieing home after a day in the city. The ferryman is in much demand, judging from the frequent ringing of his bell,--one on either bank, set between two tall posts, with a rope dangling from the arm. At early dusk, the cracked bell of the Owensboro Bethel resounded harshly in our ears, as it advertised an evening service for the floating population; and now the wheezy strains of a melodeon tell us that, although we stayed away, doubtless others have been attracted thither. The sepulchral roars of passing steamers echo along the wooded shore, the night wind rustles the tree-tops, Owensboro dogs are much awake, and the electric lamps of the city throw upon our canvas screen the fantastic shadows of leaves and dancing boughs. CHAPTER XIX. Fishermen's tales--Skiff nomenclature--Green River--Evansville--Henderson--Audubon and Rafinesque--Floating trade--The Wabash. Green River Towhead, Monday, June 4th.--We were shopping in Owensboro, this morning, soon after seven o'clock. The business quarter was just stirring into life; and the negroes who were lounging about on every hand were still drowsy, as if they had passed the night there, and were reluctant to be up and doing. There is a pretty court-house in a green park, the streets are well paved, and the shops clean and bright, with their wares mostly under the awnings on the sidewalk, for people appear to live much out of doors here--and well they may, with the temperature 73° at this early hour, and every promise of a scorching day. I wonder if a fisherman could, if he tried, be exact in his statements. One of them, below Owensboro, who kept us company for a mile or two down stream, declared that at this stage of the water he made forty and fifty dollars a week, "'n' I reck'n I ote to be contint." A few miles farther on, another complained that when the river was falling, the water was so muddy the fish would not bite; and even in the best of seasons, a fisherman had "a hard pull uv it; hit ain't no business fer a decent man!" The other day, when the river was rising, a Cincinnati follower of the apostle's calling averred that there was no use fishing when the water was coming up. As the variable Ohio is like the ocean tide, ever rising or falling, it would seem that the thousands in this valley who make fishing their livelihood must be playing a losing game. There are many beautiful islands on these lower reaches of the river. We followed the narrow channel between Little Hurricane and the Kentucky shore, a charming run of two or three miles, with both banks a dense tangle of drift-wood, weeds and vines. Between Three-Mile Island and Indiana, is another interesting cut-short, where the shores are undisturbed by the work of the main stream, and trees and undergrowth come down to the water's edge; the air is quivering with the songs of birds, and resonant with sweet smells; while over stumps, and dead and fallen trees, grape-vines luxuriantly festoon and cluster. Near the pretty group of French Islands, two government dredges, with their boarding barges, were moored to the Kentucky shore--waiting for coal, we were told, before resuming operations in the planting of a dike. I took a snap-shot at the fleet, and heard one man shout to another, "Bill, did yer notice they've a photograph gallery aboard?" They appear to be a jolly lot, these dredgers, and inclined to take life easily, in accordance with the traditions of government employ. We frequently see skiffs hauled upon the beach, or moored between two protecting posts, to prevent their being swamped by steamer wakes. The names they bear interest us, as betokening, perhaps, the proclivities of their owners. "Little Joe," "Little Jim," "Little Maggie," and like diminutives, are common here, as upon the towing-tugs and steam ferries of broader waters--and now and then we have, by contrast, "Xerxes," "Achilles," "Hercules." Sometimes the skiff is named after its owner's wife or sweetheart, as "Maggie G.," "Polly H.," or from the rustic goddesses, "Pomona," "Flora," "Ceres;" on the Kentucky shore, we have noted "Stonewall Jackson," and "Robert E. Lee," and one Ohio boat was labeled "Little Phil." Literature we found represented to-day, by "Octave Thanet"--the only case on record, for the Ohio-River "cracker" is not greatly given to books. Slang claims for its own, many of these knockabout craft--"U. Bet," "Git Thair," "Go it, Eli," "Whoa, Emma!" and nondescripts, like "Two Doves," "Poker Chip," and "Game Chicken," are not infrequent. In these stately solitudes, towns are far between. Enterprise, Ind. (755 miles), is an unpainted village with a dismal view--back of and around it, wide bottom lands, with hills in the far distance; up and down the river, precipitous banks of clay, with willow fringes on that portion of the shore which is not being cut by the impinging current. Scuffletown, Ky. (767 miles), is uninviting. Newburgh, on the edge of a bluff, across the river in Indiana, is a ragged little place that has seen better days; but the backward view of Newburgh, from below Three-Mile Island, made a pretty picture, the whites and reds of the town standing out in sharp relief against the dark background of the hill. Green River (775 miles), a gentle, rustic stream, enters through the wide bottoms of Kentucky. We had difficulty in finding it in the wilderness of willows--might not have succeeded, indeed, had not the red smokestack of a small steamer suddenly appeared above the bushes. Soon, the puffing craft debouched upon the Ohio, and, quickly overtaking us, passed down toward Evansville. Green River Towhead, two miles below, claimed us for the night. There is a shanty, midway on the island, and at the lower end the landing of a railway-transfer. We have our camp at the upper end, in a bed of spotless white sand, thick grown to dwarf willows. Entangled drift-wood lies about in monster heaps, lodged in depressions of the land, or against stout tree-trunks; a low bar of gravel connects our home with Green River Island, lying close against the Indiana bank; sand-flies freely joined us at dinner, and I hear, as I write, the drone of a solitary mosquito,--the first in many days; while upon the bar, at sunset, a score of turkey-buzzards held silent council, some of them occasionally rising and wheeling about in mid-air, then slowly lighting and stretching their necks, and flapping their wings most solemnly, before rejoining the conference. * * * * * Cypress Bend, Tuesday, 5th.--The temperature had materially fallen during the night, and the morning opened gray and hazy. Evansville, Ind. (783 miles), made a charming Turneresque study, as her steeples and factory chimneys developed through the mist. It is a fine, well-built town, of some fifty thousand inhabitants, with a beautiful little postoffice in the Gothic style--a refutation, this, of the well-worn assertion that there are no creditable government buildings in our small American cities. A railway bridge here crosses the Ohio, numerous sawmills line the bank; altogether, there is business bustle, the like of which we have not seen since leaving Louisville. Henderson (795 miles) is a substantial Kentucky town of nine thousand souls, with large tobacco interests, we are told, ranking next to Louisville in this regard. Through the morning, the mist had been thickening. While we were passing beneath the railway bridge at Henderson, thunder sounded, and the western sky suddenly blackened. Pulling rapidly in to the town shore, shelter was found beneath the overhanging deck of a deserted wharf-boat. We had just completed preparations with the rubber blankets and ponchos, when the deluge came. But the sheltering deck was not water-tight; soon the rain came pouring in upon us through the uncaulked cracks, and we were nearly as badly off in our close-smelling quarters as in the open. However, we were a merry party under there, with the Doctor giving us a touch of "Br'er Rabbit," and the boy relating a fantastic dream he had had on the Towhead last night; while I told them the story of Audubon, whose name will ever be associated with Henderson. The great naturalist was in business at Louisville, early in the century; but in 1812, he failed in this venture, and moved to Henderson, where his neighbors thought him a trifle daft,--and certainly he was a ne'er-do-well, wandering around the woods, with hair hanging down on his shoulders, a far-away look in his eyes, and communing with the birds. In 1818, the botanist Rafinesque, on the first of his several tramps down the Ohio valley,--he had a favorite saying, that the only way for a botanist to travel, was to walk,--stopped over at Henderson to visit this crazy fellow of whom he had heard. Rafinesque had a hope that Audubon might buy some of his colored drawings; but when he saw the wonderful pictures which Audubon had made, he acknowledged that his own were inferior--a sore confession for Rafinesque, who was an egotist of the first water. Audubon had but humble quarters, for it was hard work in those days for him to keep the wolf from the door; nevertheless, he entertained the distinguished traveler, whom he was himself destined to far eclipse. One night, a bat flew into Rafinesque's bedroom, and in driving it out he used his host's fine Cremona as a club, thus making kindling-wood of it. Two years later, still steeped in poverty, Audubon left Henderson. It was 1826 before he became known to the world of science, when little of his life was left in which to enjoy the fame at last awarded him. We had lunch on Henderson Island, three miles down, and for warmth walked briskly about on the strand, among the willow clumps. It rained again, after we had taken our seats in the boat, and the head-wind which sprang up was not unwelcome, for it necessitated a right lively pull to make headway. W---- and the Boy, in the stern-sheets, were not uncomfortable when swathed to the chin in the blankets which ordinarily serve us as cushions. Ten miles below Henderson, was a little fleet of houseboats, lying in a thicket of willows along the Indiana beach. We stopped at one of them, and bought a small catfish for dinner. The fishermen seemed a happy company, in this isolated spot. The women were engaged in household work, but the men were spending the afternoon collected in the cabin of one of their number, who had recently arrived from Green River. While waiting for the fish to be caught in a live-box, I visited with the little band. It was a comfortable room, furnished rather better than the average shore cabin, and the Green River man's family of half-a-dozen were well-kept, pleasant-faced, and polite. Altogether it was a much more respectable houseboat company than any we have yet seen on the river. But the fish-stories which that Green River man tells, with an honest-like, open-eyed sobriety, would do credit to Munchausen. The rain, at first spasmodic, became at last persistent. Two miles farther down, at Cypress Bend (806 miles), we ran into an Indiana hill, where on a steep slope of yellow shale, all strewn with rocks, our tent was hurriedly pitched. There was no driving of pegs into this stony base, so we weighted down the canvas with round-heads, and fastened our guys to bushes and boulders as best we might. Huddled around the little stove, under the fly, the crew dined sumptuously _en course_, from canned soup down to strawberries for dessert,--for Evansville is a good market. It is not always, we pilgrims fare thus high--the resources of Rome, Thebes, Bethlehem, Herculaneum, and the other classic towns with which the Ohio's banks are dotted, being none of the best. Some days, we are fortunate to have aught in our larder. * * * * * Brown's Island, Wednesday, 6th.--This morning's camp-fire was welcome for its warmth. The sky has been clear, but a sharp, cold wind has prevailed throughout the day, quite counteracting the sun's rays; we noticed townsfolk going about in overcoats, their hands in their pockets. In the ox-bow curves, the breeze came in turn from every quarter, sometimes dead ahead and again pushing us swiftly on. In seeking the lee shore, Pilgrim pursued a zigzag course, back and forth between the States,--now under the brow of towering clay banks, corrugated by the flood, and honeycombed by swallows, which in flocks screamed and circled over our heads; again, closely brushing the fringe of willows and sycamores and maples on low-lying shores. Thus did we for the most part paddle in placid water, while above us the wind whistled in the tree-tops, rustled the blooming elders and the tall grasses of the plain, and, out in the open river, caused white-caps to dance right merrily. We met at intervals to-day, several houseboats, the most of them bearing the inscription prescribed by the new Kentucky license law, which is now being enforced, the essential features of which inscription are the home and name of the owner, and the date at which the license expires. The standard of education among houseboaters is evinced by the legend borne by a trader's craft which we boarded near Slim Island: "Lisens exp.rs Maye the 24 1895." The young woman in charge, a slender creature in a brilliant red calico gown, with blue ribbons at the corsage, had been but recently married to her lord, who was back in the country stirring up trade. She had few notions of business, and allowed us to put our own prices on such articles as we purchased. The stock was a curious medley--a few staple groceries, bacon and dried beef, candies, crockery, hardware, tobacco, a small line of patent medicines, in which blood-purifiers chiefly prevailed, bitters, ginger beer, and a glass case in which were displayed two or three women's straw hats, gaudily-trimmed. The woman said their custom was, to tie up to some convenient shore and "buy a little stuff o' the farmers, 'n' in that way trade springs up," and thus become known. Two or three weeks would exhaust any neighborhood, whereupon they would move on for a dozen miles or so. Late in the autumn, they select a comfortable beach, and lie by for the winter. Mt. Vernon, Ind. (819 miles), is on a high, rolling plain, with a rather pretty little court-house set in a park of grass, some good business buildings, and huge flouring-mills, which appear to be the leading industry. Another flouring-mill town, with the addition of the characteristic Kentucky distillery, is Uniontown (833 miles), on the southern shore--a bright, neat little city, backed by smooth, picturesque green hills. The feature of the day was the entrance, through a dreary stretch of clay banks, of the Wabash River (838 miles), which divides Indiana from Illinois. Three hundred and sixty yards wide at the mouth, about half the width of the Ohio, it is the most important of the latter's northern affluents, and pours into the main stream a swift-rushing body of clear, green water, which at first boldly pushes over to the heavily-willowed Kentucky shore the roily mess of the Ohio, and for several miles exerts a considerable influence in clarification. The Lower Wabash, flowing through a soft clay bottom, runs an erratic course, and its mouth is a variable location, so that the bounds of Illinois and Indiana, hereabout, fluctuate east and west according to the exigencies of the floods. The far-reaching bottom itself, however, is apparently of slight value, giving evidence, in the dreary clumps of dead timber, of being frequently inundated. An interesting stream is the Wabash, from an historical point of view. La Salle knew of it in 1677, and was planning to prosecute his fur trade over the Maumee and the Wabash; but the Iroquois held the portage, and for nearly forty years thereafter forbade its use by whites. Joliet thought the Wabash the headwaters of what we know as the Lower Ohio, and in his map (1673) styled the latter the Wabash, down to its mouth. Vincennes, an old Wabash town, was one of the posts captured so heroically for the Americans by George Rogers Clark, during the Revolutionary War. In 1814, there was established at New Harmony, also on the Wabash, the communistic seat of the Harmonists, who had moved thither from Pennsylvania, to which, dissatisfied with the West, they returned ten years later. Numerous islands have to-day beautified the Ohio. Despite their inartistic names, Diamond and Slim are tipped at head and foot with charming banks and willowed sand, and each center is clothed in a luxurious forest, rimmed by a gravelly beach piled high with drift and gnarled roots: the whole, with startling clearness, inversely reflected in the mirrored flood. Wabash Island, opposite the mouth of the great tributary, is an insular woodland several miles in length. Among the prettiest of these jewels studding our silvery path, is the upmost of the little group known as Brown's Islands, on which we are passing the night. It was an easy landing on the hard sand, and a comfortable carry to a level opening in the willows, where we have a model camp with a great round sycamore block for a table; an Evansville newspaper does duty as a tablecloth, and two logs rolled alongside make seats. Four miles below, the smoke of Shawneetown (848 miles) rises lazily above the dark level line of woods; while across the river, in Kentucky, there is an unbroken forest fringe, without sign of life as far as the eye can reach. A long glistening bar of sand connects our little island home with the Illinois mainland; upon it was being held, in the long twilight, that evening council of turkey-buzzards, which we so often witness when in an island camp. Sand-pipers went fearlessly about among them, bobbing their little tails with nervous vehemence; redbirds trilled their good-nights in the tree-tops; and, daintily wading in the sandy shallows, object lessons in patience, were great blue herons, carefully peering for the prey which never seems to be found. As night closed in upon us, owls dismally hooted in the mainland woods, buzzards betook themselves to inland roosts, herons winged their stately flight to I know not where, and over on the Kentucky shore could faintly be heard the barking of dogs at the little "cracker" farmsteads hid deep in the lowland forest. CHAPTER XX. Shawneetown--Farm-houses on stilts--Cave-in-Rock--An island night. Half-Moon Bar, Thursday, June 7th.--A head-breeze prevailed all day, strong enough to fan us into a sense of coolness, but leaving the water as unruffled as a mill-pond; thus did we seem, in the vivid reflections of the early morning, to be sailing between double lines of shore, lovely in their groupings of luxuriant trees and tangled heaps of vine-clad drift. It was a hazy, mirage-producing atmosphere, the river appearing to melt away in space, and the ever-charming island heads looming unsupported in mid-air. From the woods, the piercing note of locusts filled the air as with the ceaseless rattle of pebbles against innumerable window-panes. At a distance, Shawneetown appears as if built upon higher land than the neighboring bottom; but this proves, on approach, to be an optical illusion, for the town is walled in by a levee some thirty feet in height, above the top of which loom its chimneys and spires. Shawneetown, laid out in 1808, soon became an important post on the Lower Ohio, and indeed ranked with Kaskaskia as one of the principal Illinois towns, although in 1817 it still only contained from thirty to forty log dwellings. During the reign of the Ohio-River bargemen,[A] it was notorious as the headquarters of the roughest elements in that boisterous class, and frequently the scene of most barbarous outrages--"the odious receptacle," says a chronicler of the time, "of filth and villany." In those lively days, which lasted with more or less vigor until about 1830,--by which time, steamboats had finally overcome popular prejudice and gained the upper hand in river transportation,--the people of Shawneetown were largely dependent on the trade of the salt works of the neighboring Saline Reserve. The salt-licks--at which in early days the bones of the mammoth were found, as at Big Bone Lick--commenced a few miles below the town, and embraced a district of about ninety thousand acres. While Illinois was still a Territory, these salines were rented by the United States to individuals, but were granted to the new State (1818) in perpetuity. The trade, in time, decreased with the decadence of river traffic; and Shawneetown has since had but slow growth--it now being a dreary little place of three thousand inhabitants, with unmistakable evidences of having long since seen its best days. The farmers upon the wide bottoms of the lower reaches now invariably have their dwellings, corn-cribs, and tobacco-sheds set upon posts, varying from five to ten feet high, according to the surrounding elevation above the normal river level. At present we are, as a rule, hemmed in by banks full thirty or forty feet in height above the present stage. After a hard climb up the steps which are frequently found cut into the clay, to facilitate access to the river, it is with something akin to awe that we look upon these buildings on stilts, for they bespeak, in times of great flood, a rise in the river of between fifty and sixty feet. Three miles above Saline River, I scrambled up to photograph a farm-house of this character. In order to get the building within the field of the camera, it was necessary to mount a cob-house of loose rails, which did duty as a pig-pen. A young woman of eighteen or twenty years, attired in a dazzling-red calico gown, came out on the front balcony to see the operation; and, for a touch of life, I held her in talk until the picture was taken. She was not at all averse to thus posing, and chatted as familiarly as though we were old friends. The water, my model said, came at least once a year to the main floor of the house, some ten feet above the level of the land, and forty feet above the normal river stage; "every few years" it rose to the eaves of this story-and-a-half dwelling, when the family would embark in boats, hieing off to the back-lying hills, a mile-and-a-half away. An event of this sort seemed quite commonplace to the girl, and not at all to be viewed as a calamity. As in other houses of the bottom farmers of this district, there is no wall-paper, no plaster upon the walls, and little or nothing else to be injured by water. Their few household possessions can readily be packed into a scow, together with the live-stock, and behold the family is ready, if need be, to float away to the ends of the world. As a matter of fact, if they carry food enough with them, and a rain-proof tent, their season on the hills is but a prolonged picnic. When the waters sufficiently subside, they float back again to their home; the river mud is scraped out of the rooms, the kitchen-stove rubbed up a bit, and soon everything is again at rights, with a fresh layer of alluvial deposit to fertilize the fields. Few of these small farmers own the lands they till; from Pittsburg down, the great majority of Ohio River planters are but tenants. The old families that once owned the soil are living in the neighboring towns, or in other parts of the country, and renting out their acres to these cultivators. We were told that the rental fee around Owensboro is usually in kind,--fourteen bushels of good, salable corn being the rate per acre. In "Egypt," as Southern Illinois is called, the average rent is four or five dollars in money, except in years when the water remains long upon the ground, and thus shortens the season; then the fee is correspondingly reduced. The girl on the balcony averred, that in 1893 it amounted to one-third the value of the average yield. The numerous huge stilted corn cribs we see are constructed so that wagons can drive up into them, and, after unloading in bins on either side, descend another incline at the far end. Sometimes a portion of the crib is boarded up for a residence, with windows, and a little balcony which does double duty as a porch and a landing-stage for the boats in time of high water. Scattered about on the level are loosely-built sheds of rails, for stock, which practically live _al fresco_, so far as actual storm-shelter goes. Usually the flooded bottoms are denuded of trees, save perhaps a narrow fringe along the bank, and a few dead trunks scattered here and there; while back, a third or a half-mile from the river, lies a dense line of forest, far beyond which rises the low rim of the basin. But just below Saline River (857 miles), a lazy little stream of a few rods' width, the hills, now perhaps eighty or a hundred feet in height, again approach to the water's edge; and henceforth to the mouth we are to have alternating semi-circular, wooded bottoms and shaly, often palisaded uplands, grown to scrub and vines much in the fashion of some of the middle reaches. A trading-boat was moored just within the Saline, where we stopped for lunch under a clump of sycamores. The owner obtains butter and eggs from the farmers, in exchange for his varied wares, and sells them at a goodly profit to passing steamers, which will always stop when flagged. Approaching Cave-in-Rock, Ill. (869 miles), the right bank is for several miles an almost continuous palisade of lime-stone, thick-studded with black and brown flints. In the breaking down of this escarpment, popularly styled Battery Rocks, numerous caves have been formed, the largest of which gave the place its name. It is a rather low opening into the rock, perhaps two hundred feet deep, and the floor some twenty feet above the present level of the river; in times of flood, it is frequently so filled with water that boats enter, and thousands of silly people have, in two or three generations past, carved or painted their names upon the vaulted roof.[B] From this large entrance hall, a chimney-like hole in the roof leads to other chambers, said to be imposing and widely ramified--"not unlike a Gothic cathedral," said Ashe, an early English traveler (1806), who appears to have everywhere in these Western wilds sought the marvellous, and found it. About 1801, a band of robbers made these inner recesses their home, and frequently sallied thence to rob passing boats, and incidentally to murder the crews. As for the little hamlet of Cave-in-Rock, nestled in a break in the palisade, a few hundred yards below, it was, between 1801 and 1805, the seat of another species of brigandage--a land speculation, wherein schemers waxed rich from the confusion engendered by conflicting claims of settlers, the outgrowth of carelessly-phrased Indian treaties and overlapping French and English patents. From 1804 to 1810, a Congressional committee was engaged in straightening out this weary tangle; and its decisions, ratified by Congress, are to-day the foundation of many land-titles in Indiana and Illinois. We are in camp to-night upon the Illinois shore, opposite Half-Moon Bar (872 miles), and a mile above Hurricane Island. Towering above us are great sycamores, cypress, maples, and elms, and all about a dense jungle of grasses, vines, and monster weeds--the rank horse-weed being now some ten feet high, with a stem an inch in diameter; the dead stalks of last year's growth, in the broad rolling fields to our rear, indicate a possibility of sixteen feet, and an apparent desire to out-rival the corn. Cane-brake, too, is prevalent hereabout, with stalks two inches or more thick. The mulberries are reddening, the Doctor reports on his return with the Boy from a botanizing expedition, and black-caps are turning; while bergamot and vervain are among the plants newly added to the herbarium. * * * * * Stewart's Island, Friday, 8th.--We arose this morning to find the tent as wet from dew and fog as if there had been a shower, and the bushes by the landing were sparkling with great beads of moisture. The bold, black head of Hurricane Island stood out with startling distinctness, framed in rolling fog; through a cloud-bank on the horizon, the sun was bursting with the dull glow of burnished copper. By the time of starting, the fog had lifted, and the sun swung clear in a steel-blue sky; but there was still a soft haze on land and river, which dreamily closed the ever-changing vistas, and we seemed to float through an enchanted land. The approach to Elizabethtown, Ill. (877 miles), is picturesque; but of the dry little town of seven hundred souls, with its rocky, undulating streets set in a break in the line of palisades, very little is to be seen from the river. Quarrying for paving-stones appears to be the chief pursuit of the Elizabethans. At Rose Clare, Ill., a string of shanties three miles below, are two idle plants of the Argyle Lead and Fluor-Spar Mining Co. Carrsville, Ky., is another arid, hillside hamlet, with striking escarpments stretching above and below for several miles. Mammoth boulders, a dozen or more feet in height, relics doubtless of once formidable cliffs, here line the riverside. The palisaded hills reappear in Illinois, commencing at Parkinson's Landing, a dreary little settlement on a waste of barren, stony slope flanking the perpendicular wall. Just above Golconda Island (890 miles), on the Illinois side, we were witness to a "meet" of farmers for a squirrel-hunt, a favorite amusement in these parts. There were five men upon a side, all carrying guns; as we passed, they were shaking hands, preparatory to separating for the battue. Upon the bank above, in a grove of cypress, pawpaw, and sycamore, their horses were standing, unhitched from the poles of the wagons in which they had been driven, and, tied to trees, feeding from boxes set upon the ground. It was pleasant to see that these people, who must lead dreary lives upon the malaria-stricken and flood-washed bottoms, occasionally take a holiday with a spice of rational adventure in it; although there is the probability that this squirrel-hunt may be followed to-night by a roystering at the village tavern, the losing side paying the score. We reached Stewart's Island (901 miles) at five o'clock, and went into camp upon the landing-beach of hard, white sand, facing Kentucky. The island is two miles long, the owner living in Bird's Point Landing, Ky., just below us--a rather shabby but picturesquely-situated little village, at the base of pretty, wooded hills. A hundred and fifty acres of the island are planted to corn, and the owner's laborers--a white overseer and five blacks--are housed a half-mile above us, in a rude cabin half-hidden in a generous maple grove. The white man soon came down to the strand, riding his mule, and both drank freely from the muddy river. He was a fairly-intelligent young fellow, and proud of his mount--no need of lines, he said, for "this yer mule; ye on'y say 'gee!' and 'haw!' and he done git thar ev'ry time, sir-r! 'Pears to me, he jist done think it out to hisself, like a man would. Hit ain't no use try'n' boss that yere mule, he's thet ugly when he's sot on 't--but jist pat him on th' naick and say, 'So thar, Solomon!' and thar ain't no one knows how to act better 'n he." As we were at dinner, in the twilight, the five negroes also came riding down the angling roadway, in picturesque single file, singing snatches of camp-meeting songs in that weird minor key with which we are so familiar in "jubilee" music. Across the river, a Kentucky darky, riding a mule along the dusky woodland road at the base of the hills, and evidently going home from his work in the fields, was singing at the top of his bent, apparently as a stimulus to failing courage. Our islanders shouted at him in derision. The shoreman's replies, which lacked not for spice, came clear and sharp across the half-mile of smooth water, and his tormentors quickly ceased chaffing. Having all drunk copiously, men and mules resumed their line of march up the bank, and disappeared as they came, still chanting the crude melodies of their people. An hour later, we could hear them at the cabin, singing "John Brown's Body" and other old friends--with the moon, bright and clear in its first quarter, adding a touch of romance to the scene. [Footnote A: See Chapter XIII.] [Footnote B: "Scrawled over by that class of aspiring travelers who defile noble monuments with their worthless names."--Irving, in _The Alhambra_.] CHAPTER XXI. The Cumberland and the Tennessee--Stately Solitudes--Old Fort Massac--Dead towns in Egypt--The last camp--Cairo. Opposite Metropolis, Ill., Saturday, June 9th.--As we were dressing this morning, at half-past five, the echoes were again awakened by the vociferous negro on the Kentucky shore, who was going out to his work again, as noisy as ever. One of our own black men walked down the bank, ostensibly to light his pipe at the breakfast fire, but really to satisfy a pardonable curiosity regarding us. The singing brother on the mainland appeared to amuse him, and he paused to listen, saying, "Dat yere nigger, he got too loud voice!" Then, when he had left our camp and regained the top of the bank, he leaned upon his hoe and yelled: "Say, niggah, ober dere! whar you git dat mule?" "Who you holl'rin' at, you brack island niggah?" was the quick reply. "You lan' niggah, you tink you smart!" "I'se so smart, I done want no liv'n' on island, wi' gang boss, 'n not 'lowed go 'way!" The tuneful darky had evidently here touched a tender spot, for our man turned back into the field to his work; and the other, kicking the mule into action, trotted off to the tune of "Dar's a meet'n' here, to-night!" We went up into the field, to see the laborers cultivating corn. The sun was blazing hot, without a breath of air stirring, but the great black fellows seemed to mind it not, chattering away to themselves like magpies, and keeping up their conversation by shouts, when separated from each other at the ends of plow-rows. A natural levee, eight and ten feet high, and studded with large tree-willows, rims in the island farm like the edge of a basin. We were told that this served as a barrier only against the June "fresh," for the regular spring floods invariably swamp the place; but what is left within the bowl, when the outer waters subside, soon leaches through the sandy soil. After passing the pretty shores of Dog Island, not far below, the bold, dark headland of Cumberland Island soon bursts upon our view. We follow the narrow eastern channel, in order to greet the Cumberland River (909 miles), which half-way down its island name-sake,--at the woe-begone little village of Smithland, Ky.--empties a generous flood into the Ohio. The Cumberland, perhaps a quarter-of-a-mile wide, debouches through high clay banks, which might readily be melted in the turbulent cross-currents produced by the mingling of the rivers; but to avoid this, the government engineers have built a wing-dam running out from the foot of the Cumberland, nearly half-way into the main river. This quickly unites the two streams, and the reinforced Ohio is thereafter perceptibly widened. Tramp steamers are numerous, on these lower reaches. We have seen perhaps a dozen such to-day, stopping at the farm landings as well as at the crude and infrequent hamlets,--mere notches of settlement in the wooded lines of shore,--doing a small business in chance cargoes and in passengers who flag them from the bank. A sultry atmosphere has been with us through the day. The glassy surface of the river has, when not lashed into foam by passing boats, dazzled the eyes most painfully. The hills, from below Stewart's Island, have receded on either side, generally leaving either low, broad, heavily-timbered bottoms, or high clay banks which stretch back wide plains of yellow and gray corn-land--frequently inundated, but highly productive. Now and then the encroaching river has remained too long in some belt of forest, and we have great clumps of dead trees, which spring aloft in stately picturesqueness, thickly-clad to the limb-tips with Virginia creeper. A bit of shaly hillside occasionally abuts upon the river, though less frequently than above; and often such a spur has lying at its feet a row of half-immersed boulders, delicately carpeted with mosses and with clinging vines. The Tennessee River (918 miles), the largest of the Ohio's tributaries, is, where it enters, about half the width of the latter. Coming down through a broad, forested bottom, with several pretty islands off its mouth, it presents a pleasing picture. Here again the government has been obliged to put in costly works to stop the ravages of the mingling torrents in the soft alluvial banks. The Ohio, with the united waters of the Cumberland and the Tennessee, henceforth flows majestically to the Mississippi, a full mile wide between her shores. Paducah (13,000 inhabitants), next to Louisville Kentucky's most important river port, lies on a high plain just below the Tennessee. It is a stirring little city, with the usual large proportion of negroes, and the out-door business life everywhere met with in the South. Saw-mills, iron plants, and ship-yards line the bank; at the wharf are large steamers doing a considerable business up the Cumberland and Tennessee, and between Paducah and Cairo and St. Louis; and there is a considerable ferry business to and from the Illinois suburb of Brooklyn. Seven miles below the Tennessee, on the Illinois side, we sought relief from the blazing sun within the mouth of Seven Mile Creek, which is cut deep through sloping banks of mud, and overhung by great sprawling sycamores. These always interest us from the generosity of their height and girth, and from their great variety of color-tones, induced by the patchy scaling of the bark--soft grays, buffs, greens, and ivory whites prevailing. When sufficiently refreshed in this cool bower, we ventured once more into the fierce light of the open river, and two miles below shot into the broader and more inviting Massac Creek (928 miles), just as, of old, George Rogers Clark did with his little flotilla, when _en route_ to capture Kaskaskia. Clark, in his Journal written long after the event, said that this creek is a mile above Fort Massac; his memory failed him--as a matter of fact, the steep, low hill of iron-stained gravel and clay, on which the old stronghold was built, is but two hundred yards below.[A] The French commander who, in October, 1758, evacuated and burned Fort Duquesne on the approach of the English army under General Forbes, dropped down the Ohio for nearly a thousand miles, and built "a new fort on a beautiful eminence on the north bank of the river." But there was a fortified post on this hillock at a much earlier date (about 1711), erected as a headquarters for missionaries, and to guard French fur-traders from marauding Cherokees; and Pownall's map notes one here in 1751. This fort of 1758 was but an enlarged edition of the old. The new stronghold, with a garrison of a hundred men, was the last built by the French upon the Ohio, and it was occupied by them until they evacuated the country in 1763. England does not appear to have made any attempt to repair and occupy the works then destroyed by the French, although urged to do so by her military agents in the West. Had they held Fort Massac, no doubt Clark's expedition to capture the Northwest for the Americans might easily have been nipped in the bud; as it was, the old fortress was a ruin when he "reposed" on the banks of the creek at its feet. When, in 1793-1794, the French agent Genet was fomenting his scheme for capturing Louisiana and Florida from Spain, by the aid of Western filibusters, old Fort Massac was thought of as a rallying-point and base of supplies; but St. Clair's proclamation of March 24, 1794, ordering General Wayne to restore and garrison the place, for the purpose of preventing the proposed expedition from passing down the river, ended the conspiracy, and Genet left the country. A year later, Spain, who had at intervals sought to detach the Westerners from the Union, and ally them with her interests beyond the Mississippi, renewed her attempts at corrupting the Kentuckians, and gained to her cause no less a man than George Rogers Clark himself. Among other designs, Fort Massac was to be captured by the adventurers, whom Spain was to supply with the sinews of war. There was much mysterious correspondence between the latter's corruption agent, Thomas Power, and the American General Wilkinson, at Detroit; but finally Power, in disguise, was sent out of the country under guard, by way of Fort Massac, and his escape into Spanish territory practically ended this interesting episode in Western history. The fort was occupied as a military post by our government until the close of the War of 1812-15; what we see to-day, are the ruins of the establishment then abandoned. No doubt the face of this rugged promontory of gravel has, within a century, suffered much from floods; but the remains of the earthwork on the crest of the cliff, some fifty feet above the present river-stage, are still easily traceable throughout. The fort was about forty yards square, with a bastion at each corner; there are the remains of an unstoned well near the center; the ditch surrounding the earthwork is still some two-and-a-half or three feet below the surrounding level, and the breastwork about two feet above the inner level; no doubt, palisades once surmounted the work, and were relied upon as the chief protection from assault. The grounds, a pleasant grassy grove several acres in extent, are now enclosed by a rail fence, and neatly maintained as a public park by the little city of Metropolis, which lies not far below. It was a commanding view of land and river, which was enjoyed by the garrison of old Fort Massac. Up stream, there is a straight stretch of eleven miles to the mouth of the Tennessee; both up and down, the shore lines are under full survey, until they melt away in the distance. No enemy could well surprise the holders of this key to the Lower Ohio. Our camp is on the sandy beach opposite Metropolis, and two hundred yards below the Kentucky end of the ferry. Behind us lies a deep forest, with sycamores six and eight feet in diameter; a country road curving off through the woods, to the sparse rustic settlement lying some two miles in the interior--on higher ground than this wooded bottom, which is annually overflowed. Now and then the blustering little steam-ferry comes across to land Kentucky farm-folk and their mules, going home from a Saturday's shopping in Metropolis. Occasionally a fisherman passes, lagging on his oars to scan us and our quarters; and from one of them, we purchased a fish. As the still, cool night crept on, Metropolis was astir; across the mile of intervening water, darted tremulous shafts of light; we heard voices singing and laughing, a fiddle in its highest notes, the puffing of a stationary engine, and the bay and yelp of countless dogs. Later, a packet swooped down with smothered roar, and threw its electric search-light on the city wharf, revealing a crowd of negroes gathered there, like moths in the radiance of a candle; there were gay shouts, and a mad scampering--we could see it all, as plainly as if in ordinary light it had been but a third of the distance; and then the roustabouts struck up a weird song as they ran out the gang-plank, and, laden with boxes and bales, began swarming ashore, like a procession of black ants carrying pupa cases. * * * * * Mound City Towhead, Sunday, 10th.--During the night, burglarious pigs would have raided our larder, but the crash of a falling kettle wakened us suddenly, as did geese the ancient Romans. The Doctor and I sallied forth in our pajamas, with clods of clay in hand, to send the enemy flying back into the forest, snorting and squealing with baffled rage. We were afloat at half-past seven, under an unclouded sky, with the sun sharply reflected from the smooth surface of the river, and the temperature rapidly mounting. The Fort Massac ridge extends down stream as far as Mound City, but soon degenerates into a ridge of clay varying in height from twenty-five to fifty feet above the water level. Upon the low-lying bottom of the Kentucky shore, is still an interminable dark line of forest. The settlements are meager, and now wholly in Illinois: For instance, Joppa (936 miles), a row of a half-dozen unpainted, dilapidated buildings, chiefly stores and abandoned warehouses, bespeaking a river traffic of the olden time, that has gone to decay; a hot, dreary, baking spot, this Joppa, as it lies sprawling upon the clay ridge, flanked by a low, wide gravel beach, on which gaunt, bell-ringing cows are wandering, eating the leaves of fallen trees, for lack of better pasturage. Our pilot map, of sixty years ago, records the presence of Wilkinsonville (942 miles), on the site of old Fort Wilkinson of the War of 1812-15, but no one along the banks appears to have ever heard of it; however, after much searching, we found the place for ourselves, on an eminence of fifty feet, with two or three farm-houses as the sole relics of the old establishment. Caledonia (Olmstead P.O.), nine miles down, consists of several large buildings on a hill set well back from the river. Mound City (959 miles),--the "America" of our time-worn map,--in whose outskirts we are camped to-night, is a busy town with furniture factories, lumber mills, ship-yards, and a railway transfer. Below that, stretches the vast extent of swamp and low woodland on which Cairo (967 miles) has with infinite pains been built--like "brave little Holland," holding her own against the floods solely by virtue of her encircling dike. Houseboats have been few, to-day, and they of the shanty order and generally stranded high upon the beach. One sees now and then, on the Illinois ridge, the cheap log or frame house of a "cracker," the very picture of desolate despair; but on the Kentucky shore are few signs of life, for the bottom lies so low that it is frequently inundated, and settlement ventures no nearer than two or three miles from the riverside. A fisherman comes occasionally into view, upon this wide expanse of wood and water and clay-banks; sometimes we hail him in passing, always getting a respectful answer, but a stare of innocent curiosity. Our last home upon the Ohio is facing the Kentucky shore, on the cleanly sand-beach of Mound City Towhead, a small island which in times of high water is but a bar. The tent is screened in a willow clump; just below us, on higher ground, sycamores soar heavenward, gayly festooned with vines, hiding from us Mound City and the Illinois mainland. Across the river, a Kentucky negro is singing in the gloaming; but it is over a mile away, and, while the tune is plain, the words are lost. Children's voices, and the bay of hounds, come wafted to us from the northern shore. A steamer's wake rolls along our island strand, dangerously near the camp-fire; the river is still falling, however, and we no longer fear the encroachments of the flood. The Doctor and I found a secluded nook, where in the moonlight we took our final plunge. It is sad, this bidding good-bye to the stream which has floated us so merrily for a thousand miles, from the mountains down to the plain. We elders linger long by the last camp-fire, to talk in fond reminiscence of the six weeks afloat; while the Boy no doubt dreams peacefully of houseboats and fishermen, of gigantic bridges and flashing steel-plants, of coal-mines and oil-wells, of pioneers and Indians, and all that--of six weeks of kaleidoscopic sensations, at an age when the mind is keenly active, and the heart open to impressions which can never be dimmed so long as his little life shall last. * * * * * Cairo, Monday, 11th.--At our island camp, last night, we were but nine miles from the mouth of the Ohio, a distance which could easily have been made before sundown; but we preferred to reach our destination in the morning, the better to arrange for railway transportation, hence our agreeable pause upon the Towhead. Before embarking for the last run, this morning, we made a neat heap on the beach, of such of our stores, edible and wearable, as had been requisite to the trip, but were not worth the cost of sending home. Feeling confident that some passing fisherman would soon be tempted ashore to inspect this curious landmark, and yet might be troubled by nice scruples as to the policy of appropriating the find, we conspicuously labeled it: "Abandoned by the owners! The finder is welcome to the lot." Quickly passing Mound City, now bustling with life, Pilgrim closely skirted the monotonous clay-banks of Illinois, swept rapidly under the monster railway bridge which stalks high above the flood, and loses itself over the tree-tops of the Kentucky bottom, and at a quarter-past eight o'clock was pulled up at Cairo, with the Mississippi in plain sight over there, through the opening in the forest. In another hour or two, she will be housed in a box-car; and we, her crew, having again donned the garb of landsmen, will be speeding toward our northern home, this pilgrimage but a memory. Such a memory! As we dropped below the Towhead, the Boy, for once silent, wistfully gazed astern. When at last Pilgrim had been hauled upon the railway levee, and the Doctor and I had gone to summon a shipping clerk, the lad looked pleadingly into W----'s face. In tones half-choked with tears, he expressed the sentiment of all: "Mother, is it really ended? Why can't we go back to Brownsville, and do it all over again?" [Footnote A: "In the evening of the same day I ran my Boats into a small Creek about one mile above the old Fort Missack; Reposed ourselves for the night, and in the morning took a Rout to the Northwest."--Clark's letter to Mason.] APPENDIX A. Historical outline of Ohio Valley settlement. Englishmen had no sooner set foot upon our continent, than they began to penetrate inland with the hope of soon reaching the Western Ocean, which the coast savages, almost as ignorant of the geography of the interior as the Europeans themselves, declared lay just beyond the mountains. In 1586, we find Ralph Lane, governor of Raleigh's ill-fated colony, leading his men up the Roanoke River for a hundred miles, only to turn back disheartened at the rapids and falls, which necessitated frequent portages through the forest jungles. Twenty years later (1606), Christopher Newport and the redoubtable John Smith, of Jamestown, ascended the James as far as the falls--now Richmond, Va.; and Newport himself, the following year, succeeded in reaching a point forty miles beyond, but here again was appalled by the difficulties and returned. There was, after this, a deal of brave talk about scaling the mountains; but nothing further was done until 1650, when Edward Bland and Edward Pennant again tried the Roanoke, though without penetrating the wilderness far beyond Lane's turning point. It is recorded that, in 1669, John Lederer, an adventurous German surgeon, commissioned as an explorer by Governor Berkeley, ascended to the summit of the Blue Ridge, in Madison County, Va.; but although he was once more on the spot the following season, with a goodly company of horsemen and Indians, and had a bird's-eye view of the over-mountain country, he does not appear to have descended into the world of woodland which lay stretched between him and the setting sun. It seems to be well established that the very next year (1671), a party under Abraham Wood, one of Governor Berkeley's major-generals, penetrated as far as the Great Falls of the Great Kanawha, only eighty miles from the Ohio--doubtless the first English exploration of waters flowing into the latter river. The Great Kanawha was, by Wood himself, called New River, but the geographers of the time styled it Wood's. The last title was finally dropped; the stream above the mouth of the Gauley is, however, still known as New. These several adventurers had now demonstrated that while the waters beyond the mountains were not the Western Ocean, they possibly led to such a sea; and it came to be recognized, too, that the continent was not as narrow as had up to this time been supposed. Meanwhile, the French of Canada were casting eager eyes toward the Ohio, as a gateway to the continental interior. But the French-hating Iroquois held fast the upper waters of the Mohawk, Delaware, and Susquehanna, and the long but narrow watershed sloping northerly to the Great Lakes, so that the westering Ohio was for many years sealed to New France. An important factor in American history this, for it left the great valley practically free from whites while the English settlements were strengthening on the seaboard; when at last the French were ready aggressively to enter upon the coveted field, they had in the English colonists formidable and finally successful rivals. It is believed by many, and the theory is not unreasonable, that the great French fur-trader and explorer, La Salle, was at the Falls of the Ohio (site of Louisville) "in the autumn or early winter of 1669." How he got there, is another question. Some antiquarians believe that he reached the Alleghany by way of the Chautauqua portage, and descended the Ohio to the Falls; others, that he ascended the Maumee from Lake Erie, and, descending the Wabash, thus, discovered the Ohio. It was reserved for the geographer Franquelin to give, in his map of 1688, the first fairly-accurate idea of the Ohio's path; and Father Hennepin's large map of 1697 showed that much had meanwhile been learned about the river. No doubt, by this time, the great waterway was well-known to many of the most adventurous French and English fur-traders, possibly better to the latter than to the former; unfortunately, these men left few records behind them, by which to trace their discoveries. As early as 1684, we incidentally hear of the Ohio as a principal route for the Iroquois, who brought peltries "from the direction of the Illinois" to the English at Albany, and the French at Quebec. Two years after this, ten English trading-canoes, loaded with goods, were seen on Lake Erie by French agents, who in great alarm wrote home to Quebec about them. Writes De Nonville to Seignelay, "I consider it a matter of importance to preclude the English from this trade, as they doubtless would entirely ruin ours--as well by the cheaper bargains they would give the Indians, as by attracting to themselves the French of our colony who are in the habit of resorting to the woods." Herein lay the gist of the whole matter: The legalized monopoly granted to the great fur-trade companies of New France, with the official corruption necessary to create and perpetuate that monopoly, made the French trade an expensive business, consequently goods were dear. On the other hand, the trade of the English was untrammeled, and a lively competition lowered prices. The French cajoled the Indians, and fraternized with them in their camps; whereas, the English despised the savages, and made little attempt to disguise their sentiments. The French, while claiming all the country west of the Alleghanies, cared little for agricultural colonization; they would keep the wilderness intact, for the fostering of wild animals, upon the trade in whose furs depended the welfare of New France--and this, too, was the policy of the savage. By English statesmen at home, our continental interior was also chiefly prized for its forest trade, which yielded rich returns for the merchant adventurers of London. The policies of the English colonists and of their general government were ever clashing. The latter looked upon the Indian trade as an entering wedge; they thought of the West as a place for growth. Close upon the heels of the path-breaking trader, went the cattle-raiser, and, following him, the agricultural settler looking for cheap, fresh, and broader lands. No edicts of the Board of Trade could repress these backwoodsmen; savages could and did beat them back for a time, but the annals of the border are lurid with the bloody struggle of the borderers for a clearing in the Western forest. The greater part of them were Scotch-Irish from Pennsylvania, Virginia, the Carolinas--a hardy race, who knew not defeat. Steadily they pushed back the rampart of savagery, and won the Ohio valley for civilization. The Indian early recognized the land-grabbing temper of the English, and felt that a struggle to the death was impending. The French browbeat their savage allies, and, easily inflaming their passions, kept the body of them almost continually at war with the English--the Iroquois excepted, not because the latter were English-lovers, or did not understand the aim of English colonization, but because the earliest French had won their undying enmity. Amidst all this weary strife, the Indian, a born trader who dearly loved a bargain, never failed to recognize that the goods of his French friends were dear, and that those of his enemies, the English, were cheap. We find frequent evidences that for a hundred years the tribesmen of the Upper Lakes carried on an illicit trade with the hated English, whenever the usually-wary French were thought to be napping. It is certain that English forest traders were upon the Ohio in the year 1700. In 1715,--the year before Governor Spotswood of Virginia, "with much feasting and parade," made his famous expedition over the Blue Ridge,--there was a complaint that traders from Carolina had reached the villages on the Wabash, and were poaching on the French preserves. French military officers built little log stockades along that stream, and tried in vain to induce the Indians of the valley to remove to St. Joseph's River, out of the sphere of English influence. Everywhere did French traders meet English competitors, who were not to be frightened by orders to move off the field. New France, therefore, determined to connect Canada and Louisiana by a chain of forts throughout the length of the Mississippi basin, which should not only secure untrammeled communication between these far-separated colonies, but aid in maintaining French supremacy throughout the region. Yet in 1725 we still hear of "the English from Carolina" busily trading with the Miamis under the very shadow of the guns of Fort Ouiatanon (near Lafayette, Ind.), and the French still vainly scolding thereat. What was going on upon the Wabash, was true elsewhere in the Ohio basin, as far south as the Creek towns on the sources of the Tennessee. About this time, Pennsylvania and Virginia began to exhibit interest in their own overlapping claims to lands in the country northwest of the Ohio. Those colonies were now settled close to the base of the mountains, and there was heard a popular clamor for pastures new. French ownership of the over-mountain region was denied, and in 1728 Pennsylvania "viewed with alarm the encroachments of the French." The issue was now joined; both sides claimed the field, but, as usual, the contest was at first among the rival forest traders. In the Virginia and Pennsylvania capitals, the transmontane country was still a misty region. In 1729, Col. William Byrd, an authority on things Virginian, was able to write that nothing was then known in that colony of the sources of the Potomac, Roanoke, and Shenandoah. It was not until 1736 that Col. William Mayo, in laying out the boundaries of Lord Fairfax's generous estate, discovered in the Alleghanies the head-spring of the Potomac, where ten years later was planted the famous "Fairfax Stone," the southwest point of the boundary between Virginia and Maryland. That very same year (1746), M. de Léry, chief engineer of New France, went with a detachment of troops from Lake Erie to Chautauqua Lake, and proceeded thence by Conewango Creek and Alleghany River to the Ohio, which he carefully surveyed down to the mouth of the Great Miami. Affairs moved slowly in those days. New France was corrupt and weak, and the English colonists, unaided by the home government, were not strong. For many years, nothing of importance came out of this rivalry of French and English in the Ohio Valley, save the petty quarrels of fur-traders, and the occasional adventure of some Englishman taken prisoner by Indians in a border foray, and carried far into the wilderness to meet with experiences the horror of which, as preserved in their published narratives, to this day causes the blood of the reader to curdle. Now and then, there were voluntary adventurers into these strange lands. Such were John Howard, John Peter Salling, and two other Virginians who, the story goes, went overland (1740 or 1741) under commission of their inquisitive governor, to explore the country to the Mississippi. They went down Coal and Wood's Rivers to the Ohio, which in Salling's journal is called the "Alleghany." Finally, a party of French, negroes, and Indians took them prisoners and carried them to New Orleans, where on meager fare they were held in prison for eighteen months. They escaped at last, and had many curious adventures by land and sea, until they reached home, from which they had been absent two years and three months. There are now few countries on the globe where a party of travelers could meet with adventures such as these. At last, the plot thickened; the tragedy was hastened to a close. France now formally asserted her right to all countries drained by streams emptying into the St. Lawrence, the Great Lakes, and the Mississippi. This vast empire would have extended from the comb of the Rockies on the west--discovered in 1743 by the brothers La Vérendrye--to the crest of the Appalachians on the east, thus including the western part of New York and New England. The narrow strip of the Atlantic coast alone would have been left to the domination of Great Britain. The demand made by France, if acceded to, meant the death-blow to English colonization on the American mainland; and yet it was made not without reason. French explorers, missionaries, and fur-traders had, with great enterprise and fortitude, swarmed over the entire region, carrying the flag, the religion, and the commerce of France into the farthest forest wilds; while the colonists of their rival, busy in solidly welding their industrial commonwealths, had as yet scarcely peeped over the Alleghany barrier. It was asserted on behalf of Great Britain, that the charters of her coast colonies carried their bounds far into the West; further, that as, by the treaty of Utrecht (1713), France had acknowledged the suzerainty of the British king over the Iroquois confederacy, the English were entitled to all lands "conquered" by those Indians, whose war-paths had extended from the Ottawa River on the north to the Carolinas on the south, and whose forays reached alike to the Mississippi and to New England. In this view was made, in 1744, the famous treaty at Lancaster, Pa., whereat the Iroquois, impelled by rum and presents, pretended to give to the English entire control of the Ohio Valley, under the claim that the former had in various encounters conquered the Shawanese of that region and were therefore entitled to it. It is obvious that a country occasionally raided by marauding bands of savages, whose homes are far away, cannot properly be considered theirs by conquest. Meanwhile, both sides were preparing to occupy and hold the contested field. New France already had a weak chain of waterside forts and commercial stations,--the rendezvous of fur-traders, priests, travelers, and friendly Indians,--extending, with long intervening stretches of savage-haunted wilderness, through the heart of the continent, from Lower Canada to her outlying post of New Orleans. It is not necessary here to enter into the details of the ensuing French and Indian War, the story of which Parkman has told us so well. Suffice it briefly to mention a few only of its features, so far as they affect the Ohio itself. The Iroquois, although concluding with the English this treaty of Lancaster, "on which, as a corner-stone, lay the claim of the colonists to the West," were by this time, as the result of wily French diplomacy, growing suspicious of their English protectors; at the same time, having on several occasions been severely punished by the French, they were less rancorous in their opposition to New France. For this reason, just as the English were getting ready to make good their claim to the Ohio by actual colonization, the Iroquois began to let in the French at the back door. In 1749, Galissonière, then governor of New France, dispatched to the great valley a party of soldiers under Céloron de Bienville, with directions to conduct a thorough exploration, to bury at the mouths of principal streams lead plates graven with the French claim,--a custom of those days,--and to drive out English traders, Céloron proceeded over the Lake Chautauqua route, from Lake Erie to the Alleghany River, and thence down the Ohio to the Miami, returning to Lake Erie over the old Maumee portage. English traders, who could not be driven out, were found swarming into the country, and his report was discouraging. The French realized that they could not maintain connection between New Orleans and their settlements on the St. Lawrence, if driven from the Ohio valley. The governor sent home a plea for the shipment of ten thousand French peasants to settle the region; but the government at Paris was just then as indifferent to New France as was King George to his colonies, and the settlers were not sent. Meanwhile, the English were not idle. The first settlement they made west of the mountains, was on New River, a branch of the Kanawha (1748); in the same season, several adventurous Virginians hunted and made land-claims in Kentucky and Tennessee. Before the close of the following year (1749), there had been formed, for fur-trading and colonizing purposes, the Ohio Company, composed of wealthy Virginians, among whom were two brothers of Washington. King George granted the company five hundred thousand acres, south of and along the Ohio River, on which they were to plant a hundred families and build and maintain a fort. As a base of supplies, they built a fortified trading-house at Will's Creek (now Cumberland, Md.), near the head of the Potomac, and developed a trail ("Nemacolin's Path"), sixty miles long, across the Laurel Hills to the mouth of Redstone Creek, on the Monongahela, where was built another stockade (1752). Christopher Gist, a famous backwoodsman, was sent (1750), the year after Céloron's expedition, to explore the country as far down as the falls of the Ohio, and select lands for the new company. Gist's favorable report greatly stimulated interest in the Western country. In his travels, he met many Scotch-Irish fur-traders who had passed into the West through the mountain valleys of Pennsylvania, Virginia, and the Carolinas. His negotiations with the natives were of great value to the English cause. It was early seen, by English and French alike, that an immense advantage would accrue to the nation first in possession of what is now the site of Pittsburg, the meeting-place of the Monongahela and Alleghany rivers to form the Ohio--the "Forks of the Ohio," as it was then called. In the spring of 1753, a French force occupied the new fifteen-mile portage route between Presque Isle (Erie, Pa.) and French Creek, a tributary of the Alleghany. On the banks of French Creek they built Fort Le Boeuf, a stout log-stockade. It had been planned to erect another fort at the Forks of the Ohio, one hundred and twenty miles below; but disease in the camp prevented the completion of the scheme. What followed is familiar to all who have taken any interest whatever in Western history. In November, Governor Dinwiddie, of Virginia, sent one of his major-generals, young George Washington, with Gist as a companion, to remonstrate with the French at Le Boeuf for occupying land "so notoriously known to be the property of the Crown of Great Britain." The French politely turned the messengers back. In the following April (1754), Washington set out with a small command, by the way of Will's Creek, to forcibly occupy the Forks. His advance party were building a fort there, when the French appeared and easily drove them off. Then followed Washington's defeat at Great Meadows (July 4). The French were now supreme at their new Fort Duquesne. The following year, General Braddock set out from Virginia, also by Nemacolin's Path; but, on that fateful ninth of July, fell in the slaughter-pen which had been set for him at Turtle Creek by the Indians of the Upper Lakes, under the leadership of a French fur-trader from far-off Wisconsin. From the time of Braddock's defeat until the close of the war, French traders, with savage allies, poured the vials of their wrath upon the encroaching settlements of the English backwoodsmen. Nemacolin's Path, now known as Braddock's Road, made for the Indians of the Ohio an easy pathway to the English borders of Pennsylvania, Virginia, and Maryland. In the parallel valleys of the Alleghanies was waged a partisan warfare, which in bitterness has probably not had its equal in all the long history of the efforts of expanding civilization to beat down the encircling walls of barbarism. In 1758, Canada was attacked by several English expeditions, the most of which were successful. One of these was headed by General John Forbes, and directed against Fort Duquesne. After a remarkable forest march, overcoming mighty obstacles, Forbes arrived at his destination to find that the French had blown up the fortifications, some of the troops retreating to Lake Erie and others to rehabilitate Fort Massac on the Lower Ohio. Thus England gained possession of the valley. New France had been cut in twain. The English Fort Pitt commanded the Forks of the Ohio, and French rule in America was now doomed. The fall of Quebec soon followed (1759), then of Montreal (1760); and in 1763 was signed the Treaty of Paris, by which England obtained possession of all the territory east of the Mississippi River, except the city of New Orleans and a small outlying district. In order to please the savages of the interior, and to cultivate the fur-trade,--perhaps also, to act as a check upon the westward growth of the too-ambitious coast colonies,--King George III. took early occasion to command his "loving subjects" in America not to purchase or settle lands beyond the mountains, "without our especial leave and license." It is needless to say that this injunction was not obeyed. The expansion of the English colonies in America was irresistible; the Great West was theirs, and they proceeded in due time to occupy it. Long before the close of the French and Indian War, English colonists--whom we will now, for convenience, call Americans--had made agricultural settlements in the Ohio basin. As early as 1752, we have seen, the Redstone fort was built. In 1753, the French forces, on retiring from Great Meadows, burned several log cabins on the Monongahela. The interesting story of the colonizing of the Redstone district, at the western end of Braddock's Road, has been outlined in Chapter I. of the text; and it has been shown, in the course of the narrative of the pilgrimage, how other districts were slowly settled in the face of savage opposition. Although driven back in numerous Indian wars, these American borderers had come to the Ohio valley to stay. We have seen the early attempt of the Ohio Company to settle the valley. Its agents blazed the way, but the French and Indian War, and the Revolution soon following, tended to discourage the aspirations of the adventurers, and the organization finally lapsed. Western land speculators were as active in those days as now, and Washington was chief among them. We find him first interested in the valley, through broad acres acquired on land-grants issued for military services in the French and Indian War; Revolutionary bounty claims made him a still larger landholder on Western waters; and, to the close of the century, he was actively interested in schemes to develop the region. We are not in the habit of so regarding him, but both by frequent personal presence in the Ohio valley, and extensive interests at stake there, the Father of his Country was the most conspicuous of Western pioneers. Dearly did Washington love the West, which he knew so well; when the Revolutionary cause looked dark, and it seemed possible that England might seize the coast settlements, he is said to have cried, "We will retire beyond the mountains, and be free!" and in his declining years he seemed to regret that he was too old to join his former comrades of the camp, in their colony at Marietta. As early as 1754, Franklin, in his famous Albany Plan of Union for the colonies, had a device for establishing new states in the West, upon lands purchased from the Indians. In 1773, he displayed interest in the Walpole plan for another colony,--variously called Pittsylvania, Vandalia, and New Barataria--with its proposed capital at the mouth of the Great Kanawha. There were, too, several other Western colonial schemes,--among them the Henderson colony of Transylvania, between the Cumberland and the Tennessee, the seat of which was Boonesborough. Readers of Roosevelt well know its brief but brilliant career, intimately connected with the development of Tennessee and Kentucky. But the most of these hopeful enterprises came to grief with the political secession of the colonies; and when the coast States ceded their Western land-claims to the new general government, and the Ordinance of 1787 provided for the organization of the Territory Northwest of the River Ohio, there was no room for further enterprises of this character.[A] The story of the Ohio is the story of the West. With the close of the Revolution, came a rush of travel down the great river. It was more or less checked by border warfare, which lasted until 1794; but in that year, Anthony Wayne, at the Battle of Fallen Timbers, broke the backbone of savagery east of the Mississippi; the Tecumseh uprising (1812-13) came too late seriously to affect the dwellers on the Ohio. There were two great over-mountain highways thither, one of them being Braddock's Road, with Redstone (now Brownsville, Pa.) and Pittsburg as its termini; the other was Boone's old trail, or Cumberland Gap. With the latter, this sketch has naught to do. By the close of the Revolution, Pittsburg--in Gist's day, but a squalid Indian village, and a fording-place--was still only "a distant out-post, merely a foothold in the Far West." By 1785, there were a thousand people there, chiefly engaged in the fur-trade and in forwarding emigrants and goods to the rapidly-growing settlements on the middle and lower reaches of the river. The population had doubled by 1803. By 1812 there was to be seen here just the sort of bustling, vicious frontier town, with battlement-fronts and ragged streets, which Buffalo and then Detroit became in after years. Cincinnati and Chicago, St. Louis and Kansas City, had still later, each in turn, their share of this experience; and, not many years ago, Bismarck, Omaha, and Leadville. From Philadelphia and Baltimore and Richmond, there were running to Pittsburg or Redstone regular lines of stages for the better class of passengers; freight wagons laden with immense bales of goods were to be seen in great caravans, which frequently were "stalled" in the mud of the mountain roads; emigrants from all parts of the Eastern States, and many countries of Europe, often toiled painfully on foot over these execrable highways, with their bundles on their backs, or following scrawny cattle harnessed to makeshift vehicles; and now and then came a well-to-do equestrian with his pack-horses,--generally an Englishman,--who was out to see the country, and upon his return to write a book about it. At Pittsburg, and points on the Alleghany, Youghiogheny, and Monongahela, were boat-building yards which turned out to order a curious medley of craft--arks, flat- and keel-boats, barges, pirogues, and schooners of every design conceivable to fertile brain. Upon these, travelers took passage for the then Far West, down the swift-rolling Ohio. There have descended to us a swarm of published journals by English and Americans alike, giving pictures, more or less graphic, of the men and manners of the frontier; none is without interest, even if in its pages the priggish author but unconsciously shows himself, and fails to hold the mirror up to the rest of nature. With the introduction of steamboats,--the first was in 1811, but they were slow to gain headway against popular prejudice,--the old river life, with its picturesque but rowdy boatmen, its unwieldy flats and keels and arks, began to pass away, and water traffic to approach the prosaic stage; the crossing of the mountains by the railway did away with the boisterous freighters, the stages, and the coaching-taverns; and when, at last, the river became paralleled by the iron way, the glory of the steamboat epoch itself faded, riverside towns adjusted themselves to the new highways of commerce, new centers arose, and "side-tracked" ports fell into decay. [Footnote A: See Turner's "Western State-Making in the Revolutionary Era," in _Amer. Hist. Rev._, Vol. I.; also, Alden's "New Governments West of the Alleghanies," _Bull. Univ. Wis._, Hist. Series, Vol. II.] APPENDIX B. Selected list of Journals of previous travelers down the Ohio. _Gist, Christopher._ Gist's Journals; with historical, geographical, and ethnological notes, and biographies of his contemporaries, by William M. Darlington. Pittsburg, 1893. Gist's trip down the valley, from October, 1750, to May, 1751, was on horseback, as far as the site of Frankfort, Ky. On his second trip into Kentucky, from November, 1751, to March 11, 1752, he touched the river at few points. _Gordon, Harry._ Extracts from the Journal of Captain Harry Gordon, chief engineer in the Western department in North America, who was sent from Fort Pitt, on the River Ohio, down the said river, etc., to Illinois, in 1766. Published in Pownall's "Topographical Description of North America," Appendix, p. 2. _Washington, George._ Journal of a tour to the Ohio River. [Writings, ed. by Ford, vol. II. New York, 1889.] The trip lasted from October 5 to December 1, 1770. The party went in boats from Fort Pitt, as far down as the mouth of the Great Kanawha. This journal is the best on the subject, written in the eighteenth century. _Pownall, T._ A topographical description of such parts of North America as are contained in the [annexed] map of the Middle British Colonies, etc. London, 1776. Contains "Extracts from Capt. Harry Gordon's Journal," "Extracts from Mr. Lewis Evans' Journal" of 1743, and "Christopher Gist's Journal" of 1750-51. _Hutchins, Thomas._ Topographical description of Virginia, Pennsylvania, Maryland, and North Carolina, comprehending the Rivers Ohio, Kenhawa, Sioto, Cherokee, Wabash, Illinois, Mississippi, etc. London, 1778. _St. John, M._ Lettres d'un cultivateur Americain. Paris, 1787, 3 vols. Vol. 3 contains an account of the author's boat trip down the river, in 1784. _De Vigni, Antoine F. S._ Relation of his voyage down the Ohio River from Pittsburg to the Falls, in 1788. Graphic and animated account by a French physician who came out with the Scioto Company's immigrants to Gallipolis. Given in "Proc. Amer. Antiq. Soc.", Vol. XI., pp. 369-380. _May, John._ Journal and letters [to the Ohio country, 1788-89], Cincinnati, 1873. One of the best, for economic views. May was a Boston merchant. _Forman, Samuel S._ Narrative of a journey down the Ohio and Mississippi in 1789-90. With a memoir and illustrative notes, by Lyman C. Draper. Cincinnati, 1888. A lively and appreciative account. Touches social life at the garrisons, _en route_. _Ellicott, Andrew._ Journal of the late commissioner on behalf of the United States during part of the year 1796, the years 1797, 1798, 1799, and part of the year 1800: for determining the boundary between the United States and Spain. Philadelphia, 1803. His trip down the river was in 1796. _Baily, Francis._ Journal of a tour in unsettled parts of North America, in 1796 and 1797. London, 1856. The author's river voyage was in 1796. _Harris, Thaddeus Mason._ Journal of a tour into the territory northwest of the Alleghany Mountains; made in the spring of the year 1803. Boston, 1805. A valuable work. The author traveled on a flatboat. _Michaux, F. A._ Travels to the west of the Alleghany Mountains. London (2nd ed.), 1805. Excellent, for economic conditions. The expedition was made in 1802. _Ashe, Thomas._ Travels in America, performed in 1806. London, 1808. Among the best of the early journals, although abounding in exaggerations. _Cuming, F._ Sketches of a tour to the Western country, etc., commenced in 1807 and concluded in 1809. Pittsburg, 1810. _Bradbury, John._ Travels [1809-11] in the interior of America. Liverpool, 1817. _Melish, John._ Travels in the United States of America [1811]. Philadelphia, 1812, 2 vols. Vol. 2 contains the journal of the author's voyage down the river, in a skiff. The account of means of early navigation is graphic. _Flint, Timothy._ Recollections of the last ten years. Boston, 1826. There is no better account of boats, and river life generally, in 1814-15, the time of Flint's voyage. _Fearon, Henry Bradshaw._ Sketches of America [1817]. London, 1819. _Palmer, John._ Journal of travels in the United States of North America [1817]. London, 1818. _Evans, Estwick._ A pedestrian tour [1818] of four thousand miles through the Western states and territories. Concord, N. H., 1819. _Birkbeck, Morris._ Notes on a journey in America, from the coast of Virginia to the Territory of Illinois. London, 1818. The author traveled, in 1817, by light wagon from Richmond to Pittsburg; and from Pittsburg to Cincinnati by horseback. This book, interesting for economic conditions, together with the author's "Letters from Illinois," did much to inspire emigration to Illinois from England. His English colony, at English Prairie, Ill., was much visited by travelers of the period. _Faux, W._ Journal of a tour to the United States [in 1819]. Excellent pictures of American life and agricultural methods, by an English gentleman farmer. Attacks Birkbeck's roseate views. _Ogden, George W._ Letters from the West, comprising a tour through the Western country [1821], and a residence of two summers in the States of Ohio and Kentucky. New Bedford, Mass., 1823. _Welby, Adlard._ A visit to North America and the English settlements in Illinois. London, 1821. The author went by horseback, occasionally touching the river towns. _Beltrami, J. C._ Pilgrimage in Europe and America. London, 1828, 2 vols. In Vol. II the author describes a steamboat journey in 1823, from Pittsburg to the mouth. _Hall, James._ Letters from the West. London, 1828. Valuable for scenery, manners, and customs, and anecdotes of early Western settlement. _Anonymous._ The Americans as they are; described by a tour through the valley of the Mississippi. London, 1828. _Trollope, Mrs._ [Frances M.]. Domestic manners of the Americans. London and New York, 1832. A lively caricature, the precursor of Dickens' "American Notes." Mrs. Trollope's voyages on the Ohio were in 1828 and 1830. _Vigne, Godfrey T._ Six months in America. London, 1832, 2 vols. _Hamilton, T._ Men and manners in America. Philadelphia, 1833. Includes a steamboat journey from Pittsburg to New Orleans. _Alexander, Capt. J. E._ Transatlantic sketches. London, 1833, 2 vols. Vol. II. has an account of a trip up the river. _Stuart, James._ Three years in North America. New York, 1833, 2 vols. Vol. II. includes a voyage up the Ohio. The author takes issue, throughout, with Mrs. Trollope. _Brackenridge, H. M._ Recollections of persons and places in the West. Philadelphia, 1834. Describes river trips, during the first decade of the century. _Tudor, Henry._ Narrative of a tour [1831-32] in North America. London, 1834, 2 vols. The Ohio trip is in Vol. II. _Arfwedson, C. D._ The United States and Canada, in 1832, 1833, and 1834. London, 1834, 2 vols. In Vol. II is a report of a steamboat trip up the river. _Latrobe, Charles Joseph._ The rambler in North America. New York, 1835, 2 vols. Vol. II has an account of a descending steamboat voyage. _Anonymous._ A winter in the West. By a New Yorker. New York (2nd ed.), 1835, 2 vols. In Vol. I. is an entertaining account of a stage-coach ride in 1833, from Pittsburg to Cleveland, touching all settlements on the Upper Ohio down to Beaver River. _Nichols, Thomas L._ Forty years of American life. London, 1864, 2 vols. In Vol. I. the author tells of a steamboat tour from Pittsburg to New Orleans, in 1840. _Dickens, Charles._ American notes. New York, 1842. Dickens, in 1841, traveled in steamboats from Pittsburg to St. Louis. His dyspeptic comments on life and manners in the United States, at the time grated harshly on the ears of our people; but afterward, they grew strong and wise enough to smile at them. The book is to-day, like Mrs. Trollope's, entertaining reading for an American. _Rubio_ (pseud.). Rambles in the United States and Canada, in 1845. London, 1846. A typical English growler, who thinks America "the most disagreeable of all disagreeable countries;" nevertheless, he says of the Ohio, "a finer thousand miles of river scenery could hardly be found in the wide world." _Mackay, Alex._ The Western world; or, travels in the United States in 1846-47. London, 1849. Good for its character sketches, glimpses of slavery, and report of economic conditions. _Robertson, James._ A few months in America [winter of 1853-54]. London, n. d. Chiefly statistical. _Murray, Charles Augustus._ Travels in North America. London, 1854, 2 vols. Vol. I has the Ohio-river trip. The author is an appreciative Englishman, and tells his story well. _Murray, Henry A._ Lands of the slave and the free. London, 1855, 2 vols. In Vol. I is an account of an Ohio-river voyage. _Ferguson, William._ America by river and rail [in 1855]. London, 1856. _Lloyd, James T._ Steamboat directory, and disasters on the Western waters. Cincinnati, 1856. Valuable for stories and records of the early days of river transportation. _Anonymous._ A short American tramp in the fall of 1864. By the editor of "Life in Normandy." Edinburgh, 1865. An English geologist's journal. Distorted and overdrawn, on the travel side. He took steamer from St. Louis to Cincinnati. _Bishop, Nathaniel H._ Four months in a sneak-box. Boston, 1879. The author, in the winter of 1875-76, voyaged in an open boat from Pittsburg to New Orleans, and along the Gulf coast to Florida. INDEX. Aberdeen, Ky., 167. Albany, N.Y., 299, 316. Alden, George H., 316. Alexander, J. E., 325. Alexandria, O., 151. Alexandria, Va., 131. Allegheny City, Pa., 21. Alton, Ind., 224, 228, 231, 233, 234. America, Ill. _See_ Mound City, Ill. Antiquity, O., 115. Arfwedson, C. D., 326. Ashe, Thomas, 114, 273, 323. Ashland, Ky., 142, 143. Athalia, O., 136. Audubon, John James, 257, 258. Augusta, Ky., 170, 171. Aurora, Ind., 186, 187. Baker's Bottom, W. Va., 36. Baily, Francis, 322. Baltimore, 162, 318. Barlow, Joel, 130, 131. Bearsville, O., 73, 74. Beaver, Pa., 27-30. Belpré, O., 100-102. Beltrami, J. C., 324. Berkeley, Sir William, 297. Bethlehem, Ind., 260. Big Bone Lick, 152, 153, 191, 195-198, 268. Big Grave Creek, 62-66. Bird's Point Landing, Ky., 277. Birkbeck, Morris, 323, 324. Bishop, Nathaniel H., 328. Bismarck, N. D., 318. Bland, Edward, 297. Blennerhassett, Harman, 95-98. Blennerhassett's Island, 95-98, 101. Blue Lick, 160. Boone, Daniel, 142, 206. Boonesborough, Ky., 316. Boone's Trail. _See_ Wilderness Road. Brackenridge, H. M., 325, 326. Bradbury, John, 323. Braddock, Gen. Edward, 4, 16, 17, 128, 312. Braddock, Pa., 17. Braddock's Road, 4, 12, 160, 312, 314, 317. Brandenburg, Ind., 223, 224. Bridgeport, O., 60. Broderickville, O., 137. Brooklyn, Ill., 284. Brown's Islands, 265, 266. Brownsville, Pa., 1-6, 8, 12, 15, 19, 30, 61, 129, 131, 160, 162, 180, 295, 314, 317, 318. Buffalo, N. Y., 318. Burlington, O., 137. Burr, Aaron, 96, 97. Butler's Run, 67. Byrd, Col. William, 304. Cairo, Ill., 7, 15, 222, 284, 291, 294, 295. California, O., 180. Caledonia, Ill. _See_ Olmstead, Ill. Cannelton, Ind., 242. Captina, O., 70, 71. Captina Creek, 67, 70-72. Captina Island, 69, 70. Carrollton, Ky., 206. Carrsville, Ky., 276. Catlettsburg, Ky., 137, 141. Cave-in-Rock, Ill., 273, 274. Céleron de Bienville, 90, 125, 309, 310. Ceredo, W. Va., 137, 141. Charleroi, Pa., 5, 8, 9. Charleston, W. Va., 115, 127. Chartier, Pa., 5, 8, 9. Chartier's Creek, 23. Cherokee Indians, 286. Cheshire, O., 119. Chesapeake & Ohio railway, 172. Chicago, 318. Chillicothe, O., 152, 179. Chilo, O., 170. Cincinnati, 88, 157, 159, 162, 170, 177-184, 217, 252, 318, 324, 328. Circleville, O., 102. Clark, George Rogers, 4, 5, 70, 72, 73, 94, 159, 178, 179, 218-220, 264, 285-287. Clarksville, Ind., 219, 220. Cloverport, Ky., 239-242. Coal Valley, Pa., 13. Collins, Richard H., 153. Columbia, O., 180. Concordia, Ky., 234, 235. Conewango Creek, 304. Connolly, Dr. John, 218. Conwell, Yates, 72. Corn Island, 219, 220. Cornstalk, Shawanee chief, 128, 129, 221. Covington, Ky., 178, 183, 184. Crawford, Col. William, 46. Creek Indians, 303. Cresap, Michael, 67. Cresap's Bottom, 72. Croghan, George, 91, 95, 114, 152. Crooked Creek, 130, 244. Cumberland, Md., 310. Cumberland Gap, 127, 160-162, 317. Cumberland Island, 282. Cumberland Pike. _See_ Braddock's Road. Cuming, F., 322, 323. Curran, Barney, 29. Cypress Bend, 260. Darlington, William M., 320. Doddridge, Joseph, 115. Deep Water Landing, Ind., 234. De Léry, Gaspard Chaussegros, 304. Denman, Matthias, 179. De Nonville, Gov. Jacques René de Brisay, 300. Derby, Ky., 235-237, 243, 244. Detroit, Mich., 287, 318. De Vigni, Antoine F. S., 321. Diamond Island, 264. Dickens, Charles, 66, 325, 326. Dillon's Bottom, 66. Dinwiddie, Gov. Robert, 311. Dog Island, 281, 282. Dover, Ky., 170. Draper, Lyman C., 321. Dravosburg, Pa., 13. Dufour, John James, 204, 205. Dunkard Creek, 72. Dunlap Creek, 3. Dunmore, Lord, 23, 61, 102, 103, 125-129, 218, 221. East Liverpool, O., 35. Economy, Pa., 26. Elizabeth, Pa., 12, 15. Elizabethtown, Ill., 275, 276. Ellicott, Andrew, 181, 322. Emmerick's Landing, Ky., 244. English Prairie, Ill., 324. Enterprise, Ind., 254. Erie, Pa., 311. Evans, Estwick, 323. Evans, Lewis, 321. Evansville, Ind., 255, 256, 260, 265. Fairfax, Lord, 304. Fallen Timbers, 181, 317. Falls of Ohio. _See_ Louisville, Ky. Faux, W., 324. Fearon, Henry Bradshaw, 323. Ferguson, William, 327. Filson, John, 179-181. Fish Creek, 72, 73. Fishing Creek, 74. Flint, Timothy, 162, 163, 181, 323. Forbes, Gen. John, 285, 313. Forks of the Ohio. _See_ Pittsburg. Forman, Samuel S., 322. Foreman, Capt. William, 63. Fort Charlotte, 221. Duquesne, 16, 17, 285, 312, 313. _See_ Pittsburg. Fincastle, 61. Finney, 180. Gower, 102, 103, 129. Harmar, 91. Henry, 61. Le Boeuf, 15, 26, 311, 312. Massac, 285-288, 290, 313. Necessity, 4. Pitt, 127, 129, 160-162. _See_ Pittsburg. Randolph, 129. Washington, 180. Wilkinson, 291. Foster, Ky., 170, 171. Frampton, O., 137. Frankfort, Ky., 320. Franklin, Benjamin, 316. Franquelin, Jean B. L., 299. Freeman, O., 40. French, in Ohio valley, 15, 17, 29, 30, 90, 125, 131, 132, 197, 205, 285, 286, 298-313, 321. French Creek, 311. French Islands, 253. Fry, John, 141. Galissonière, Count de, 308. Gallipolis, O., 130-133. Garrison Creek, 185. Genet, Edmund Charles, 286. George III., king, 309, 310, 313, 314. Georgetown, Pa., 34. Germans, in Ohio valley, 26, 132, 205. Girty, Simon, 71. Gist, Christopher, 15, 26, 29, 91, 151, 152, 310, 311, 317, 320, 321. Glassport, Pa., 13. Glenwood, W. Va., 134. Gnadenhütten, 91. Golconda Island, 276. Goose Island, 220. Gordon, Harry, 115, 320, 321. Grand View, Ind., 246. Grant, Gen. Ulysses S., 174. Grape Island, 80. Grape-Vine Town. _See_ Captina, O. Grave Yard Run, 72. Great Meadows, 312, 314. Green River Island, 255. Green River Towhead, 255, 256. Greenup Court House, Ky., 147. Greenville. O., treaty of, 181. Gunpowder Creek, 192. Guyandotte, W. Va., 136. Hale, John P., 153. Half King, 34. Half-Moon Bar, 274. Hall, James, 117, 128, 164, 325. Hamilton, T., 325. Harmar, Gen. Josiah, 180, 181. Harmonists, 264. Harris, Thaddeus Mason, 162, 322. Harris's Landing, 173. Hartford, W. Va., 119. Haskellville, O., 136. Hawesville, Ky., 242. Henderson, Ky., 256-259. Henderson, Richard, 316. Henderson Island, 258. Hennepin, Father Louis, 299. Henry, Patrick, 159. Herculaneum, Ind., 260. Higginsport, O., 170. Hockingport, O., 102-104. Homestead, Pa., 17, 18. Horse Head Bottom, 148. House-boat life, 50-57, 62, 134, 135, 203, 204, 207, 208. Howard, John, 305, 306. Hungarians, in Ohio valley, 44, 45, 69. Huntington, W. Va., 136-139. Hurricane Island, 274, 275. Hutchins, Thomas, 115, 321. Imlay, Gilbert, 162. Inglis, Mrs. Mary, 152, 153. Ironton, O., 143-146, 157. Iroquois Indians, 264, 298, 299, 302, 307, 308. Irving, Washington, 273. Italians, in Ohio valley, 69. Jamestown, Va., 296. Jefferson, Thomas, 97. Joliet, Louis, 264. Jones, Rev. David, 70, 71, 94. Joppa, Ill., 290, 291. Kansas City, 318. Kaskaskia, Ill., 268, 285. King Philip, 221. Kingston, O., 40. Kneistly's Cluster Islands, 36-39. La Fayette, Marquis de, 92. Lake Chautauqua, 299, 304, 309. Lake Erie, 299, 304, 309, 313. Lancaster, Pa., 307. Lane, Ralph, 296, 297. La Salle, Chevalier de, 218, 263, 264, 298, 299. Latrobe, Charles Joseph, 326. La Vérendrye Brothers, 306. Lawrenceburg, Ind., 186. Leadville, Colo., 318. Leavenworth, Ind., 224, 225. Lederer, John, 297. Letart's Falls, 113, 114, 117. Letart's Island, 112. Levanna, O., 170. Lewis, Gen. Andrew, 128, 129. Lewisport, Ind., 246. Lexington, Ky., 159. Limestone Creek, 158, 159, 162, 167. Little Beaver Creek, 34. Little Hurricane Island, 252. Little Meadows, 128. Lloyd. James T., 328. Logan, Mingo chief, 36, 37, 102, 103, 127, 128. Logstown, Pa., 26. Long Bottom, O., 109-111, 117. Long Reach, 79, 80. Losantiville. _See_ Cincinnati. Lostock, Pa., 13. Louisa, Ky., 141, 142. Louisville, Ky., 114, 169, 170, 180, 209, 214-223, 226, 256, 284, 298, 299. Lower Blue River Island, 226. Mackay, Alex., 327. McKee's Rocks, 23, 178. McKeesport, Pa., 13-16. Madison, Ind., 209-214. Madison County, Va., 297. Malott, Catherine, 71. Manchester, O., 157. Marietta, O., 83-85, 87, 90-93, 130, 131, 157, 159, 162, 315. Mason and Dixon line, 77. Mason City, W. Va., 119. Massac Creek, 285. May, John, 321. May, Col. William, 304. Maysville, Ky., 157, 159, 167, 169. Melish, John, 323. Mercer, George, 126. Metropolis, Ill., 288, 289. Miami Indians, 303. Michaux, F. A., 322. Middleport, O., 118. Millersport, O., 136. Milwood, W. Va., 112. Minersville, O., 118. Mingo Bottom, 127. Mingo Indians, 36, 37, 46, 127, 148. Mingo Junction, O., 44-50, 57, 58. Monongahela City, Pa., 8, 12. Montreal, 313. Moravian missionaries, 91. Morgantown, Pa., 3. Mound builders, 3, 4, 64-66. Mound City, Ill., 290-292, 294. Mound City Towhead, 292-295. Moundsville, W. Va., 64-66, 115. Mt. Vernon, Ind., 262. Murray, Charles Augustus, 327. Murray, Henry A., 327. Murraysville, W. Va., 111. Natchez, Miss., 181. Nemacolin's Path, 160, 310, 312. _See_ Braddock's Road. Neville, O., 170, 173. Neville's Island, 25. New Albany, Ind., 220-223. New Amsterdam, Ind., 224. New Barataria, 316. Newburgh, Ind., 254, 255. New Cumberland, W. Va., 37, 40. New Harmony, Ind., 264. New Haven, W. Va., 119. New Martinsville, W. Va., 74-77. New Matamoras, W. Va., 82. New Orleans, 12, 96, 97, 170, 205, 305, 309, 313, 325, 328. Newport, Christopher, 296. Newport, Ky., 176, 178, 183. Newport, O., 82, 83. New Richmond, O., 176. Nichols, Thomas L., 326. Nicholson, interpreter, 70. Norfolk & Western Railway, 144. North Bend, O., 173, 180, 181, 184. Northwest Territory, 316. Ogden, George W., 324. Ohio Company, 4, 90, 114, 125, 152, 310, 314, 315. Old Wyandot Town, 91. Olmstead, Ill., 291. Omaha, Nebr., 318. Owensboro, Ky., 248-251, 271. Paducah, Ky., 284. Palmer, John, 114, 115, 162, 164, 323. Parkersburg, W. Va., 94, 95, 99, 100, 102, 157. Parkinson's Landing, Ill., 276. Parkman, Francis, 308. Patterson, Robert, 179. Pennant, Edward, 297. Petersburg, Ky., 186, 187. Philadelphia, 12, 161, 318. Pickaway Plains, 102, 103, 129. Picket, Heathcoat, 205, 206. Pine Creek, 148. Pipe Creek, 67. Pittsburg, 3, 5, 6, 8, 17-22, 24, 25, 27, 40, 59, 88, 129, 159, 166, 271, 311-313, 316-318, 320, 321, 323, 324, 326, 328. Plum Creek, 205. Point Pleasant, W. Va., 125, 127-130, 157, 170, 173, 174. Point Sandy, Ind., 227-231. Pomeroy, O., 111, 118, 119, 157. Pomeroy Bend, 111, 119. Pontiac, Indian chief, 221. Pope, John, 5. Portland, Ky., 219-221 Portsmouth, O., 151-153, 157. Power, Thomas, 287. Powhattan Point, W. Va., 70. Pownall, T., 286, 320, 321. Presque Isle, 311. Proctor's Run, 77. Proctorville, O., 137. Putnam, Israel, Jr., 100, 101. Putnam, Israel, Sr., 100. Putnam, Gen. Rufus, 91, 102. Quebec, 299, 313. Rabbit Hash, Ky., 189-191. Racine, O., 117, 118. Rafinesque, Constantine S., 257, 258 Rapp, George, 26. Redstone Creek, 3-5, 72, 310. Redstone Old Fort. _See_ Brownsville, Pa. Richardson's Landing, Ky., 224. Richmond, Va., 296, 318, 324. Ripley, O., 170. Rising Sun, Ind., 189. River Alleghany, 20, 299, 304, 305, 309, 311, 318. Beaver, 27-30. Big Hockhocking, 102-104. Big Miami, 179, 180, 185. Big Sandy, 119, 137, 141. Cherokee, 321. Coal, 305. Cumberland, 97, 282, 284, 316. Delaware, 298. Gauley, 298. Great Kanawha, 70, 115, 125-130, 153, 161, 297, 309, 316, 321. Great Miami, 304. Green, 255, 259. Illinois, 321. Indian Kentucky, 206, 207. James, 126, 127, 161, 296. Kentucky, 206. Licking, 179, 183. Little Kanawha, 94, 95. Little Miami, 152, 177, 179, 180. Little Sandy, 147. Little Scioto, 148. Maumee, 264, 299, 309. Miami, 309. Mississippi, 284, 294, 303, 306, 307, 313, 321. Mohawk, 298. Monongahela, 1-20, 39, 162, 166, 310, 311, 318. Muskingum, 90, 91, 127. New, 297, 298, 309. Ottawa, 307. Potomac, 304, 310. Roanoke, 296, 297, 304. St. Joseph's, 303. St. Lawrence, 306, 309. Saline, 269, 272, 273. Salt, 223. Shenandoah, 304. Scioto, 102, 103, 151-153, 321. Susquehanna, 298. Tennessee, 283, 284, 288, 303, 316. Wabash, 127, 263, 264, 302, 321. Wood, 305. _See_ New. Youghiogheny, 13-16, 162, 318. Robertson, James, 327. Rochester, Pa., 27-30. Rockport, Ind., 246, 247. Rocky Mountains, discovery of, 306. Rome, O., 155-157, 260. Rono, Ind., 234, 235. Roosevelt, Theodore, 316. Rosebud, O., 133, 134, 156. Rose Clare, Ill., 276. Round Bottom, 66, 69. St. Clair, Gen. Arthur, 180, 181, 286. St. John, M., 321. St. Louis, 170, 284, 318, 326, 328. St. Mary's, W. Va., 82. Salem, O., 91. Saline Reserve (Illinois), 268, 269. Salling, John Peter, 305, 306. Sand Island, 220-222. Sandusky, O., 46. Sarikonk. _See_ Beaver, Pa. Schönbrunn, 91. Scioto Company, 130-132, 321. Sciotoville, O., 148-150. Scotch-Irish, in Ohio valley, 60, 61, 301, 310. Scuffletown, Ky., 254. Seignelay, Marquis de, 300. Seneca Indians, 34. Seven Mile Creek, 284, 285. Shaler, Nathaniel S., 153. Shannoah Town, 151, 152. Shawanee Indians, 26, 67, 128-130, 151-153, 307. Shawneetown, Ill., 267-269. Sheffield, O., 118. Shingis Old Town. _See_ Beaver, Pa. Shippingsport, Pa., 31-34. Shousetown, Pa., 25. Sinking Creek, 238. Sistersville, W. Va., 78. Slavonians, in Ohio valley, 44, 45. Slim Island, 261, 264. Sloan's Station, O., 37. Smith, John, 296. Smithland, Ky., 282. Smith's Ferry, Pa., 34. Sohkon. _See_ Beaver, Pa. South Point, O., 137. Spaniards, Western conspiracy, of, 286, 287. Springville, Ky., 151, 152. Spotswood, Gov. Alexander, 302. Steamboats, first on Ohio, 165, 166. Stephens, Frank, 71. Stephensport, Ky., 237-239. Steubenville, O., 5, 43, 44, 157, 181. Stewart's Island, 277-281, 283. Stuart, James, 325. Swiss, in Ohio valley, 204, 205. Symmes, John Cleves, 179-181. Syracuse, O., 118. Tecumseh, Indian chief, 317. Tell City, Ind., 242. Three Brothers Islands, 87. Three-Mile Island, 252, 254. Transylvania, 316. Treaty, of Lancaster, Pa., 307, 308; of Paris, 313; of Utrecht, 307. Trent, William, 95. Tudor, Henry, 326. Turner, Frederick J., 316. Turtle Creek, 17, 312. Trollope, Frances M., 325, 327. Troy, Ind., 243. Uniontown, Ky., 262, 263. Upper Blue River Island, 226. Vandalia, Province of, 126, 316. Vanceburgh, Ky., 154. Venango, 29. Vevay, Ind., 204, 205. Vigne, Godfrey T., 325. Vincennes, Ind., 264. Wabash Island, 264. Walpole, Thomas, 316. Walton, Pa., 13. Warrior Branch, 72. Wars, French and Indian, 15, 17, 29, 30, 90, 91, 152, 153, 285, 286, 308, 314, 315; Pontiac's, 221; Lord Dunmore's, 36, 37, 61, 67, 72, 73, 102, 103, 125-129, 218, 221; Revolution, 61, 63, 91, 92, 100, 126, 128, 130, 151-161, 181, 182, 264, 315, 317; of 1812-15, 287, 291. Warsaw, Ky., 200, 204. Washington, George, 4, 15, 23, 26, 29, 34, 46, 67, 69, 70, 72, 92, 126-128, 141, 142, 161, 310-312, 315, 320, 321. Wayne, Anthony, 26, 181, 286, 317. Weiser, Conrad, 26. Welby, Adlard, 324. Wellsville, O., 35. West Point, Ky., 223. Wheeling, W. Va., 5, 41, 59-62, 155, 157, 167, 187. Wheeling Creek, 59-61. Wheeling Island, 60. Wilderness Road, 160-162, 317. Wilkinson, Gen. James, 287. Wilkinsonville, Ill., 291. Williamson's Island, 78. Wills Creek, 310, 312. Wilson, Pa., 13. Witten's Bottom, 78, 79. Wood, Abraham, 297. Wyandot Indians, 46, 91. Yellowbank Island, 248-250. Yellow Creek, 35, 36. Zane Brothers, 60, 61. THIS BOOK HAS BEEN PRINTED DURING OCTOBER, 1897, BY THE BLAKELY PRINTING COMPANY. CHICAGO, FOR WAY & WILLIAMS. 
54289	----	THREE DAYS ON THE OHIO RIVER. BY FATHER WILLIAM. New-York: PUBLISHED BY CARLTON & PHILLIPS. SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION, 200 MULBERRY-STREET. 1854. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by CARLTON & PHILLIPS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Southern District of New-York. [Illustration: A WESTERN STEAMBOAT. See page 9.] CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I.--PRELIMINARY REMARKS 7 II.--THE STEAMBOAT 9 III.--BEGINNING THE VOYAGE 14 IV.--SAILING UP THE RIVER 17 V.--MAYSVILLE 19 VI.--IN THE CABIN 22 VII.--THE FOUR INDIANS 26 VIII.--THE COAL COUNTRY 30 IX.--THE VARIETY OF FACES 38 X.--BLENNERHASSET'S ISLAND 43 XI.--THE ANCIENT MOUNDS 46 XII.--A SUSPENSION BRIDGE 49 XIII.--LOGAN, THE MINGO CHIEF 52 XIV.--THIRD NIGHT ON THE RIVER 54 XV.--ARRIVAL AT PITTSBURG, WITH REFLECTIONS 56 ILLUSTRATIONS. A WESTERN STEAMBOAT 2 POMEROY COAL-MINES 35 THREE DAYS ON THE OHIO. CHAPTER I. PRELIMINARY REMARKS. I was once in the city of Cincinnati, and wished to go to Pittsburg by way of the river. Not that this was the nearest way, or the swiftest, or the cheapest; but I desired very much to see the country through which the river runs: for, as I had read in the histories of the United States, and particularly in the accounts of our wars with the Indians, much about the Ohio River, with many of its towns and villages, my curiosity was very active; and I was determined to behold it. It was Monday, the 29th of March, and a most lovely morning, too, when I went on board the steamboat Pittsburg, bound for the city of the same name. I was careful to set out early in the week, so as, if possible, to reach Pittsburg before Sunday. CHAPTER II. THE STEAMBOAT. Were you ever on board a Western river steamboat? As some of you may not have had the opportunity, I will give you a short account of one. Some of these boats are very large indeed. They would seem to you like a little world of themselves. The Pittsburg is about two hundred and eighty feet in length by sixty in breadth. This boat, if placed in a field, would cover nearly half an acre of land. These boats are high as well as long. Besides the hold, as they call it--a kind of cellar into which they stow away much of their heavy freight--they have two or three other stories or decks for freight and passengers. The one next above the hold is where they keep their cattle and horses and hogs, if they have any on board; also their common freight. Here, too, in some instances, they have at one end a clumsy kind of cabin called the forecastle, or steerage. This forecastle is occupied, for the most part, by the poorer passengers, especially emigrants. They have berths or shelves to recline on, but no bed-clothing; and their accommodations are generally very inferior. On the next floor above are the cabins for the passengers in general. They are usually in two great--rather long--rooms, one at each end. One of them is used at meals as the dining-room. The berths or sleeping places are at their sides. They, too, are mere broad shelves, but they have bed-clothing and curtains. On the upper deck the cabins are still more ample, as well as better furnished. There, instead of shelves at the sides, there are small rooms connected with the shelves, called state-rooms. Were it not that the cabins on those upper decks are unusually long in proportion to their breadth, and did you not feel the motion of the boat while occupying them, the traveler would hardly know that he was not in a large and comfortable hotel or dwelling-house. There is still another deck or promenade above all these, but passengers are not usually allowed to occupy it. The helmsman of the boat is stationed here, and a crowd of people around him might obstruct his view. I have thus described five stories or rows; but there is a difference in boats in this particular, even in the large ones. Some have only four stories--that is, three besides the hold. In the latter case, the lower or freight deck is at one end of the boat, formed into a cabin which communicates only by means of a stairway with the next deck above it. The best cabins are carpeted as nicely as our best parlors, and the furniture is often as costly. The state-rooms are also well furnished, and sometimes well ventilated. The beds are narrow. But the beds on board the Pittsburg, though narrow, were quite comfortable. The passenger reclines on a mattress, which rests on coils of elastic wire, like some of our sofas and carriage seats; and the beds are almost as soft as feather beds. The rules and regulations in many steamboats are exceedingly strict. In some instances they are printed and hung up at the sides of the cabins and elsewhere, in conspicuous places. They relate to the treatment of furniture, the hours of rising, meals, retiring to rest, &c. No person, for example, is allowed to let his chair, while sitting, rest against the wall, or to put his feet on the cushions of the chairs or sofas. No lights are permitted in the state-rooms--cases of severe sickness or other extremity alone excepted. The female passengers have every reasonable convenience for washing, dressing, &c., in their state-rooms. For the rest of the passengers there is a common washroom, with which the barber's room is also sometimes connected. Thus you see that the art and ingenuity of man have converted these great prisons on the water into so many magnificent hotels. Some inconveniences and even privations there are, and must be. As a general rule, the traveler may be very comfortable in them, and, if he chooses, quite self-indulgent. This word self-indulgent refers to the articles of food on the tables. These are just what is to be expected when it is considered what the far greater part of our travelers place their chief happiness in--what they most think of and talk of, at least when they have little else to do. In this respect, the steamboat is about on a par with the hotel. If there be any difference, it seems to me to consist in this: that the dishes at the table on board the steamboat are more complicated and more costly, and at the same time more unhealthy, than those of the hotel. But enough of description, for the present. We will now return to the narration of my adventures. CHAPTER III. BEGINNING THE VOYAGE. The distance from Cincinnati to Pittsburg, following the course of the river, is four hundred and seventy-seven miles; the distance by land being, as I suppose, on the shortest road, about three hundred and fifty. The Ohio River is very crooked. It turns to nearly every point of the compass. In one instance, in going up it, for example, I well remember that after going for some time in a northerly and then in a north-westerly direction, we suddenly turned to the west, as if we were going back again to Cincinnati. The hour at which the steamer was to sail, according to the advertisement in the papers, was ten o'clock. Most of the passengers were on board before this time. There was, however, a large amount of freight to come on board afterward. There was also delay from another and very different cause. Just opposite to Cincinnati, on the Kentucky side, are the villages of Newport and Covington. In one of the houses, in one of these places, a thief had entered, during the night, and taken away considerable money and other property. The officers of justice were in pursuit of him. They came to the Pittsburg, and asked permission to search that. This being granted, they went in company with one of the officers, and made diligent search everywhere, especially among the emigrants. The thief, however, was not found, and the search was discontinued. At about twelve o'clock we were under weigh, and slowly proceeding up the river, which is here, as I judged, about a quarter of a mile wide, and pretty deep. Every passenger, or nearly every one, was now on deck enjoying the prospect. The Pittsburg sailed about eight or ten miles an hour. We were soon out of sight of Cincinnati. The last portion of it which we saw was Fulton--which is the name given to a long arm of the city, extending several miles along in a north-eastern direction. I was almost sorry to leave Cincinnati, for it is, in many respects, a beautiful place. The central or business part is not peculiarly handsome, I admit; but the Walnut Hills, Mount Auburn, and other places, forming a semicircle, and inclosing it on all sides except on the south-east and south, are, for the beauties of nature and art, almost unrivaled. CHAPTER IV. SAILING UP THE RIVER. As you proceed up the river, your attention is arrested, from time to time, by small villages. These are more numerous on the Ohio side than on that of Kentucky. Whether this is owing to the effects of slavery, or to other reasons, I am not informed. One thing is certain--that nature is not at fault in the construction of the country; for never in my life have I seen a prettier variety of hills and dales than on the Kentucky side of the Ohio River. The water of the river was high, and the boat could stop at nearly every considerable village. The principal places we passed, for the first sixty miles, were Columbia, Point Pleasant, Neville, Higginsport, Ripley, and Aberdeen, in Ohio; and Mechanicsburg, Belmont, Augusta, and Charleston, in Kentucky. Augusta, in Kentucky, is a considerable village, and has one or two important schools. It has also a few antiquities. So full is the earth of decaying human bones, that they can hardly dig a hole for a post without finding some of them. The water of the Ohio at this season has a turbid or milky appearance. It is used, on board the steamboats, for all purposes, even for drinking. To me it was disagreeable; but to some of the passengers it was more than disagreeable to their taste, for it deranged their stomachs. This result is probably owing to the lime it contains. Most of the passengers were on deck during the greater part of the day, viewing the country, which I have already told you was beautiful. The villages, in general, had a sooty appearance, caused by coal smoke. CHAPTER V. MAYSVILLE. Before night we came to Maysville, in Kentucky. This is quite a large village, with some appearance of thrift and prosperity. Here we stopped for two hours or more--partly to take in one hundred and twenty head of cattle. Our number of passengers was not large--less, I believe, than one hundred--and probably did not much more than pay expenses, especially when they kept so extravagant a table. The fare to Pittsburg was $7. True, there was on board a large amount of freight of various kinds, which perhaps made up the deficiency. But as the grave, according to Solomon, is never satisfied--never says enough--so the men who are engaged in carrying passengers and freight seem never satisfied as long as they can carry any more. Those who drive large numbers of cattle from Kentucky, Tennessee, Ohio, &c., to New-York and the Eastern States, find it very tedious to drive them all the way by land, as well as very expensive; so they sometimes make a bargain with the superintendents of railroads and the captains of steamboats to have them transported. The price paid for carrying one hundred and twenty cattle from Maysville to Pittsburg--above four hundred miles by water--was $4 50 each; or, in the whole, $540. The cattle were to be brought upon the lower deck, next to the hold, and tied with short ropes to the posts and other timbers of the boat. But how were they to be got on board? I will describe the method. The steamboat was brought close to the wharf, from which a broad platform, made of strong planks, was thrown across to the deck of the boat, forming a bridge. Still, however, the animals were afraid. The difficulty was surmounted in the following manner: One old ox was procured who had been trained for the purpose, and was not at all afraid. A rope was attached to his horns, and he was slowly led on board, while the others, with a little urging, followed him. But as they could not manage more than six or eight at a time, the trained ox had to be led on board, and brought back again a great many times before the drove were fairly in their places. One poor bullock made them a deal of trouble, after he was taken on board. Uneasy and restless, he somehow or other got loose, leaped overboard, and swam down the river about a mile, before a company in the long-boat could reach and secure him, and drive him back. While this embarkation of the cattle was going on, I went on shore and took a survey of the village. It is the most important place in this part of Kentucky, containing, as I judged, some four or five thousand inhabitants, and having considerable trade, with some manufactures. This place was formerly called by the characteristic name of Limestone, and was one of the first-settled places in the state. The famous Daniel Boone at one time resided here; and an old shattered warehouse is shown to travelers, which, it is said, he built. CHAPTER VI. IN THE CABIN. It was nearly night when we left Maysville, and most of the passengers were glad to go below, and remain there. The hour for rest was also approaching: of this also we were glad; for, to most of us, it had been a very fatiguing day. There was, however, an interval of two or three hours between "tea" and bedtime; and the question was, how this time should be employed? I say this _was_ the question; but I mean rather that it _should_ have been: for I do not suppose, on further reflection, that one person in ten of those who were on board was in the habit of asking himself any such question--whether on land or on water, at home or abroad. They took "no note of time, but by its loss." And they who do not live by system or rule elsewhere, will not be likely to do so while on board a steamboat. In truth, it is very difficult for those who are the most careful, economical, and systematic in regard to their time, to keep everything straight while traveling, especially while traveling at the rapid rate of modern times, and with such crowds. It costs even the most conscientious--those who fear God the most--quite a struggle. Do you ask what the fear of God has to do with matters of this kind?--and whether we have time to think closely and continuously about the right and wrong of everything, on board a steamboat? My reply is, that some persons do it, in spite of the difficulties. There were a few on board the Pittsburg who did it, although their number, as I have already intimated, was very few. I have said that some persons try to have a conscience void of offense toward God and man, not only while at home, but when they travel abroad, whether in the steamboat, or in the railroad car: they believe that God sees them there as well as elsewhere: they believe that for every thought, word, and deed--alone or in company, at home or abroad--they must give account in the day of judgment: they believe that whether they eat or drink, or whatsoever they do, and whenever they do it, they are required to do all to the glory of God. I saw one or two groups of passengers on board the Pittsburg, in one of the cabins where there was the most merriment of all kinds, as well as the most thoughtlessness on the part of many, who had their Bibles in their hands for a long time, during the progress of the evening, and who appeared to be reading and studying. I know, full well, that all this may be done--sometimes _is_ done--for mere effect. Some read the Bible that they may appear to be good. Some read it to keep down the upbraidings of their consciences. Some do it from mere habit. And some do it in the vain hope that somehow or other--they know not when or how, but at some _time_ or other--a blessing will come out of it. When I saw those persons reading the Bible on board the Pittsburg, I did not at once set them down as certainly and always religious; I did not set them down as persons who, if they were religious on occasions, or at stated times, carried out their religion into dayly and hourly practice: I mean I did not set them down as _necessarily_ so, or such merely because they read the Bible. But I will tell you what I _did_ think of them then, and what I think of them still. I have no doubt that they were people who had good purposes, and who lived by system, and not at random or mere hap-hazard: I have no doubt that they were church-going people when at home: I doubt not at all that they were Sabbath-keeping people; and I have very little doubt that they prayed, at least sometimes. CHAPTER VII. THE FOUR INDIANS. During the progress of the evening, and while at the dinner and supper table, I had opportunity to survey the crowd, and to recognize in it the representatives of many distinct and different nations. Americans, the lineal descendants of the true European race, of course predominated. Among the subdivisions of this race were English, Scotch, Irish, and German. Africans, too, were numerous; but were found chiefly among the "hands" employed on board the steamboat. The waiters at table, the two stewards, the barber, the cooks,--from first to last, for there was almost an army of them,--were more or less of African origin. Some of them were jet black; but the far greater part were of commingled blood. Some were so light colored, that at first sight one would hardly recognize them as having ever belonged to the race of "Uncle Tom," or "Aunt Chloe." Besides, there were with us four American Indians, of the Shawnee tribe. They were just from their home, among the upper branches of the Arkansas River, and were on their way to Washington, on business in behalf of their nation. They were dressed in a full American costume, and two of them could converse in English very well. One of them--a young man--appeared to have no knowledge of any but his native dialect. With one of the elder of these men I had some conversation myself. He answered my questions very readily and frankly, but seldom, in return, made any inquiries of me. Yet he was not destitute of curiosity. On several occasions I saw him looking with interest while mechanical and manufacturing operations were going on, both on board and on shore. I found to my surprise that these Indians were not, even when at home, naked or half-naked savages, ignorant of the arts and decencies of life; but respectable farmers, more than half civilized, and some of them Christianized. They had cultivated fields and frame houses, with great numbers of horses, cattle, sheep, and hogs. The younger of them even expressed a good deal of religious feeling, and said by an interpreter that he wished his nation read more in the New Testament and religious books. Another, who was a half-breed, and was older, appeared to be a professor of religion. One bad habit, so common among the whites, they had caught by contact: I mean that of smoking tobacco; and it is fortunate if they have been contaminated by us in nothing else. But ten o'clock came, the hour when we were expected to retire to our berths, and it was not long before silence and darkness reigned, except where it was needful for men to watch and labor to see that the boat pursued her onward, ascending course. Some of us, before retiring, took a short walk upon deck. The moon had not yet risen, but it was starlight. The surface of the river, and the waving outline of the adjacent shores and hills, with here and there a house, and one or two small villages, were all that we could see. After taking proper care of my little state-room, to see that the ventilators were so arranged as to give on the one hand a free circulation, and on the other to prevent a current of damp night air from falling directly upon me, and after remembering, too, that there was a God in the heavens in whom, as the supreme director on the water as well as on the land, I could trust, I resigned myself to sleep, and did not rise till the day had dawned, and the moon had reached the middle of the heavens. CHAPTER VIII. THE COAL COUNTRY. During the night we had passed by several important villages, Manchester, Rome, Rockville, Portsmouth, Wheelersburg, Hanging Rock, Burlington, and Proctorsville, in Ohio; and Concord, Vanceburg, Greenupsburg, and Catlettsburg, in Kentucky. The face of the country was still interesting, but that of the Kentucky and Virginia side had become less so than the other. We had lost the opportunity of seeing the mouths of the Scioto and Big Sandy Rivers, as well as many other curious and interesting objects. But what we regretted most was the loss of Portsmouth. This fine place at the mouth of the Scioto River we had hoped to pass by daylight. However, we could not expect to see every place we passed. We were now approaching the coal country; and this morning we had a fine opportunity of observing the method by which these huge steamboats provide themselves with this important article. Some of them, I believe, use wood for fuel; but not all, by any means. They do not go to the wharves of the villages they pass and wait to have some twenty, or thirty, or fifty tons of coal shoveled into the boat. They have another and much simpler way, and one which does not hinder them a moment. Long flats or scows, deeply laden with this necessary article, proceeding from the shore meet the steamer in the middle of the river, and by means of chains or ropes are immediately lashed to her sides--usually two of them--one on each side. The men on board the flats, aided perhaps by the crew of the steamer, immediately fall to work with their shovels and throw the coal on board when it is wanted. When the flats are emptied, the ropes are loosened, and they are set free to return to their place, now several miles down the river. The steamer is thus supplied for twelve, eighteen, or it may be twenty-four hours. But what most struck me was the facilities which the miners possess for procuring this coal from the hills: for the reader should know that the hills between which we were now passing, all contain this useful mineral. This coal is in a layer, somewhat different in thickness in different places, but varying from four to five feet. In the hills which the Pittsburg was now passing, the layer, as I was informed, is about four feet thick. This layer, in countries west of the Alleghany, is horizontal, or nearly so, and this without reference to the shape of the hill that covers it. At the base of the hills it is usually found pretty near the surface; but as you proceed inward its distance from the surface increases with the ascent of the hill. In Tallmadge, Ohio, last winter, I penetrated one of these coal mines, accompanied by the workmen, nearly one thousand feet. I found the stratum of coal at that place not far from four feet thick. This coal is split out, by means of drilling and blasting, as in the case of removing any other rock. They usually proceed in a narrow way at first, perhaps eight or ten feet broad and as many high. As they go on, they place props under the incumbent hill; or, what is more common, they place at suitable distances a framework around the sides to prevent its falling in. When they have penetrated several hundred feet into these coal hills, and the air does not circulate freely enough, and especially does not carry away the smoke of their powder far enough, they sometimes dig a well or hole from the top of the hill directly over the line of the excavation till it meets it. This serves as a chimney and ventilator, and is of great and lasting service. To carry the coal, they have in general small cars drawn by one horse each. For this purpose a railroad is made, as far as the excavation extends. When the coal is brought out of the excavation, there are many curious ways of unloading it; but I have not time to describe them all. In some instances the coal is slid down an inclined plane a long distance, by means of ropes and pulleys, and the emptied cars brought back by the same means. I found the bases of the hills on the banks of the Ohio, especially on the northern side, full of these excavations. The amount of coal which is dug here yearly must be immense. For myself, I can never think of this wonderful provision of God for human wants without feelings of gratitude. In a few years only, the native wood in many of these regions would in a natural course be used up in houses, factories, steamboats, &c.; and what would the people do then for fuel, had not the great Eternal filled the hills with this never-failing substitute? One region in particular attracted my attention. The villages of Pomeroy, Coalport, and Sheffield, were so near each other as to seem to form one continuous village, about three miles in length. And here, a stranger would be apt to think, the people do little else but dig coal and burn it. The houses were almost as black with soot as the hill-sides themselves. [Illustration: POMEROY COAL-MINES.] CHAPTER IX. THE VARIETY OF FACES. I was much interested, while on board the Pittsburg, as I have often been before, in noticing the vast variety in human faces and features. Go where you will, on board steamboats, into railroad-cars, public meetings, &c., where are found assemblages of from one hundred to one thousand--or even several thousand--persons, and survey narrowly every face; and will you find any two alike? Examine, if you please, the faces of nearest relatives--brothers, sisters, parents, children, and even twins themselves--and though you may and sometimes will find a very striking similarity, yet you will, after all, find a difference in some one or more particulars. No two, in any assembly or company, look exactly alike. Nay, more than all this. If you were to travel the world as much as I have done, and to see, in the course of half a century, several millions of people, you would find no two, anywhere, with features exactly alike. In the eight hundred millions which now inhabit our globe there is a shade of difference, such as would enable a careful eye to distinguish every one from all others. And how is it with the mind that shines out in these varied faces? Is that as distinguishable on a close acquaintance as the exterior--the features? Is there any reason why it should not be? I am not quite certain it is so; but did not the great Creator intend it should be? I do not mean to say, of course, that there are not some things alike in every face. So there are some things which must be expected to be alike in our mental formation. Every one on board this steamboat--every one in the world--resembles his fellows in the general structure and aspect of his features. Every one looks forward and upward, and not downward like the beasts that perish. Every one has the projecting brow, with the well-defended eye under it, the more prominent nose and chin, &c. So every one thinks highly of himself, his friends, possessions, home, &c. Every one, unless by divine grace made a true Christian, is more or less selfish. Every one loves, and, in his way, seeks happiness, and hates misery. "Who will show us any good?" is the almost universal cry. If people do not say it, in so many words, they do so by their actions. It is an old maxim that actions speak louder than words; and it is of high, very high authority, that out of the abundance of the heart (or _mind_) the mouth speaketh. It is not very difficult, therefore, to guess how the various minds on board this steamer are occupied. No one is talking about the wants, the ignorance, or the means of improving the condition of his neighbor. No one is talking, unless the thought is suggested by another, about the welfare of the great Jehovah's kingdom. But I mean not quite so much. There are a few blessed exceptions to the apparent severity of this remark. For here, just by my side, sits a woman some fifty years of age or more, who has, for more than thirty years, cared for and thought of other people as well as herself. She is the wife of Mr. Byington, a famous missionary to the Choctaw Indians. It is, I believe, nearly thirty years since she and her husband devoted themselves to the great work of trying to instruct and improve those poor people, and make Christians of them. Such a person will care for the good of others, and the honor of God, even on board a steamboat. Those who have been philanthropists and Christians as long as Mr. and Mrs. Byington, will not soon or easily forget their former habits and become selfish like the rest of the world. I am greatly afraid that most persons who seem to be religious at home, forget their religion when they go abroad. Indeed, I have known many who were given to prayer, watchful over their tongues, mindful of the Sabbath, and self-denying at home, who were none of these when a thousand miles from home, or even half that distance. True, we cannot always know whether people pray or not, when they are abroad, because most of what deserves the name of prayer is offered where no eye can reach but that of God. There is an opportunity for closet prayer everywhere; and it is quite possible that they who break the Sabbath, indulge their appetites, and do not bridle their tongues, sometimes pray. Still I must say that, judging as well as I can, the fear already expressed is but too well grounded. CHAPTER X. BLENNERHASSETT'S ISLAND. Nearly every person who knows anything at all about the history of the United States has heard of Blennerhassett's Island. This island is one hundred and ninety miles from Pittsburg, and two hundred and eighty-seven from Cincinnati. It is a beautiful island; but has at present an appearance of desolation, that forcibly reminds the traveler what it once was. Blennerhassett, the owner, was a man of great taste, and, till his connection with Burr, quite an inoffensive man, and a good citizen. But no one could be long in peace and quiet who had anything to do with the seditious, ambitious, and treasonable Aaron Burr. It is true he was not legally convicted of treason, but he was finally ruined in character and property, as a cause of his evident wrong doing. Instead of a beautiful mansion fifty-four feet square, two stories high, and well proportioned, with two wings, and a charming little garden, with every delicacy of fruit, vegetables, and flowers which could be made to grow in that climate, with the most beautiful walks, and shrubbery--nothing now is seen but a heap of ruins. All day long, this second of our days on the river, we were hoping the boat would reach Blennerhassett's Island before night, or at least before bedtime. But we were doomed to disappointment. At the latest hour which it was proper for us to be awake, the boat was some thirty to fifty miles below. We passed the next day the mouths of two beautiful rivers on the Virginia side, the Big Sandy and the Great Kanawha. It was curious to see the line formed by the junction or union of the two rivers--the one with its blue clear waters, the other with its turbid, milky current. They seemed as if made of entirely different materials. We also passed, besides the coaling places I have named, several considerable villages, among which were Point Pleasant, Murraysville, and Belleville, Virginia; and Gallipolis and Millersburg in Ohio. We also lost sight, during the night, of Marietta, at the mouth of the Muskingum River, now quite a large and pleasant village, near which are several very remarkable ancient fortifications and mounds of earth, supposed to have been the depositories of the dead, by some now unknown people. CHAPTER XI. THE ANCIENT MOUNDS. The morning of the third day found us passing Sisterville, in Virginia. Soon afterward we passed New-Martinsville. We saw several mounds. One was very small. Another was large, but somewhat disfigured by having been excavated. We were now approaching a village on the Virginia side called Elizabethtown, near which a small stream joins the Ohio, known by the name of Big Grave Creek. In this village of Elizabethtown is one of the largest, most perfect, and most beautiful mounds to be found in the whole Ohio country. We were told of this curiosity before we reached the place; so that we were not taken by surprise. Besides, the boat stopped a few moments at the wharf, in full sight of it, not a quarter of a mile distant. This mound is about one hundred and eighty feet in diameter at its base, and some seventy or seventy-five feet high. On its top is an old tower or observatory, around which are several trees, some of them of considerable age. One, a venerable oak, is four feet in diameter. The center of its top is a kind of crater or basin, four feet deep and eight or ten across it. Elsewhere the top of the mound is perfectly flat. One puzzler to the traveler is, where the earth was obtained for building such a huge pile; for it is situated almost in the middle of a large plain, on and near which is no appearance of any former excavation for this purpose. There are, however, several smaller mounds a little east of it. The country near the Ohio abounds with these mounds. What they were, and by whom they were formed, is quite uncertain. The general opinion that they are the graves of some ancient people is sustained by the fact that they contain human bones, sometimes in considerable numbers. A gentleman on board the boat, a man of intelligence, informed me, that he had seen, in Eastern Tennessee or Western North Carolina, a species of mounds of a very different description. They were composed essentially of small stones, between which were layers of bones. And what made the case very remarkable indeed, there are no stones, of the kind found in these mounds within many miles of them, and there is no appearance of there ever having been any. CHAPTER XII. A SUSPENSION BRIDGE. About noon the third day, we came in sight of Wheeling, in Virginia. This is a considerable place. It contains about ten thousand inhabitants. The boat stopped at Wheeling an hour or more to unload a part of her freight. This gave us a fine opportunity to go on shore and view the town. It is well built, but, like most of the places all the way from Cincinnati to Pittsburg, has quite a sooty appearance, caused by the dust of the coal, which they burn here in large quantities. Wheeling is, moreover, a place of considerable manufacture. But the greatest curiosity at this place, and one of the greatest I have ever seen, is the suspension bridge thrown over the Ohio. It must be something like one thousand feet in length, as broad as most bridges are, and not far from ninety feet above the surface of the river when the water is low; though much less, of course, at times when the river rises. This bridge is much more remarkable than the suspension bridge first built over Niagara River; for while that is much higher above the water than this, it is, in comparison, very narrow indeed. The suspension bridge at Wheeling is broad enough for several carriages to go side by side on it; but that below Niagara Falls is only just broad enough for one. I would have visited it; but I was afraid the boat in which I was traveling would leave the wharf by some means sooner than was expected, and it would be a sad thing to be left in port, with our trunks all on board. Many of the company did venture, however, and they returned, too, in good time. Bridgeport, a small but flourishing village, is on the Ohio side of the river, just opposite Wheeling. This whole region is noted for burnings and massacres, during the wars of our country with the Indians little more than fifty years ago. One anecdote I will relate very briefly. In March, 1793, about fifty-nine years ago, as two brothers by the name of Johnson, one of them twelve, the other nine years of age, were playing by the side of the river some ten or twelve miles above Wheeling, they were suddenly seized by two Indians and carried about six miles into the woods. Here the savages built a fire and halted for the night. When they lay down to rest, each Indian took a boy on his arm. As may easily be conjectured, however, the boys did not sleep. Finding the Indians to be very sound asleep, they concerted a plan, young as they were, for destroying them and effecting their escape. The plan succeeded. One of the Indians was shot with his own rifle; the other was killed with a tomahawk. The boys returned to their own homes the next day in safety. CHAPTER XIII. LOGAN, THE MINGO CHIEF. On board our steamboat was one man, a citizen of Cincinnati, whose extensive and intimate acquaintance with the country through which we were traveling made his society both interesting and valuable. As we were passing between some very abrupt hills, he took occasion to remark that all this was once the hunting ground of Logan, the celebrated Mingo chief, whose sad story is familiar, as I suppose, to nearly every school-boy in the country. Logan was a savage; but he was, at the same time, a man, and had a man's heart. Indians are men, and have the feelings of men; and one cannot help pitying them. How greatly to be regretted that they were not treated, by everybody, as William Penn treated them, in and about Pennsylvania! The books we had on board, purporting to be travelers' guides--most of which were doubtless correct--pointed out to us, as did also our Cincinnati friend, the plain on which Logan resided, as well as the place where his family was so wickedly murdered. We would have lingered at the last-mentioned spot, but had only time to drop a tear and hasten on. CHAPTER XIV. THIRD NIGHT ON THE RIVER. Night was once more approaching, and we were, as yet, some sixty-five or seventy miles from Pittsburg. The last place we saw, by daylight, was Steubenville, on the Ohio side, a large and flourishing village. We were anxious to see Wellsville, Ohio, and Beaver and Economy in Pennsylvania; but it was late at night when we passed the latter two, and too dark to see much when we passed the former. Economy is a neat little place, first settled by the celebrated German named Rapp. It still bears the marks he made on it, in the appearance of neatness and thrift which are everywhere visible. We were much annoyed during the last two days and nights, especially the very last, by the cattle on board. Had there been a cow-yard with contiguous stables that were seldom if ever cleansed, the air from the lower deck could hardly have been more offensive. I often wondered why the owners of the boat should dare to go in the face of the public sentiment to an extent like this. Would it not be reported, by the passengers, that we suffered from this annoyance? And would not travelers shun the boat in time to come? However, we slept well, for the most part, during the night; and it was well for those of us who were going further than Pittsburg that we did. A few were distressed with the effects of drinking so much lime water during the voyage; but the far greater part of us rose in the morning refreshed, and in fine health and spirits. CHAPTER XV. ARRIVAL AT PITTSBURG, WITH REFLECTIONS. The morning had come, and we were now approaching Pittsburg. It was just about sunrise when we came in view of its spires and buildings. The passengers were scrambling up, now, in every direction. Some of the passengers were now at the end of their journey. Others had to go further; and some of us many hundred miles further. However, we were all alike glad to get on shore. But our trunks--where were they? They had, for the greater part, been piled together in a certain place on the deck of the boat, under the care of the steward: they were safe, only it was difficult, at first, to find them. Here is mine. It must be marked for the railroad across the Alleghany Mountains to Philadelphia. All this was easily disposed of. And now it is to go with a baggage-wagon, and to be taken to the railroad depot. On removing the trunk to the baggage-wagon, the steward reminded me that it was his custom to receive a small sum of each traveler for taking care of his trunk while on board. I asked him how much. Anything, said he, you please to give. I was not satisfied with the charge; for I supposed he had his pay by the month, or in some such way, and his regular compensation was sufficient for every purpose: but though a colored man, he was quite a gentleman, and I could not well refuse him. How many little taxes one must pay, in a busy world like this! Well, an honest, Christian man has no very strong objection to paying them whenever, in so doing, he does not go contrary to the principles of right; and these little taxations, as you travel along, by servants and porters, and stewards, though they are annoyances, seem to me to be of this description. I was at length in Pittsburg. I had always heard that it was a smoky city, and was not, therefore, at all disappointed. In truth, I did not see it to be more sooty than several other places below it on the river. Pittsburg is about half as large as Cincinnati; and is pleasantly situated, at the junction of two large rivers. It seems to be a very busy, bustling place; for though it was yet early in the morning--quite early--the streets were pretty well filled with travelers and carriages. Opposite Pittsburg--that is, across the Alleghany River--is Alleghany, which of itself would make quite a large city. It is at least as large as New-Haven, or Salem, or, perhaps, Troy. And now, though I am soon to proceed, yet as the cars are not yet ready, I have a little time for reflection, and I avail myself of it. The world, itself, seems to me like a great steamboat--larger, indeed, than the Pittsburg, and yet a huge passenger-boat. People are continually coming on board, and continually leaving it. To-day we form an acquaintance with a few of the vast variety of faces we see; to-morrow, perhaps, they are separated from us, to go, we know not whither. One striking difference there is in the two cases. When the passengers separated at Pittsburg--and so also of other separations at Wheeling and other places below--it was not with a certainty that the separation was final, for this world. There was, at the least, a possibility of meeting again, somewhere, and at some time. But when we separate in the great steamboat of the world at the verge of eternity, when we step forth upon its immeasurable shore, it is with positive certainty of meeting no more in this world. We _may_ meet again--we shall, most undoubtedly. We shall meet at the sound, not of the little bell to which we are accustomed on board the boats of Western rivers, but of the trump of God. We shall meet, but it will be at the general judgment. We shall meet, but it will be in the immediate presence of God. Will our meeting be a pleasant one? Will it be pleasant to all, or only to a part? And who will be the happy ones, and who the unhappy? Shall you, reader, or I, be of the former number; or shall it be our lot to be of the latter? God, in his mercy in Christ, has left the matter to our own choice. This is right, is it not? He has made us free to choose about other matters--why not about this? He certainly would not compel us to a joyful meeting. Be it our first business, then, our great business, our only business, so to conduct while on the passage-boat of life, that whether we are sailing on the Ohio River, or traveling elsewhere, we may always be found in the path of duty, and always ready for anything whatever to which we may be called, here or hereafter. THE END. 
25998	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 25998-h.htm or 25998-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/9/9/25998/25998-h/25998-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/9/9/25998/25998-h.zip) Transcriber's note: [oe] represents the oe-ligature. THE RIFLEMEN OF THE OHIO A Story of Early Days along "The Beautiful River" by JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER Author of "The Young Trailers," "The Forest Runners," "The Free Rangers," Etc. New York and London D. Appleton and Company 1922 Copyright, 1910, by D. Appleton and Company Printed in the United States of America "The Riflemen of the Ohio," while a complete story in itself, continues the fortunes of Henry Ware, Paul Cotter, and their friends, who were the central characters in "The Young Trailers," "The Forest Runners," "The Keepers of the Trail," "The Eyes of the Woods," and "The Free Rangers." [Illustration: "The head came up on the other side."] CONTENTS I.--THE EYE OF THE FLEET II.--THE WYANDOT CHIEF III.--THE SONG OF THE LEAVES IV.--THE FOREST VILLAGE V.--PLAY AND COUNCIL VI.--THE GANTLET VII.--ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS VIII.--THE SHADOW IN THE WATER IX.--THE GATHERING OF THE FIVE X.--THE GREAT BORDERER XI.--THE RACE OF THE FIVE XII.--THE ONE WHO ARRIVED XIII.--AT THE FORT XIV.--SIX FIGURES IN THE DUSK XV.--THE DEED IN THE DARK XVI.--THE RETURN TRAIL XVII.--PICKING UP THE STRANDS XVIII.--THE HALTING OF THE FLEET XIX.--THE WATERY PASS XX.--THE TRUMPET'S PEAL XXI.--FORCES MEET XXII.--THE SPEECH OF TIMMENDIQUAS XXIII.--ON THE OFFENSIVE XXIV.--THE DECISIVE BATTLE THE RIFLEMEN OF THE OHIO CHAPTER I THE EYE OF THE FLEET The fleet of boats and canoes bearing supplies for the far east turned from the Mississippi into the wide mouth of the Ohio, and it seemed, for a time, that they had come into a larger river instead of a tributary. The splendid stream, called by the Indians "The Beautiful River," flowed silently, a huge flood between high banks, and there was not one among the voyagers who did not feel instinctively the depths beneath him. A single impulse caused every paddle and oar to lie at rest a few moments, and, while they swung gently with the slow current just beyond the point where one merged into the other, they looked at the two mighty rivers, the Mississippi, coming from the vast unknown depths of the northwest, rising no man knew where, and the Ohio, trailing its easy length a thousand miles through thick forests haunted by the most warlike tribes of North America. The smaller river--small only by comparison--bore the greater dangers, and they knew it. It was the fleet of Adam Colfax, and the five who had gone to New Orleans and who had come back, triumphing over so many dangers in the coming and the going, were still with him. Henry Ware, Paul Cotter, and Shif'less Sol Hyde sat in the foremost boat, and the one just behind them contained Silent Tom Ross and Long Jim Hart. After the great battle on the Lower Mississippi in which they defeated the Indians and desperadoes under Alvarez, the voyage had remained peaceful as they pulled up to the Ohio. "It's our own river again, Henry," said Paul. Both felt a sort of proprietary interest in the Ohio. "It's so, and I'm glad to look on it again," replied Henry, "but the Shawnees, the Miamis, the Wyandots, and others will never let us by without a fight." He spoke with gravity. But a boy in years, the many stern scenes through which he had passed and his natural instinct for the wilderness made him see far. He was thinking of the thousand miles, every one with its dangers, that they must travel before they could unload their supplies at Pittsburgh for the struggling colonists. No concern of the future troubled the soul of Long Jim Hart. He was once more in the region that he loved. He looked at one river and then at the other, and his eyes glowed. "Ain't it fine, Henry?" he said. "These two pow'ful big streams! Back uv them the firm, solid country that you kin tread on without the fear uv breakin' through, an' then the cool steadyin' airs that are blowin' on our faces!" "Yes, it is fine, Jim!" said Henry with emphasis. He, too, ceased to think, for the moment, of the future, and paid more attention to the meeting of the rivers. The Ohio, at that point, although the tributary, was wider than the Mississippi, and for some distance up its stream was deeper. Its banks, sloping and high, were clothed in dense forest and underbrush to the water's edge. Nothing broke this expanse of dark green. It was lone and desolate, save for the wild fowl that circled over it before they darted toward the water. The note of everything was size, silence, and majesty. "We begin the second stage of our great journey," said Adam Colfax to Henry. Then the leader raised his hand as a signal, hundreds of oars and paddles struck the water, the fleet leaped into life again, and boats and canoes, driven by strong arms, swung forward against the slow current of the Ohio. Some rower in a leading boat struck up a wild song of love and war, mostly war, and others joined, the chorus swelling to twenty, fifty, then a hundred voices. It was a haunting air, and forest and water gave back the volume of sound in far, weird echoes. But fleet and song merely heightened the effect of the wilderness. Nobody saw them. Nobody heard them. Desolation was always before them, and, as they passed, closed in again behind them. But the men themselves felt neither lonely nor afraid. Used to victory over hardship and danger, their spirits rose high as they began the ascent of the second river, the last half of their journey. Adam Colfax, stern New England man that he was, felt the glow, and Paul, the imaginative boy, felt it, too. "I don't see how such an expedition as this can fail to get through to Pittsburgh," he said. "I'd like to go on jest ez we're goin' all the time," said Shif'less Sol with lazy content. "I could curl up under a rail and lay thar fur a thousand miles. Jest think what a rest that would be, Paul!" Henry Ware said nothing. The Mississippi had now dropped out of sight, and before them stretched only the river that hugged the Dark and Bloody Ground in its curves. He knew too much to trust to solitude and silence. He never ceased to search the forests and thickets on either shore with his trained eyes. He looked for little things, a bough or a bush that might bend slightly against the gentle wind that was blowing, or the faintest glimpse of a feather on a far hill, but he saw nothing that was not in perfect accord with nature. The boughs and the bushes bent as they should bend. If his eye found a feather it was on the back of the scarlet tanager or the blue jay. Before him flowed the river, a sheet of molten gold in the sun, current meeting boat. All was as it should be. But Henry continued to watch. He, more than any other, was the eye of the fleet, will and use helping the gift of nature, and, as he knew, they had come to depend upon him. He was doing the work expected of him as well as the work that he loved, and he meant that he should not fail. The song, mellow, haunting, and full of echoes, went on, now rising in volume, then falling to a softer note, and then swelling again. They finished the last verse and bar, and began a new one, tuned to the stroke of oar and paddle, and the fleet went forward swiftly, smoothly, apparently in a world that contained only peace. Jim Hart turned his face to the cooling airs that began to blow a little stronger. Paul was rapt far away among the rosy clouds of the future. Shif'less Sol, who held neither oar nor paddle, closed his eyes and leaned luxuriously against a mast, but Henry sat immovable, watching, always watching. The hours, one by one, dropped behind them. The sun swung toward the zenith and stood poised in the center of the skies, a vast globe of reddish gold in a circling sea of blue. The light from the high heavens was so brilliant that Henry could see small objects on either shore, although they were in the center of a stream, a mile wide. He saw nothing that did not belong there, but still he watched. "Noon!" called Adam Colfax. "And we'll land and eat!" Rowers and paddlers must have food and plenty of it, and there was a joyous shout as the leader turned the prow of his boat toward a cove in the northern shore. "See anything that looks hostile in there, Henry?" asked Adam Colfax. He spoke rather lightly. Despite his cautious nature and long experience, he had begun to believe that the danger was small. His was a powerful party. The Northern Indians would hear of the great defeat sustained by their Southern brethren, and would avoid a foe whom they could not conquer. He looked for an easy and quiet journey up the Ohio. "I don't see anything but the ground and the trees," replied Henry, smiling, but continuing, nevertheless, to search the forest with those wonderfully keen eyes of his. "Perhaps we can find game, too," added Adam Colfax. "We need fresh supplies, and a country deserted like this should be swarming with deer and buffalo." "Perhaps," said Henry. When their boat touched the bank, Henry and Shif'less Sol sprang ashore, and slid silently into the forest. There they made a wide curve about the cove that had served as a landing, but found no signs of life except the tracks of game. After a while they sat down on a log and listened, but heard nothing save the usual sounds of the forest. "What do you think of it, Sol?" asked Henry. "O' course, Henry," replied the shiftless one judiciously, "we've got to expect trouble sometime or other, but I ain't lookin' fur it yet awhile. We can't have no dealin's with it till it comes." Henry shook his head. He believed that the instinct of Shif'less Sol, usually so alert, was now sleeping. They were sitting in the very thickest of the forest, and he looked up at the roof of green leaves, here so dense that only slim triangles of blue sky showed between. The leaves stirred a little. There was a flash of flame against the green, but it was only a scarlet tanager that shot past, then a flash of blue, but it was only a blue jay. Around them, clustering close to the trees, was the dense undergrowth, and they could not see twenty yards away. The faint, idle breeze died of languor. The bushes stood up straight. The leaves hung motionless. The forest, which was always to Henry a live thing, seemed no longer to breathe. A leaf could have been heard had it fallen. Then out of that deadly stillness came a sudden note, a strange, wild song that Henry alone heard. He looked up, but he saw no bird, no singer of the woods. Yet the leaves were rippling. The wind had risen again, and it was playing upon the leaves in a mystic, solemn way, calling words that he knew or seemed to know. He glanced at Shif'less Sol, but his comrade heard only the wind, raising his head a little higher that its cool breath might fan his face. To Henry, always attuned to the wilderness and its spirit, this sudden voice out of the ominous silence was full of meaning. He started at the first trill. It was not a vain and idle song. A strange shiver ran down his spine, and the hair on his head felt alive. The great youth raised his head. The shiver was still in his spine. All his nerves and muscles were tense and drawn. The wind still sang on the leaves, but it was a warning note to Henry, and he understood. He sat rigid and alert, in the attitude of one who is ready to spring, and his eyes, as he looked up as if to seek the invisible hand among the green leaves, were full of fire and meaning. Chance made the shiftless one glance at his comrade, and he was startled. "What is it, Henry?" he asked. "I was hearing something." "I hear nothin' but the wind." "I hear that--and much more." Shif'less Sol glanced again at his comrade, but Henry's face said nothing, and the shiftless one was not a man to ask many questions. He was silent, and Henry listened attentively to the melodious breath of the wind, so gay, so light to one whose spirit was attuned only to the obvious, but so full of warning to him. He looked up, but he could see nothing. Nevertheless, the penetrating note came forth, never ceasing, drumming incessantly upon the boy's brain. "I think we'd better go back to the camp, Sol," he said presently. "So do I," said Shif'less Sol, "an' report that thar's nothin' to be found." Henry made no reply as they plunged into the green thicket, treading soundlessly on soft moccasins and moving with such skill that leaves and boughs failed to rustle as they passed. But the note of the wind among the leaves pursued the boy. He heard it long after the glade in which they had sat was lost to sight, fainter and fainter, but full of warning, and then only an echo, but a warning still. The feelings color what the eyes see. Shif'less Sol beheld only a splendid green forest that contained nothing but game for their hunting, deer, bear, buffalo, wild turkey, and other things good, but Henry saw over all the green an ominous, reddish tint. Game might be in those woods--no doubt it was swarming there--but he felt another presence, far more deadly than bear or panther. The boy saw a small object on the ground, almost hidden in the grass, and, without slackening his speed, he stooped and picked it up so silently and deftly that Shif'less Sol, who was a little in advance, neither saw nor heard him. It was the feather of an eagle, one that might have dropped from the wing of some soaring bird, but the quick eye of the boy saw that the quill had been cut with a knife, as the feather of a goose used to be sharpened for a pen. He suppressed the sharp exclamation that rose to his lips, and thrust the feather into the bosom of his buckskin hunting shirt. The last echo of the warning note came to him and then died away in the forest. They were at the camp fifteen minutes later, and the eyes of Shif'less Sol beamed at the joyous sight. In all their long journey they had found no more pleasant anchorage, a sheltered cove of the Ohio, and firm ground, clear of undergrowth, sloping gently to the water's edge. The boats were tied in a great curve about the beach, and nearly all the men were ashore, glad to feel once more the freedom of the land. Some still sung the wild songs they had picked up in the West Indies or on the Spanish Main, others were feeding fires that crackled merrily and that flung great bands of red flame against the glowing yellow curtain of the sunlight. Pleasant odors arose from pots and kettles. The air of frolic was pervasive. The whole company was like so many boys with leave to play. Henry left Shif'less Sol and approached Adam Colfax, who was sitting alone on the exposed root of a big tree. "You found nothing, of course?" said Adam Colfax, who shared the easy feelings of his men. "I found this," replied the boy, drawing the eagle feather from his breast. "What is that? Merely the feather of some wild bird." "The feather of an eagle." "I fancy that many an eagle drops a feather now and then in this wilderness." "This feather was dropped last from the head of an Indian warrior." "How do you know it?" "See, the quill has been trimmed off a little with a knife. It was part of a decoration." "It may have fallen many weeks ago." "It could not be so. The plumage everywhere is smooth and even. It has been lying on the ground only a little while. Otherwise it would be bedraggled by the rain or be roughened by the wind blowing it about among the bushes." "Then the feather indicates the presence of hostile Indians?" said Adam Colfax thoughtfully. "I know by your manner that you think so." "I am sure of it," said Henry with great emphasis. "You're right, no doubt. You always are. But look how strong our force is, men tried in toil and battle, and they are many! What have we to fear?" He looked over his light-hearted host, and his blue eyes, usually so cold, kindled with warmth. One might search the world over, and not find a hardier band. Truly, what had he to fear? Henry saw that the leader was not convinced, and he was not one to waste words. After all, what did he have to offer but a stray feather, carried by the wind? "Dismiss your fears, my boy," said Adam Colfax cheerfully. "Think about something else. I want to send out a hunting party this afternoon. Will you lead it?" "Of course," said Henry loyally. "I'll be ready whenever the others are." "In a half hour or so," said Adam Colfax with satisfaction. "I knew you wouldn't fail." Henry went to the fire, by the side of which his four comrades sat eating their noonday meal, and took his place with them. He said not a word after his brief salute, and Paul presently noticed his silence and look of preoccupation. "What is the matter, Henry?" he asked. "I'm going with a little party this afternoon," replied Henry, "to hunt for buffalo and deer. Mr. Colfax wishes me to do it. He thinks we need fresh supplies, and I've agreed to help. I want you boys to promise, if I don't come back, that you'll go on with the fleet." Paul sat up, rigid with astonishment. Shif'less Sol turned a lazy but curious eye on the boy. "Now, what under the sun do you mean, Henry?" he asked. "I've heard you talk a good many times, but never like that before. Not comin' back? Is this the Henry Ware that we've knowed so long?" Henry laughed, despite himself. "I'm just the same," he said, "and I do feel, Sol, that I'm not coming back from this hunt. I don't mean that I'll never come back, but it will be a long time. So I want you fellows to go on with the fleet and help it all you can." "Henry, you're plum' foolish," said taciturn Tom Ross. "Are you out uv your head?" Henry laughed again. "It does sound foolish," he admitted, "and I don't understand why I think I'm not coming back. I just feel it." "I notice that them things mostly come contrariwise," said Shif'less Sol. "When I know that I'm goin' to hev hard luck it's gen'ally good. We'll look for you, Henry, at sundown." But Paul, youthful and imaginative, was impressed, and he regarded Henry with silent sympathy. CHAPTER II THE WYANDOT CHIEF Henry rose quickly from the noonday refreshment and, with a nod to his comrades, entered the forest at the head of the little band of hunters. Shif'less Sol and Tom Ross would have gone, too, but Adam Colfax wanted them to keep watch about the camp, and they were too loyal to insist upon having their own way when it was opposed to that of the leader. Five men were with Henry, fairly good hunters on the whole, but more at home in the far south than in the woods of the Ohio. One, a big fellow named Larkin, had an undue pride in his skill, and another, a Frenchman, Pierre Cazotte, was a brave fellow, but uncommonly reckless. The remaining three were not of marked individuality. Henry examined them all with swift glances, and decided at once that Larkin and Cazotte, full of overweening confidence, would want their way, but he said nothing, merely leading the band into the mass of dense green foliage that rimmed the camp around. He looked back but once, and saw his four faithful comrades sitting by the fire, it seemed to him, in an attitude of dejection. Then he went forward swiftly, and in another minute the forest shut out camp fire and comrades. "What's your notion, Henry?" asked Larkin. "Have you seen signs of deer or buffalo near?" "Both," replied Henry. "There are good springs and little open places in the woods not more than a couple of miles away. We're pretty sure to find deer there." "Why not buffalo?" exclaimed Larkin. "I've shot more deer than I could ever count, but I've never killed a buffalo. It's the first time that I've been in this part of the country." "Nor have I," said Cazotte. "We have many people to feed, and ze buffalo ees beeg. Ze deer ees too leetle for all ze mouths back there." "Right you are, Frenchy," exclaimed Larkin jovially. "We'll pass the deer by an' go for buffalo if we have to travel six or seven miles further. What this gang wants is buffalo, an' buffalo it will have." "I don't think we ought to go very far from the camp," said Henry. "These woods from here to the lakes are the hunting grounds of the most warlike tribes, and bands may be near us now." Larkin laughed again his big jovial laugh. "You're thinkin' a lot about Indians," he said, "You're brave--everybody knows it--but a fellow can put his mind on 'em so hard that he can see 'em where they ain't." Henry laughed, too. He knew no offense was intended, but he was confirmed in his belief that Larkin meant to have his own way. He saw, too, that Cazotte and the others were ready to back him up. But he would not yield without a protest. "It's true, I am thinking a lot about Indians," he said earnestly, "and I think I have cause to do so. They're here in these woods now. I'm sure of it, and they know of the presence of our fleet. We ought to be very cautious." Larkin laughed again, and his laugh contained the slightest touch of irony. "I'll wager there ain't an Indian within fifty miles," he exclaimed, "an' if there was one he wouldn't keep us from our buffalo, would he, Pierre, old fellow?" He slapped the Frenchman on the back, and Cazotte returned the laugh. "Not a hundred Indians could keep us from heem," he replied. "I taste the steaks of that mighty buffalo now. Ah, they so good!" Henry flushed through his tan. He did not like even that slight touch of irony. He had held in mind a tiny prairie not more than two miles away where they were almost absolutely sure to find deer feeding, but he abandoned the idea and thought of another and larger prairie, of which he and Shif'less Sol had caught a glimpse three or four miles further on. It was quite likely that buffalo would be found grazing there. "Very well," he said, "if you're bound to have it that way I'll lead you. Come." He led swiftly to the northeast, and Larkin, Cazotte, and the others, already tasting their hunting triumph, followed. The undergrowth thinned, but the trees grew larger, spreading away like a magnificent park--maples, oak, beech, hickory and elm. Henry was glad to see the bushes disappear, but for the second time that day the sound that made the chill run down his spine came to his ear, the warning note of the wind among the leaves. It soon passed, and he did not hear it again. The open woods ceased, and the bushes began once more, thicker than ever. They were compelled to go much more slowly, and Henry, risking another laugh at himself, told them to make as little noise as possible. "Anyway, if Indians are about they'll hear us shootin' our buffaloes," said Larkin. "So we needn't mind a little snappin' an' cracklin' of the bushes." "It's a good plan in the woods never to make any noise, when you can help it," said Henry. The others heeded him for a few moments, but soon relapsed into their slovenly ways. It sounded to Henry's sensitive ear as if an army were passing. But he would not speak again of the need of caution, knowing how soon another warning would be disregarded. Meanwhile he kept a wary watch in behalf of his careless comrades, searching the thickets with eye and ear, and trying to guard them from their own neglect. Another mile passed, the third since they had left the camp, and they came to a little brook. As Henry crossed it he distinctly saw the impression of a moccasined foot in the soft soil of the bank. It could not be more than an hour old. "Look there!" he said to Larkin and Cazotte. "See the proof of what I have told you. An Indian has passed here this very afternoon." Larkin glanced at the trace in the soft earth and shook his head dubiously. "Do you call that the footprint of a man?" he asked. "It may be, but I can't make it out. It might have been put there by some animal." Henry frowned. These men would not be convinced. But he said nothing more and continued to lead the way. Before him lay a stretch of thick wood with matted undergrowth, and beyond this, as he had discovered when scouting with Shif'less Sol in the morning, was the prairie on which they might find the buffalo. This thicket opened and received them, the bushes closing up behind them in such compact order that nothing could be seen ten yards away. But Henry's eyes caught the glimpse of something to their right. It was the feather of an eagle, the second that he had seen that day, but it was thrust upright, and it adorned the head of a living warrior. "Down! Down at once!" he cried, and, seizing the careless Larkin, he fairly hurled him to the earth. At the same instant a dozen rifles crackled among the bushes. The light-hearted Frenchman fell stone dead, a bullet through his head, and two more men were wounded. A bullet had grazed Larkin's shoulder, burning like the sting of a hornet, and, wild with pain and anger, he sprang again to his feet. Henry had felt all along that the party was in his care, and he was resolved to save Larkin from his own folly. He also sprang up, seized the big man and dragged him down a second time. But as he sank into the concealment of the bushes he felt a blow upon the side of his head. It was like the light tap of a hammer, and for a second or two he thought nothing of it. Then his knees grew weak and his sight dim, and he knew that he was hit badly. "Run, run!" he cried to Larkin. "The way by which we came is yet open and we may escape! It's the only chance!" Larkin glanced back. He had been foolish, but he was no coward. "You're hit and we won't leave you!" he exclaimed. "Go on! go on!" cried Henry, summoning up his energy with a great effort of the will. "I'll look out for myself! Run!" His tone was so compelling that Larkin and the others sprang up and made at top speed for the camp, the bullets whistling about them as they went. Henry tried to follow, but that extraordinary weakness in his knees increased, and it was growing quite dark. He had risen to his feet, but he sank down despite every effort of the will, and he saw a dim world whirling about him. A dozen dusky figures shot out of the obscurity. One raised a tomahawk aloft, but another stopped the arm in its descent. He was conscious that the dusky figures stood about him in a ring, looking at him intently. But he was fast growing dizzier, and his eyelids were uncommonly heavy. He gave back their looks with defiance, and then he sank to the ground, unconscious. Henry revived in a half hour. Some one had thrown water on his face, and he found himself sitting up, but with his hands tied securely behind his back. His head ached terribly, and he felt that his hair was thick with blood. But he knew at once that it was only a glancing wound, and that the effects, caused by the impact of the bullet upon the skull, were passing. He was a prisoner, but all his alertness and powers were returning. He was not one ever to give up hope, and a single glance was enough to tell him the whole situation. A half dozen warriors stood about him, eight or ten more were returning, evidently from a chase, and one bore a ghastly trophy at his belt. Then three had escaped! It was perhaps more than he had hoped. He knew that another hideous decoration was in the belt of some warrior near him, but he closed his eyes to it, nor would he look at the body of the fallen Frenchman. "You come with us," said a warrior in fairly good English. Henry looked at the speaker and recognized at once a chief, a young man of uncommon appearance, great in stature and with a fierce and lofty countenance, like that of the ancient Roman, sometimes found in the North American Indian. He was a truly impressive figure, his head clean-shaven except for the defiant scalp lock which stood aloft intertwined with small eagle feathers, a gorgeous red blanket from some Canadian trading post thrown carelessly about his shoulders after the fashion of a toga, a fine long-barreled Kentucky rifle lying in the hollow of his arm, and a tomahawk and knife at his belt. Henry felt instinctively that he was in the presence of a great man, a great chief of the woods. He recognized here a spirit akin to his own, and for a full minute the two, boy and man, gazed intently at each other. Then the chief turned away with a slight laugh. He made no sound, but the prisoner knew from the motion of his lips that he laughed. Henry looked again at the group of warriors, and now it was an examining glance. They were not Shawnees or Miamis, but certain features of paint and dress showed him that they were Wyandots, a small tribe, but the bravest that white men ever faced on the North American Continent. It became an axiom in the Ohio Valley that a Wyandot might be killed in battle, but he could not be taken prisoner. Thirteen Wyandot chiefs were in the allied Indian army that was beaten by Wayne at the Fallen Timbers; the bodies of twelve were found on the field. Henry fully understood the character of the Wyandots, their great enterprise and desperate courage, and he knew that their presence here, west of their own country, portended some great movement. His eyes came back to the chief, who repeated his statement or rather command: "You go with us!" "I have no other choice," replied the youth with a tinge of irony. Then he added, with some curiosity: "You are a chief, I see that. Will you tell me your name?" "I am called White Lightning in your tongue," replied the young man, making at the same time a movement of his head, very slight, but full of indescribable pride. Henry's gaze showed an increase of interest. He had heard that name, White Lightning. Before he went south to New Orleans it was beginning to have ominous significance on the border. White Lightning had fought in the great battle when the emigrant train was saved at the crossing of the river, but it was only since then that he had become a head chief, with the opportunity to display his terrible talents. An intensity of purpose and action like the fire that burns white had caused men to give to him the name, White Lightning, in English, but in his own Wyandot tongue he was Timmendiquas, which means The Lightning. Henry had risen to his feet, and as they stood eye to eye each felt that the other was a worthy opponent. The chief marked the great proportions and lofty bearing of the captive youth, and a glint of approval appeared in his eyes. "The Wyandots are happy to have taken such a prisoner," he said, "and now we will go." He made a gesture, and instantly the group fell into single file, as he led the way through the forest. Henry was the fourth man in the file. All his strength had come back, but he was far too wise to attempt escape. His hands were bound behind him, and he would have no chance with such woodsmen. He must bide his time, and he marched without protest. When they had gone about a mile all stopped at a signal from White Lightning. The chief dropped back to a subordinate place in the line, although his was still the air and actual manner of command, and his place at the head of the file was taken by a heavy, middle-aged warrior who carried at his belt one of the hideous trophies at which Henry would not look. But he understood Indian custom well enough to know the cause of this change. The middle-aged warrior had taken the first scalp in battle, and therefore it was his honor to lead the party back in triumph to their village or camp. White Lightning remained but a moment or two in his place. Then he stepped forth, while the others stood rigid, and drew a medicine bag from beneath the folds of his blanket. He held the bag for a moment poised in his hand, as if it were a sacred object, which, in fact, it was to the Wyandots, while the warriors regarded it with reverential eyes. Then every warrior took his totem from some secure place next to his body where it had been tied. The totems were small objects various in kind, such as the skin of a snake, a piece of the tail of a buffalo, a part of the horn of a buck, or a little packet of feathers. But every totem was sacred, and it was handled with worshipful care. The chief put them one by one into the medicine bag, which he handed to the temporary leader, the first scalp-taker, who would bear it in triumph home. Henry watched the proceeding with interested eyes. He knew the Indian way. In his early captivity he had seen the entire rite, which was practically sacred. He knew that before these Wyandots had started on the war-path every man had put his totem in the bag, and then White Lightning had carried it bound securely to his body. Whenever they halted the bag was laid down in front, and no one might pass it. The warriors, now on the war-path, were not allowed to talk of home, wife, or sweetheart, lest it weaken their hearts and turn them to water. When they camped at night the heart of whatever animal they had killed in the course of the day was cut into small pieces and burned. During the burning no man was allowed to step across the fire, but must walk around it in the direction of the sun. When they laid the ambush, and the enemy came into sight, the chief gave back his totem to every man, and he wore it on his body in the conflict as a protection given by Manitou. Henry noticed the rapt, worshipful air with which every man regarded his totem before it was replaced in the medicine bag. He was a child of the forest and the wilderness himself, and, while he knew that this was superstition, he could not find it in his heart to criticize it. It was their simple belief, the best that they knew, and here was the proof of its power. They had suffered no loss in the ambush, while they had slain two and taken one. The elderly warrior who now bore the medicine bag and who was to lead them back home preserved a stoical face while the brief ceremonies were going on, but Henry knew that his heart was swollen with pride. He had achieved one of the greatest triumphs of an Indian's life, and the memory of it would remain with his tribe as long as he lived. "You are now our leader, O Anue (Bear)," said the young chief in Wyandot to the successful warrior. "I take the trust, O Timmendiquas (Lightning)," replied Anue as he stepped back to the head of the line. But the spirit and authority of Timmendiquas were still omnipotent, despite the formal leadership of Anue, and he turned to the prisoner, regarding him a moment or two with his piercing glance. "You have come with the great white force up Yandawezue?" he said interrogatively. "Yandawezue?" repeated Henry, who was not familiar with the Wyandot tongue. "The great river," repeated Timmendiquas, waving his hand toward the southwest. "Ah, I understand," said Henry. "You mean the Mississippi. Yes, we have come up it all the way from New Orleans, and we have a strong force, many men with many rifles and with cannon. We had a great battle far down the river, and we defeated all the Indians and white men, their renegade allies." Timmendiquas, the White Lightning of the whites, the great young chief of the Wyandots, drew himself up in all the majesty of a perfectly proportioned six feet three, and the fierce, Roman-like features contracted into a scornful smile. "No Wyandots were there," he said. "But they are here, and with them their allies, the Miamis, the Shawnees, the Ottawas, the Delawares, and the Illinois. You may be many, you may have cannon, and you may be brave, and you have come up Yandawezue, but you will find Ohezuhyeandawa" (the Ohio--in the Wyandot tongue, "something great") "closed to you." "Ohezu--do you mean the Ohio?" asked Henry. "In your language, the Ohio," replied the young chief with dignity, "but the Wyandots had given it its right name, Ohezuhyeandawa, long before the white people came." "I suppose you're right in that," said Henry reflectively, "but your name for it is too long. Ohio is better. As for our fleet, I think, in spite of what you say, that it will make its way up the Ohio to Pittsburgh, although I do admit that the dangers are great." White Lightning merely shook his head. His dignity would not permit him to argue further with a prisoner. Henry regarded him with secret admiration. He did not believe that the chief could be over twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, but his great qualities were so obvious that it seemed natural for him to lead and command. The chief stepped back into the line, Anue gave the signal, and the band resumed its rapid march toward the northeast. So swift, indeed, was the pace of the warriors that none but the forest-bred could have maintained it. They never stopped for a moment, striding on over the ground with a long, easy step that was like the trot of a horse, and almost as fast. Nor did they make any sound. It was like the passing of so many ghostly forms, phantoms flitting through the wilderness. Henry noticed bye and bye that the pace increased. The legs of the warrior in front of him worked with the speed and regularity of machinery. But no perspiration appeared upon the bare brown neck, there was no evidence of fatigue, and Henry was sure that all the others were moving with the same ease and vigor. He wondered at first at this new speed, and then he divined the cause. It was to test him, and he was sure that some sort of signal had passed between Timmendiquas and Anue. This was a picked band of warriors, there was not a man in it under six feet in height, and all were lean, but muscled powerfully and with great shoulders and chests. They had an intense pride in physical strength and prowess, such necessary qualities to them, and they would show the white prisoner, large as he was and strong as he looked, how much inferior he was to the chosen warriors of the Wyandots. Henry accepted the challenge. They did not know his natural powers and the perfection of his training. He answered them, stride for stride. He filled his lungs with the fresh air of the woods, but he kept his breathing steady and regular. No gasp, no quick breath should ever show that he was not a match for them, one and all. His own pace increased. He almost trod upon the man in front of him, a warrior whom he had heard Timmendiquas address as Hainteroh (The Raccoon). Hainteroh said nothing and did not look back, but he felt the strong step that narrowly missed his heels, the step of a white youth, a prisoner, and he moved faster--a great Wyandot warrior could not suffer such an indignity as to be crowded by a captive, one whom he had regarded as a physical inferior. Those in front moved faster, also, and now the second increase in speed had been caused by the prisoner himself. Henry had become for the time as primitive, as much a child of the wilderness as they. An ironical spirit laid hold of him. They would test him! Well, he would test them! The inside of his chest bubbled with malicious laughter. Once more Hainteroh, great warrior of the Wyandots, mighty hunter, taker of scalps, fearless among men, felt the planting of that vigorous step at his very heels, almost upon him. It would not be pleasant to have so much weight come down upon them, and it would be a disgrace in the tribe to have been trodden upon by a white prisoner. A third time the line increased its speed, and a second time it was the captive youth who caused it. They fairly fled through the forest now, but the breathing of every man was yet steady and regular. They came to a wide brook, almost a creek. Anue never paused for an instant, but took it with a light leap, nor pausing an instant on the other side, sped on. The second man took it in the same way, then Hainteroh, and Henry, so close behind that the moccasins of the Wyandot were scarcely twinkling in the air before the feet of Henry were resting where his had been. Henry heard the light sound of the others behind him as one by one they leaped into his place, but he never looked back. He was still pushing the Raccoon hard, and a terrible fear was slowly eating its way to the heart of the redoubtable Hainteroh, chosen warrior of the Wyandots, the bravest of all races. Sooner or later this demon white youth would tread upon his heels. He could feel already the scrape of his moccasins, the ineffable disgrace. He shuddered from head to foot. Such a thing could not be endured. He fairly leaped through the air, and once more a new impulse was communicated to the line. The way now became rougher, leading over stony hills, but there was no slackening of speed, the line remaining as even and regular as the links of a chain, Timmendiquas from his position in seventh place looking now and then with admiration over the heads of the men in front of him at the captive. They crossed the hills, entered the deep and tangled woods again, and sped on as few war parties had ever traveled. The miles fell swiftly behind them, no one spoke, they heard nothing but the regular breathing of one another, and Henry did not yet see the drops of perspiration on the bare brown back in front of him. The sun passed far down the western arch. Shadowy twilight was already creeping up, the distant waves of the forest were clothed in darkening mists, but they did not stop. Anue gave no word, and Timmendiquas, for the time, would wait upon the formal leader. Henry, always keenly sensitive to everything about him, noticed that the air was changing. It was growing heavier, and it had in it a touch of damp, but so slight that an ordinary person would not have observed it. There was, too, a faint circle of mist about the sun, and he believed that the beautiful weather was passing. His mind returned to the broad bare back in front of him. The figure of Hainteroh was still working like a perfect machine, but the keen eyes of the youth saw the sight for which he had long been looking. Squarely in the middle of that brown surface a silver bead was forming. The yellow light of the low sun struck upon it, revealing clearly its nature and growth. Nor did it remain long alone. Brothers and sisters and cousins, near and then distant, gathered around it, and the great brown back of Hainteroh was wide enough for them all. Henry enjoyed the sight. It appealed to the powerful, primitive instincts in his nature, and again the inside of his chest bubbled with silent laughter. His wicked delight increased when a slight wheezing sound came to his ears. Hainteroh's breath was growing short. Now the wheeze at intervals became something dangerously resembling a gasp, and there could be no doubt that Hainteroh, mass of muscle and mighty warrior of the Wyandots, was growing tired, while the prisoner, the white youth just behind him, seemed still fresh and strong, and would step in Hainteroh's tracks before the latter was fairly clear of them. Henry heard the same slight wheezing sound behind him, and took one quick glance over his shoulder. The face of the warrior next to him was bedewed, but that of Timmendiquas was as cool and calm as his own. It seemed to him that just the touch of a smile appeared in the eyes of the chief, as if he understood and appreciated, and the fleeting look of Henry was not too brief to give back the smile. A singular bond of mutual respect was established in quick time between White Lightning and himself. On sped the dusky line. The sun sank in a cloud of mist and vapors. Thick night crept up, broken only when heat lightning flared on the far horizon, but Anue, bearer of the medicine bag, taker of the first scalp, honored among warriors, still led. CHAPTER III THE SONG OF THE LEAVES The night had come a full hour when Anue stopped in a little glade hemmed in by mighty oaks and beeches. The heat lightning flared again at that moment, and Henry saw that every one besides Timmendiquas and himself was panting. Enduring as were all Wyandots, they were glad that Anue had stopped, and they were generous enough to cast looks of approval at the captive who stood among them still calm and still breathing regularly. Timmendiquas did more. He stepped into the circle, put one hand on Henry's shoulder, and looked him directly in the eyes. "You are strong," he said gravely, "stronger even than most Wyandots, and your soul is that of the eagle. If the boy is what he is, what will the man be?" Henry knew that the words were meant, and he felt pride, but his modesty would not let him show it. "I thank you, White Lightning," he replied with a similar gravity. "Your Manitou was kind enough to give me a strong body, and I, like you, have lived in the woods." "As I see," said the chief sententiously. "Now I tell you this. We will take the bonds from your arms if you promise us not to seek to escape to-night. Else you must lie among us bound, hand and foot, to a warrior on either side. See, we are willing to take your word." Henry felt pride again. These Wyandots, mortal enemies, who had never seen him before, would believe what he said, putting absolute faith in their reading of his character. He looked up at the dusky sky, in which not a single star twinkled, and then at the black forest that circled about them. Bound, and with a lightly sleeping Wyandot at either elbow, he would have a slender chance, indeed, of escape, and he could well bide his time. "I give the promise and with it my thanks, White Lightning," he said. White Lightning cut the thongs with one sweep of his knife, and Henry's arms fell free. Sharp pains shot through them as the circulation began to flow with its old freedom, but he refused to wince. He had chosen a policy, the one that he thought best fitted to his present condition, and he would abide by it through all things. He merely stepped a little to one side and watched while they made the camp. The task was quickly done. Three or four warriors gathered fallen brushwood and set it on fire with flint and steel. Then they cooked over it strips of venison from their pouches, giving several strips to Henry, which he ate with no appearance of haste or eagerness, although he was quite hungry. It was growing very dark, and the lightning on the horizon became vivid and intense. The air was heavy and oppressive. The fire burned with a languid drooping flame, and the forest was absolutely still, except when the thunder grumbled like the low, ominous mutter of a distant cannonade. "A storm comes," said Timmendiquas, glancing at the lowering skies. "It will be here soon," said Henry, who knew that the words were spoken to him. Every warrior carried a blanket, which he now wrapped closely about his body, but Henry asked for nothing. He would not depart from his policy. He stood in the center of the glade listening, although there was yet nothing to hear. But it was this extraordinary breathless silence that impressed him most. He felt as he breathed the heavy air that it was the sign of impending danger. The warning of the wind among the leaves had not been more distinct. A long, rolling crash came from their right. "Heno (Thunder)!" said White Lightning. He did not mean to say the obvious, but his emphasis indicated that it was very loud thunder. The thunder sank away in a low, distant note that echoed grimly, and then the breathless silence came again. A minute later the whole forest swam in a glare of light so dazzling that Henry was compelled to close his eyes. It passed in an instant, and the wilderness was all black, but out of the southwest came a low, moaning sound. "Iruquas (The wind)!" said the chief in the same sententious tone. The groan became a rumble, and then, as the vanguard of the wind, came great drops of rain that pattered like hail stones. "Inaunduse (It rains)," said the chief. But it was merely a brief shower like a volley from withdrawing skirmishers, and then the rumble of the wind gave way to a crash which rose in a moment to a terrible roar. "A hurricane!" exclaimed Henry. As he spoke a huge compressed ball of air which can be likened only to a thunderbolt struck them. Strong as he was, Henry was thrown to the ground, and he saw the chief go down beside him. Then everything was blotted out in pitchy blackness, but his ears were filled with many sounds, all terrible, the fierce screaming of the wind as if in wrath and pain, the whistling of boughs and brushwood, swept over his head, and the crash of great oaks and beeches as they fell, snapped through at the trunk by the immense force of the hurricane. Henry seized some of the bushes and held on for his life. How thankful he was now that he had given his promise to the chief, and that his hands were free! A shiver swept over him from head to foot. Any moment one of the trees might fall upon him, but he was near the center of the glade, the safest place, and he did not seek to move. He was conscious, as he clung to the bushes, of two kinds of movement. He was being pulled forward and he was being whirled about. The ball of air as it shot from southwest to northeast revolved, also, with incredible rapidity. The double motion was so violent that it required all of Henry's great strength to keep from being wrenched loose from his bushes. The hurricane, in its full intensity, lasted scarcely a minute. Then with a tremendous rush and scream it swept off to the northeast, tearing a track through the forest like a tongue of flame in dry grass. Then the rain, pouring from heavy black clouds, came in its wake, and the lightning, which had ceased while the thunderbolt was passing, began to flash fitfully. Henry had seen hurricanes in the great Ohio Valley before, but never one so fierce and violent as this, nor so tremendous in its manifestations. Awe and weirdness followed in the trail of that cannon ball of wind. The rumble of thunder, far and echoing, was almost perpetual. Blackest darkness alternated with broad sheets of lightning so intense in tint that the forest would swim for a moment in a reddish glare before the blackness came. Meanwhile the rain poured as if the bottom had dropped out of every cloud. Henry struggled to his feet and stood erect. He could have easily darted away in the confusion and darkness among the woods, but such a thought did not occur to him. He had given his promise, and he would keep it despite the unexpected opportunity that was offered. He remained at the edge of the circle, while Timmendiquas, the real leader, hastily gathered his men and took count of them as best he could. The chief, by the flare of the lightning, saw Henry, upright, motionless, and facing him. A singular flash of understanding quicker than the lightning itself passed between the two. Then Timmendiquas spoke in the darkness: "You could have gone, but you did not go." "I gave my promise to stay, and I stayed," replied Henry in the same tone. The lightning flared again, and once more Henry saw the eyes of the chief. They seemed to him to express approval and satisfaction. Then Timmendiquas resumed his task with his men. Hainteroh of the broad back had been dashed against a sapling, and his left arm was broken. Another man had been knocked senseless by a piece of brushwood, but was sitting up now. Three or four more were suffering from severe bruises, but not one uttered a complaint. They merely stood at attention while the chief made his rapid inspection. Every man had wrapped his rifle in his blanket to protect it from the rain, but their bodies were drenched, and they made no effort now to protect themselves. Hainteroh pointed to his broken arm. The chief examined it critically, running his hand lightly over the fracture. Then he signaled to Anue, and the two, seizing the arm, set the broken bone in place. Hainteroh never winced or uttered a word. Splints, which White Lightning cut from a sapling, and strips of deerskin were bound tightly around the arm, a sling was made of more deerskin from their own scanty garb, and nature would soon do the rest for such a strong, healthy man as Hainteroh. They stood about an hour in the glade until the lightning and thunder ceased, and the rain was falling only in moderation. Then they took up the march again, going by the side of the hurricane's path. It was impossible for them to sleep on the earth, which was fairly running water, and Henry was glad that they had started. It was turning much colder, as it usually does in the great valley after such storms, and the raw, wet chill was striking into his marrow. The line was re-formed just as it had been before, with Anue leading, and they went swiftly despite the darkness, which, however, was not so dense as that immediately preceding and following the hurricane. The trained eyes of the Wyandot and of the prisoner could now easily see the way. The coldness increased, and the diminishing rain now felt almost like hail stones, but the clouds were floating away toward the northeast, and the skies steadily lightened. Henry felt the warming and strengthening influence of the vigorous exercise. His clothing was a wet roll about him, but the blood began to flow in a vigorous stream through his veins, and his muscles became elastic. They followed by the side of the hurricane's track for several miles, and Henry was astonished at the damage that it had done. Its path was not more than two hundred yards wide, but within that narrow space little had been able to resist it. Trees were piled in tangled masses. Sometimes the revolving ball had thrown them forward and sometimes it had thrown them, caught in the other whirl, backward. They turned at last from this windrow of trees, and presently entered a little prairie, where there was nothing to obstruct them. The rain was now entirely gone, and the clouds were retreating far down in the southwest. Timmendiquas looked up. "Washuntyaandeshra (The Moon)," he said. Henry guessed that this very long name in Wyandot meant the moon, because there it was, coming out from the vapors, and throwing a fleecy light over the soaked and dripping forest. It was a pleasing sight, a friendly one to him, and he now felt unawed and unafraid. The wilderness itself had no terrors for him, and he felt that somehow he would slip through the hands of the Wyandots. He had escaped so many times from great dangers that it seemed to him a matter of course that he should do so once more. They made greater speed on the prairie, which was covered only with long grass and an occasional clump of bushes. But near its center something rose up from one of the clumps, and disappeared in a streak of brown. "Oughscanoto (Deer)," said the chief. But Henry had known already. His eyes were as quick as those of Timmendiquas. They crossed the prairie and entering the woods again went on without speaking. The moonlight faded, midnight passed, when Anue suddenly stopped at the entrance to a rocky hollow, almost a cave, the inner extension of which had escaped the sweep of the storm. "We rest here," said White Lightning to Henry. "Do you still give your promise?" "Until I awake," replied the youth with a little laugh. He entered the hollow, noticed that the dry leaves lay in abundance by the rocky rear wall, threw himself down among them, and in a few moments was asleep, while his clothes dried upon him. All the warriors quickly followed his example except Timmendiquas and Anue, who sat down at the entrance of the hollow, with their rifles across their knees, and watched. Neither spoke and neither moved. They were like bronze statues, set there long ago. Henry awoke at the mystical hour when the night is going and the dawn has not yet come. He did not move, he merely opened his eyes, and he remembered everything at once, his capture, the flight through the forest, and the hurricane. He was conscious of peace and rest. His clothes had dried upon him, and he had taken no harm. He felt neither the weight of the present nor fear for the future. He saw the dusky figures of the Wyandots lying in the leaves about him sound asleep, and the two bronze statues at the front of the stony alcove. Clear as was Henry's recollection, a vague, dreamy feeling was mingled with it. The wilderness always awoke all the primitive springs within him. When he was alone in the woods--and he was alone now--he was in touch with the nymphs and the fauns and the satyrs of whom he had scarcely ever heard. Like the old Greeks, he peopled the forest with the creatures of his imagination, and he personified nearly everything. Now a clear sweet note came to his half-dreaming ear and soothed him with its melody. He closed his eyes and let its sweetness pierce his brain. It was the same song among the leaves that he had heard when he was out with the shiftless one, the mysterious wind with its invisible hand playing the persistent and haunting measure on the leaves and twigs. It was definite and clear to Henry. It was there, the rhythmic note ran through it all the time, and for him it contained all the expression of a human voice, the rise, the fall, the cadence, and the shade. But its note was different now. It was not solemn, ominous, full of warning. It was filled with hope and promise, and he took its meaning to himself. He would escape, he would rejoin his comrades, and the great expedition would end in complete success. Stronger and fuller swelled the song, the mysterious haunting note that was played upon the leaves, and Henry's heart bounded in response. He was still in that vague, dreamy state in which things unseen look large and certain, and this was a call intended for him. He glanced at the brown statues. If they, too, heard, they made no sign. He glanced at the leaves, and he saw them moving gently as they were played by the unseen hand. Henry closed his eyes again and listened to the note of hope, sweeter and more penetrating than ever. A great satisfaction suffused him, and he did not open his eyes again. The dreamy state grew, and presently he floated off again into a deep, restful slumber. When Henry awoke the glade was flooded with brilliant sunlight. A warm west wind was blowing and trees and grass were drying. Several of the Wyandots were, like himself, just rising from sleep, but it was evident that others had been up far before, because at the edge of the glade lay a part of the body of a deer, recently killed and dressed. Other Wyandots were broiling strips of the flesh on sharpened twigs over a fire built in the center of the glade. The pleasant savor came to Henry's nostrils, and he sat up. Just at that moment a Wyandot, who had evidently been hunting, returned to the glade, carrying on his arm a large bird with beautiful bronze feathers. "Daightontah," said Timmendiquas. "I suppose that word means turkey," said Henry, who, of course, recognized the bird at once. The chief nodded. "Turkey is fine," said Henry, "but, as it won't be ready for some time, would you mind giving me a few strips of Oughscanoto, which I think is what you called it last night." The young chief smiled. "You learn fast," he said. "You make good Wyandot." Henry seemed to see a significance in the tone and words, and he looked sharply at White Lightning. A Spaniard, Francisco Alvarez, had tried to tempt him once from his people, but the attempt was open and abrupt. The approach of the chief was far different, gentle and delicate. Moreover, he liked White Lightning, and, as Henry believed, the chief was much the better man of the two. But here as before there was only one answer. The chief nodded at one of the men, who handed the broiled strips, and the boy ate, not with haste and greediness, but slowly and with dignity. He saw that his conduct in the night and the storm had made an impression upon his captors, and he meant to deepen it. He knew the Indian and his modes of thought. All the ways of his life in the northwestern tribe readily came back to him, and he did the things that were of highest esteem in the Indian code. Henry showed no anxiety of any kind. He looked about him contentedly, as if place and situation alike pleased him more than any other in the world. But this was merely an approving, not an inquiring look. He did not seem to be interested in anything beyond the glade. He was not searching for any way of escape. He was content with the present, ignoring the future. When the time came for them to go he approached White Lightning and held out his hands. "I am ready to be bound," he said. A low murmur of approval came from two or three of the Wyandots who stood near. "Let the promise go another day?" said White Lightning with a rising inflection. "If you wish," said Henry. He saw no reason why he should not give such a promise. He knew that the Wyandots would watch him far too well to allow a chance of escape, and another such opportunity as the storm was not to be expected. The chief said not another word, but merely motioned to Henry, who took his old place as fourth in the line with Anue at the head. Then the march was resumed, and they went steadily toward the northeast, moving in swiftness and silence. Henry made no further effort to embarrass Hainteroh, who again was just before him. His reasons were two--the Wyandot now had a broken arm, and the boy had already proved his quality. The day was beautiful after the storm. The sky had been washed clean by wind and rain, and now it was a clear, silky blue. The country, an alternation of forest and little prairies, was of surpassing fertility. The pure air, scented with a thousand miles of unsullied wilderness, was heaven to the nostrils, and Henry took deep and long breaths of it. He had suffered no harm from the night before. His vigorous young frame threw off cold and stiffness, and he felt only the pleasure of abounding physical life. Although the wind was blowing, he did not hear that human note among the leaves again. It was only when his mind was thoroughly attuned and clothed about in a mystical atmosphere that it made a response. But his absolute belief that he would escape remained. Henry was troubled somewhat by the thought of his comrades. He was afraid, despite his warning to them, that they would leave the fleet and search for him when he did not return, and he knew that Adam Colfax needed them sorely. This was the country that they knew best, the country Adam Colfax and his men knew least. It was best for another reason that they did not seek him. So wary a foe as the Wyandot could keep away help from the outside, and, if he escaped, he must escape alone. They traveled swiftly and almost without a word until noon, when they stopped for a half hour and ate. They did not light any fire, but took cold food from their pouches, of which they had a variety, and once more Timmendiquas was most hospitable. "Oghtaeh (Squirrel)," he said, holding up a piece. "Yes, thank you," replied the boy, who thought he recognized the flesh. "Yuingeh (Duck)?" said the chief, holding up another piece. "I'll take that, too," replied Henry. "Sootae (Beaver)?" said the chief, producing a third. "I'll risk that, too," replied Henry. "It looks good." "Yungenah (Dog)?" said the hospitable Timmendiquas, offering a fourth fragment of meat. Henry looked at it suspiciously. "Yungenah?" he said. "Now, Chief, would you tell me what Yungenah means?" "Dog," replied the Wyandot sententiously. "No, no!" exclaimed Henry. "Take it away." Timmendiquas smiled benevolently. "Dog good," he said, "but not make you eat it. Wyandot glad enough to get it." They continued the journey throughout the afternoon, and did not stop until after sunset. Henry's promise was renewed for the second time, and he slept quietly within the circle of the Wyandots. He awakened once far in the night, and he saw that the watch was most vigilant. White Lightning was awake and sitting up, as also were three warriors. The night was clear and bright save for a few small harmless clouds. Henry saw that he had made no mistake in renewing his promise. The chance of escape had not yet come. White Lightning noticed that his captive's eyes were open and he walked over to him. This youth, so strong and so skillful, so brave and so frank, appealed to the young chief. He would regret the necessity of putting him to death. A way of escaping it would be welcome. "It is not like last night," he said pleasantly. "No," said Henry. "There is no chance of another storm." "Oghtserah," said the chief, pointing to the small, harmless clouds. "But they are too little to mean anything," said Henry, guessing from the chief's gesture that "Oghtserah" meant clouds. "You learn Wyandot," said the chief in the same pleasant tone. "You learn fast. See Tegshe." He glanced up. "Stars?" guessed Henry. The chief smiled again. "It is right," he said. "You stay long with us, you learn to talk to Wyandot. Look!" He held up one finger. "Scat," he said. He held up two. "Tindee," he said. He held up three. "Shaight," he said. He held up four. "Andaught." Five--"Weeish." Six--"Washaw." Seven--"Sootare." Eight--"Acetarai." Nine--"Aintru." Ten--"Aughsah." "Now you count ten," he said somewhat in the tone of a schoolmaster to Henry. "All right," said Henry tractably. "Here goes: Scat, Tindee, Shaight, Andaught, Weeish, Washaw, Sootare, Acetarai, Aintru, Aughsah." The chief's smile deepened. "You good memory," he said. "You learn very fast." Then he added after a moment's hesitation: "You make good Wyandot. Wyandots small nation, but bravest, most cunning and most enduring of all. Wyandot being burned at the stake calls for his pipe and smokes it peacefully while he dies in the fire." "I don't doubt it," said Henry, who had heard of such cases. The chief glanced at him and concluded that he said enough on that point. Once more he looked up. "Washuntyaandeshra." "The moon," said Henry. "Yes, it's bright." "You learn. You remember," said the chief. "Now you sleep again." He walked away, and Henry closed his eyes, but did not go to sleep just yet. He had understood Timmendiquas perfectly, and it troubled him. He liked the young chief, but white he was and white he would remain. He resolutely forced the question out of his mind, and soon he was fast asleep again. CHAPTER IV THE FOREST VILLAGE They traveled another day and another, always rapidly. Henry continued his policy and asked no questions. He divined, however, that the Wyandots were on the way to a village of theirs, either permanent or temporary, probably the latter, as they were far west of the country conceded by the other Indians to be Wyandot. He surmised, also, that the red alliance against the white vanguard had been enlarged until it included all the tribes of the Ohio Valley north of the river. He knew very well how all these tribes were situated, their great villages at Chillicothe, Piqua, and other places, whence it was easy for them to make raids upon the settlements south of the Ohio and then retreat into the vast wilderness north of it, where it was exceedingly dangerous to follow them. Should he escape, he would not be sorry to have been a prisoner, since he might learn all their plans, knowledge as precious as diamonds. On the fourth day they checked their speed, and a lithe young Indian whom Henry heard called Thraintonto, which means in Wyandot The Fox, stripped himself of his breech clout, gave his long and defiant scalp lock a somewhat fiercer curl, and darted ahead of the band. He was the swiftest runner in the war party, chosen specially by Timmendiquas for an important duty, and Henry knew very well the nature of his errand. The Wyandot village now lay not far away, and Thraintonto sped ahead, a messenger, to tell that the war party had achieved victory, and was approaching with the proof of it. He watched the figure of Thraintonto dart away and then disappear, a flash of brown in the green wilderness. He knew that The Fox was filled with the importance of his mission. None could be more welcome to an Indian. The band resumed its march after the brief stop, now proceeding in leisurely fashion through a beautiful country, magnificently wooded and abounding in game. Little brooks of clear fresh water, the characteristic of the Ohio Valley, abounded everywhere. They were never a half mile from one, and now and then they came to a large creek. Henry was quite sure that they would soon reach the river that received all these creeks. They stopped two or three hours later, and went through a solemn rite. Brushes and paint were produced--everything had been arranged for in advance--and all the members of the band were painted grotesquely. Red, blue, and yellow figures were depicted upon their faces, shoulders, and chests. Not a square inch of exposed skin was left without its pictorial treatment. Then every man put on a beautiful headdress of white feathers taken from different birds, and, when all was done, they formed in single file again, with Timmendiquas, in place of Anue, now at their head. The chief himself would lead the victorious band to the village, which was certainly near at hand. The advance was resumed. It was not merely a return. It partook in its nature of a triumphal progress, like some old festival of the Greeks or Ph[oe]nicians. They came presently to a cedar tree, and from this White Lightning broke a branch, upon which he hung the two scalps that they had taken. Then, bearing the branch conspicuously in his right hand, he advanced and began a slow monotonous chant. All the warriors took up the chant, which had little change save the rising and falling of the note, and which, like most songs of savages, was plaintive and melancholy. Henry, who, as usual, followed the broad brown back of Hainteroh, observed everything with the keenest attention. He was all eyes and ears, knowing that any detail learned now might be of value to him later. They crossed the crest of a low hill, and he caught sight of lodges, a hundred perhaps in number, set in a warm valley, by the side of the small clear river that he had surmised was near. The lodges of buffalo or deerskin stood in a cluster, and, as it was a full quarter mile on every side to the woods, there was no chance for a lurking foe to lie in ambush. Henry noticed at once that there were no fields for maize or beans, and he was confirmed in his opinion that the village was temporary. He noticed, too, that the site of the place was chosen with great judgment. It lay in the angle of the river, which formed an elbow here, flowing between high banks, and on the other two sides rows of fallen logs formed an admirable defense in forest warfare. The band paused a few moments at the crest of the hill, and began to chant more loudly. In front of the village was a concourse of warriors, women, and children, who joined in the song, and who opened out to receive the victors as they came marching on. The chant swelled in volume, and its joyous note was now marked. But not one of the marching warriors relaxed a particle from his dignity. White Lightning strode majestically, a magnificent figure of savage man, and led the way to a war pole in the center of the village, in front of a council house built of poles. Near the foot of this pole a fire was burning. Henry stepped from the line when they came to the war pole, and the warriors, secretly admiring their splendid trophy, closed in about him, cutting off all chance of escape, should he try it. But he had no thought of making such an attempt. His attention was centered now on the ceremonies. The war band formed in a group, the war pole in the center. Then two warriors fastened two blocks of wood on a kind of rude ark that lay near the war pole. This wooden ark, carved like a totem, was the most sacred of all objects to the Wyandots. All the returned warriors sat down upon the ground, and the great young chief, Timmendiquas, inquired gravely whether his lodge was ready for him. An old man replied that it had been swept clean and prepared by the women, and Timmendiquas and his warriors, rising from the ground, uttered a tremendous whoop. Then they marched gravely in a circle about the pole, after which they took up the ark and carried it solemnly to the council house. When they entered the council house, bearing the ark with them, they closed the door behind them. The whole population of the village was packed densely in front of the council house, and when the door was shut upon the victorious war band all the female kin of the warriors within, except those too young or too old to take part, advanced, while the crowd swung back to give them room, and arranged themselves in two parallel lines, facing each other on either side of the door of the council house. These women were dressed in all their barbaric finery. They wore beautiful headdresses of feathers, red and white and blue and yellow. Their faces were painted, but not so glaringly as those of the warriors. Even here in the wilderness woman's taste, to a certain extent, prevailed. They wore tunics of finely dressed deerskins, or, in some cases, bright red and blue shawls, bought at British posts, deerskin leggings, and moccasins. Much work had been lavished upon the moccasins, which were of the finest skin, delicately tanned and ornamented with hundreds of little beads, red, yellow, blue, green and every other color. Many of the younger women, not yet wrinkled or bent by hard work, were quite pretty. They were slim and graceful, and they had the lightness and freedom of wild things. Henry was impressed by the open and bold bearing of them all, women as well as men. He had heard much of the Wyandots, the flower of all the western tribes, and now at close range he saw that all he had heard was true, and more. As soon as the two lines were formed, and they were arranged with the greatest exactitude and evenness, the women, as they faced one another, began a slow monotonous chant, which, however, lasted only a minute. At the end of this minute there was profound silence for ten minutes. The women, trained for these ceremonies, stood so perfectly still that Henry could not see a body quiver. At the end of the ten minutes there was another minute of chanting, and then ten more minutes of silence, and thus, in this proportion of ten minutes of silence to one minute of song, the alternation would be kept up all day and all night. Once every three hours Timmendiquas would come forth at the head of his warriors, raise the war whoop, pass around the war pole, bearing aloft a branch of cedar, and then return to the council house, closing the door firmly as before. Meanwhile Henry's attention was taken from the ceremonies by a most significant thing. He had been conscious for a while that some one in the closely packed ring of Wyandot spectators was watching him. He had a sort of feeling as of cold upon the back of his neck, and he shivered a little. He knew, therefore, that the look directed upon him was evil, but pride kept him from showing undue curiosity before the Wyandots, who were trained to repress every emotion. He too, had, in these respects, instincts kindred with those of the Wyandots. Presently he turned slowly and carelessly, and found that he was looking into the savage, sneering eyes of Braxton Wyatt, the young renegade, who more than once had sought the destruction of Henry and his comrades. Although they could not find his body, he had hoped that Wyatt had perished in the great battle on the Lower Mississippi, because it might save the border much, but, now that he was alive and here, Henry refused to show surprise, alarm, or any other emotion. He merely shrugged his shoulders ever so slightly, and his glance passed on. But he knew that Braxton Wyatt was swelling with malignant triumph. Fortune had changed her face, and it was his day to smile. Henry Ware was there, a prisoner among the Wyandots--and a prisoner of the Wyandots seldom escaped--while he, Braxton Wyatt, could exult over him and see him die. Truly, it was an amazing turn of the wheel, and Henry felt all the bitterness of it, although his expression did not alter a particle. The boy's eyes roamed back again, and he saw that Braxton Wyatt's was not the only white face in the crowd. Five men stood near him, and, tanned and browned as they were, it was obvious that they belonged to the white race. He surmised readily by their air of perfect confidence and freedom that they were renegades, also, and he was not wrong. As he was soon to learn, they were Simon Girty, name of incredible infamy on the border, Moses Blackstaffe, but little his inferior in cunning and cruelty, and McKee, Eliot and Quarles. So Braxton Wyatt, white youth among the Indians, was not alone. He had found men of his race as bad as himself, and Henry knew that he would thrive in such company. Henry guessed that the renegade who stood a little in front of the others, who seemed by his manner and bearing to consider himself their leader, was the terrible Girty, a man who left behind him an almost unbelievable record for cruelty and treachery to his own race. He was partly in Indian, partly in white dress, and when his glance fell upon Henry it was full of most inhuman mockery. The boy's wrath flamed up. He did not seek now to practice the Indian stoicism and repress his feelings. His eyes, blazing with indignation, looked straight into those of Girty, with a gaze so stern and accusing and so full of contempt that the renegade, unable to withstand it, lowered his own eyes. Braxton Wyatt had seen this little passage, and Henry's triumph of the moment increased his hatred. He longed to say something, to taunt him with his position, something that his ignoble soul was not above, but he did not dare to do it just then. He and his fellow renegades wished to sway the Wyandots to a purpose of theirs, and any interruption now of the ceremonies, which, in fact, were a sacred rite, would bring fierce anger down upon his head. Henry remained about four hours in the crowd, and then, an old man, whose dignity and bearing showed that he held a chief's rank, tapped him on the shoulder. "Come," he said in fair English, "I am Heno, and you are our prisoner." Henry had learned already that Heno in Wyandot meant Thunder, and he answered cheerfully. "Very well, my good Thunder, lead on, and I'll follow." The old chief gravely led the way, and the throng opened out to let them pass. Henry glanced back at the two swaying lines of women, now engaged in one of their minute-long chants, and he wondered at the illimitable patience of the red race, to whom time seemed nothing. Unless some great movement, like a sudden attack by an enemy or the necessity of a forced march, interfered, the warriors would go in and out of the council house for three days, when all except the leader and one attendant warrior would go forth to their lodges, which would be swept clean for them, and which would be decorated with twigs of cedar or pieces of scalps to satisfy the ghosts of departed friends. But Timmendiquas and his attendant would remain three more days and nights in the council house to complete their purification. When they emerged the medicine bag would be hung before the lodge door of Timmendiquas. Unless the village was removed, it would hang there a month, and the people would sing and dance before it at intervals. As Henry passed through the throng, following close behind old Heno, many admiring glances were bent upon him by the great little red nation of the Wyandots. These children of the wilderness knew the value of a tall, straight figure, powerful shoulders, a splendid chest and limbs that seemed to be made of woven wire. Here was one, already mighty among his kind, although but a boy. Heno led the way to a bark lodge in the center of the village, and motioned to Henry to enter. "I must bind you," he said, "because if I did not you are so strong and so swift that you might escape from us. If you will not suffer me to tie the cords I shall call the help of other warriors." "There is no need of a fight about it, Thunder," said Henry genially. "I know you can bring in enough warriors to overpower anybody, so go ahead." He held out his hands, and the old chief looked somewhat embarrassed at the willingness and cheerfulness of the captive. Nevertheless, he produced deerskin cords and bound the boy's wrists, not so tightly that the cords hurt, but with ingenious lacings that Henry knew he could neither slip nor break. Then, as the captive sat down on a rush mat and leaned against the bark wall of the lodge, old Heno regarded him attentively. Thunder, old but brave warrior of the Wyandots, was a judge of promising youth, and he thought that in his sixty years of life he had never seen another so satisfactory as this prisoner, save perhaps the mighty young chief, known to his own people as Timmendiquas and to the settlers as White Lightning. He looked at the length of limb and the grand development of shoulders and chest, and he sighed ever so gently. He sighed because in his opinion Manitou should have bestowed such great gifts upon a Wyandot, and not upon a member of the white race. Yet Heno did not actually hate the prisoner. Coiled at the bottom of his heart, like a tiny spring in a watch, was a little hope, and this little hope, like the tiny spring, set all the machinery of his mind in motion. "You no like being captive, held in lodge, with arms tied?" he said gently. Henry smiled. "No, I don't enjoy it," he replied. "It's not the situation that I should choose for myself." "You like to be free," continued old Heno with the same gentle gravity. "You like to be out in the forest with Whoraminta?" "Yes," replied Henry, "I'd like to be free, and I'd like to be out in the forest, but I don't know about Whoraminta. I'm not acquainted with him, and he might not be a pleasant comrade." "Whoraminta! Whoraminta!" repeated Heno. "Cannot think of your word for it. It is this!" He threw himself into a firm attitude, held out one hand far, extended the other about half so far, shut his left eye, and looked with the right intently along the level of his two hands. Henry understood the pantomime perfectly. "I know," he said. "Whoraminta is a rifle. You're right, Thunder, I'd like mighty well to be out in the forest with my Whoraminta, one of the trustiest and best comrades I ever had." Heno's smile answered that of the captive. "And with plenty of Teghsto?" he said. "Teghsto?" said Henry. "That's new to me. Can't you think of the English word for it?" Heno shook his head, but closed his right hand until it formed approximately the shape of a horn, then elevated it and held it as if he were pouring something into the open palm of his left hand. "Use in Whoraminta," he said. "That's not hard," said Henry. "Powder you mean." "That right," said Heno, smiling again. "Teghsto go in Whoraminta, and Yeatara go in Whoraminta, too. You want plenty of Yeatara." "Lead! bullets!" said Henry at a guess. "Yes. That it. Yeatara is lead, and you snap with Taweghskera; fire spark jump out flash! bang! You want Taweghskera, too." "Taweghskera must be flint," said Henry, and old Heno nodded. "Yes, Thunder, I'd want the flint, too, or I couldn't do anything at all with Whoraminta, Teghsto and Yeatara. I'll remember those words, my friend. Thanks for your free teaching." "You learn fast. You make good Wyandot," said Heno in the most friendly manner. "You have your arms, your feet free, Whoraminta with you, you go with the warriors on great hunt, you gone many moons, you kill the deer, buffalo, bear, panther, you have no care, no sorrow, you live. I, too, was a young hunter and warrior once." Old Heno slowly drew his figure up at the glorious picture that he had painted. His nostrils were distended, and the fire of his youth came back into his eyes. He saw the buffaloes trampling down the grass, and heard the shout of his enemies in the forest combat. "I'm thinking, Heno," said Henry sincerely, "that you're yet a good deal of a young hunter and warrior." "You not only make good warrior, but you make good chief, too. You know how to talk," said Heno. Nevertheless, he was pleased, and he was still smiling when he left a few moments later. Nobody else came for a day and night, old Heno bringing him his food and water. He did not suffer any actual physical pain, as his bonds permitted him to move a little and the circulation was not impeded, but he chafed terribly. The picture that Heno had drawn of the great forest and the great hunt was most alluring. He longed for freedom and his "Whoraminta." A visitor came on the second morning. The lodge door was opened and a thick figure filled it a moment as a man entered. Henry was sitting on a mat at the farthest part of the lodge, and he could see the man very clearly. The stranger was young, twenty-seven or twenty-eight perhaps, thick set and powerful, tanned to the brownness of an Indian by sun, wind and rain, but the features obviously were those of the white race. It was an evil face, but a strong one. Henry felt a shiver of repulsion. He felt that something demoniac had entered the lodge, because he knew that this was Simon Girty, the terrible renegade, now fully launched upon the career that made his name infamous throughout the Ohio Valley to this day. But after the little shiver, Henry was without motion of expression. Show apprehension in the presence of such a man! He would rather die. Girty laughed and sat down on the mat on the other side of the lodge. But it was a small lodge, and their faces were not more than four feet apart. Henry read in the eyes of Girty a satisfaction that he did not seek to conceal. "It isn't so pleasant to be trussed up in that fashion, is it?" he asked. Henry refused to answer. Girty laughed again. "You needn't speak unless you feel like it," he said. "I can do the talking for both of us. You're tied up, it's true, but you're treated better than most prisoners. I've been hearing a good deal about you. A particular friend of yours, one Braxton Wyatt, a most promising lad, has told me a lot of stories in which you have a part." "I know Braxton Wyatt very well," said Henry, "and I'm glad to say that I've helped to defeat some of his designs. He has a great ambition." "What is that?" asked Girty. "To become as bad a man as you are." But Girty was not taken aback at all. His lips twisted into a peculiar grin of cruel satisfaction. "They do fear me," he said, "and they'll fear me more before long. I've joined the Indians, I like them and their ways, and I'm going to make myself a great man among them." "At the expense of your own kind?" "Of course. What is that to me. I'm going to get all the tribes together, and sweep the whites out of the Ohio Valley forever." "I've heard that these same Indians with whom you're so thick burned your step-father at the stake?" said Henry. "That's true," replied the renegade without the slightest feeling. "That was when I was a little child, and they captured our family. But they didn't burn me. So what have I to complain of?" Henry could not repress a shudder, but Girty remained as cool as ice. "Why shouldn't I be a great man among the Indians?" he said. "I know the tricks of both white and red now. The Continentals, as they call themselves--rebels I call them--held McKee, Eliot and myself prisoners at Fort Pitt, the place they call Pittsburgh, but we escaped and here we are. We've been joined by Blackstaffe, Quarles, and the boy, Braxton Wyatt. The Indians trust us and listen to us; we're going to draw all the valley Indians together--Shawnees, Miamis, Wyandots, Ottawas, Delawares and Illinois--and we'll light such a flame on both sides of the river that no white man will ever be able to put it out." "You've got to reckon with some brave men first," said Henry. "Yes, I know that the settlers have good woodsmen, Boone and Kenton--Simon Kenton was my comrade once--but they are too few, and as for this expedition to which you belonged, that is coming up the river, we're going to cut that off, too, not only because we'll be glad to wipe out those people, but because we want the rifles, the ammunition, the stores, and, above all, the cannon that your fleet carries. What will the wooden walls in Kentucky be to us when we get those big guns?" "When you get them!" said Henry defiantly. This man inspired increasing horror and repulsion. The exulting way in which he talked of destroying his own people would have been incredible, had Henry merely heard of it from others. But the man was here before his face, glorying in the deeds that he expected to commit. "Oh, we'll get them," said Girty confidently. "You think you can help to keep us from it, but you won't be there when it's done. Two things are going to be offered to you, and you'll have to choose between them." "What are they?" asked Henry, who had resumed his calm, at least, so far as looks went. "It's what I mainly came here to talk to you about. Timmendiquas is young, but he's a mighty man among the Wyandots. All the older chiefs are willing to step aside in his favor, and when men do that without being made to do it, there's something great in the one that's favored, something that everybody is bound to see. He's first among the Wyandots, and you know what that means when I tell you that the last of the Wyandots are as good as the first of most people." "Why do you talk to me about Timmendiquas?" asked Henry. "I've seen him, I've been with him for days, I know what he is." "I'm coming to it. Timmendiquas likes you. He thinks you're fitted for the forest and a life like the one he leads. Other Wyandots who have observed you agree with him, and to tell you the truth I think so, too, myself." "Well!" said Henry. He now divined what Girty was going to reveal, but he wished the renegade to tell it himself. "Timmendiquas will be in the council house several days longer, purifying himself, but when he does come out, they'll say to you: 'Be a Wyandot or die.' They'll put it to you plain, just as it has been put to white men before you." Henry stirred a little. Certainly he did not wish to die, nor did he expect to die, but he would risk the alternative. "Girty," he said, slowly, "an offer something like this was made to me once before. It was made by a Spaniard far down in the south. You never knew him--he's dead now--but your friend, Braxton Wyatt did--but the other thing wasn't death, nor did he ask me, if I took his offer, to make war upon the settlements in Kentucky. Before I'd turn Indian like you and Braxton Wyatt and the others, and murder my own people, you infamous renegade, I'd be torn to pieces or burned at the stake a dozen times over!" The words were hurled out by passion and feeling as the flash of powder sends forth the bullet. The renegade shrank back, and rose to his feet, his eyes aflame, but in a moment or two he sank down again, laughing a little. "That's what I knew you'd say," he said, "and I came here to hear you say it. I wanted to force the hand of Timmendiquas, and I've done it. I don't want you to join us, and I'll tell you why. I intend to be first here, first among the white leaders of the Indians, but if you were to come with us you'd be first yourself in three or four years, and I'd be only second. See how much I think of your powers." "I don't thank you for your compliment," said Henry boldly, "but I'll thank you if you'll get out of this lodge. I think you're the worst man I've ever seen." Simon Girty frowned again, and raised his hand as if to strike the bound youth, but refrained. "We don't see things alike," he said, and abruptly left the lodge. Henry felt his evil presence long after he had gone, as if some foul animal had entered the lodge, and presently, when old Heno came, he asked him as a great favor to leave the door open for a while. When the cool, fresh air rushed in he breathed it in great draughts and felt relieved. He admired Timmendiquas. He respected the Wyandots. He could not blame the Indian who fought for his hunting grounds, but, with all the strength of his strong nature, he despised and hated every renegade. That evening, after old Heno had gone, he sought for the first time to slip or break his bonds. He wanted to get away. He wanted to rejoin his comrades and the fleet. He wanted to help them prepare for the new dangers. But strain as he might with all his great strength, and twist as he would with all his ingenuity, he could not get free. He gave it up after a while and lay on his rush mat in a state of deep depression. It seemed that the Wyandots, cunning and agile, flower of the red men, would give him no chance. He had asked Heno to leave the door of the lodge partly open a while longer that he might have plenty of fresh air, and the old warrior had done so. He heard faint noises from the village, but bye and bye they ceased, and Henry at last fell asleep. Deep in the night he heard a musical sound, a small note but clear and sweet. It reached him easily, although it seemed to come from the forest four or five hundred yards away, and it spoke in almost audible tones, telling him to be of good faith, that what he wished would come to pass. It was the wind among the leaves again, something mystical but almost human to him. It was the third time that it had sung to him, once in warning, twice in hope, and the depression that he had felt when he laid down vanished utterly. A deep sense of peace and content pervaded his whole being. It was a peace of the senses and mind alike, driving away all trouble either for the present or the future. He was called to deeper rest. The voice of the forest still sang to him, becoming softer and softer and fainter and fainter, and the feeling of absolute content was overwhelming. He did not seek to move, but permitted himself, as if under an opiate, to drift away into a far slumberland, while the note from the forest sank to nothing. When he awoke the next morning he did not know whether he had really heard or had merely dreamed. CHAPTER V PLAY AND COUNCIL Henry was still a prisoner in the lodge when the purification of Timmendiquas was finished. He had been permitted to go forth now and then under a strong guard, but, no matter how closely he watched, not the slightest chance of escape presented itself. He saw the renegades about, Braxton Wyatt among them, but none of these men spoke to him. It was evident to him, however, from the respectful manner in which the Wyandots treated Girty that he had great influence among them. The warriors seemed to be in no hurry about anything. The hunters were bringing in plenty of game, and the village life went forward merrily. But Henry judged that they were merely waiting. It was inconceivable that the Wyandots should remain there long in peace while the Indian world of all that great valley was seething with movement. Timmendiquas came to see him at the end of the sixth day of purification, and treated him with the courtesy due from a great chief to a distinguished prisoner. "Have our warriors been kind to you?" he asked. "They have done everything except let me slip away," replied Henry. Timmendiquas smiled. "That is the one thing that we do not wish," he said. "They think as I do that you are fit to be a Wyandot. Come, I will loose your hands, and together we will see our young men and young women play ball." Henry was not at all averse. Both his nature and his long but friendly captivity in a far northwestern tribe made him have a keen sympathy with many traits in the Indian character. He could understand and like their sports. "I'll go gladly, White Lightning," he said. "I don't think you need ask me to give any promise not to escape. I won't find any such chance." The chief smiled with pleasure at the compliment, undid the bonds, and the two walked out into the brilliant sunshine. Henry felt at once that the village was tingling with excitement. All were hurrying toward a wide grassy meadow just at the outskirts of the village, and the majority of them, especially the young of either sex, laughed and chattered volubly. There was no restraint. Here among themselves the Indian repression was thrown aside. Henry, with the shadow of great suffering and death over him, felt their thrill and excitement. The day was uncommonly fine, and the setting of the forest scene was perfect. There was the village, trim and neat in its barbaric way, which in the sunshine was not an unpleasant way, with the rich meadows about it, and beyond the great wilderness of heavy, circling dark green. All were now gathered at the edge of the meadow, still laughing, chattering, and full of delight. Even the great Timmendiquas, red knight, champion and far-famed hero at twenty-five, unbent and speculated with keen interest on the result of the ball game, now about to be played. Henry felt his own interest increasing, and he rubbed shoulders with his old friends, Heno the Thunder, Anue the Bear, and Hainteroh the Raccoon. The gallant Raccoon still carried his arm in a sling, but he was such a healthy man that it would be well in an incredibly brief period, and meantime it did not interfere at all with his enjoyment of a ball game. The meadow was about a hundred yards wide and a hundred and fifty yards long. The grass upon it was thick, but nowhere more than three or four inches in height. All along the edges of the longer sides, facing each other, stakes had been driven at intervals of six feet, and amid great cheering the players formed up on either side next to the line of the stakes. But all the players on one side were women, mostly young, strong, and lithe, and all the players on the other side were men, also mostly young, strong and lithe. They wore no superfluous garments, although enough was left to save modesty, and young braves and young squaws alike were alert and eager, their eyes flushing with excitement. There were at least one hundred players on each side, and it seemed a most unequal match, but an important proviso was to come. Timmendiquas advanced to the edge of the meadow and held up his hand. Instantly all shouting, cheering, and talking ceased, and there was perfect silence. Then old Heno, holding in his hand a ball much larger than the modern baseball, but much smaller than the modern football, advanced gravely and solemnly into the meadow. The eyes of two hundred players, young warriors and young girls were intent upon him. Old Thunder, despite his years, was a good sport and felt the importance of his duty. While all were watching him, and the multitude did no more than breathe, he walked gingerly over the grass, and with a keen old eye picked out a point that was equally distant from the long and short sides of the parallelogram. Here he stood gravely for a few moments, as if to confirm himself in the opinion that this was the proper place, and extended his right arm with the big ball lying in the open palm. There was a long breath of excitement from players and spectators alike, but Big Thunder was a man of experience and deliberation who was not to be hurried. He still held his right arm extended with the big ball lying in the open palm, and then sent a warning look to each hundred, first to the men and then to the women. These two sides were already bent far over, waiting to jump. The stakes, the field, the positions of the players were remarkably like the modern game of football, although this was wholly original with the Indians. The eyes of old Heno came back from the players to the ball lying in the palm of his right hand and regarded it contemplatively a moment or two. Then the fingers suddenly contracted like lightning upon the ball, and he threw it high, perfectly straight up in the air, at the same time uttering a piercing shout. Henry saw that the ball would fall almost where Heno stood, but the old warrior ran swiftly away, and the opposing sides, men and women, made a dash for it before it fell. The multitude, thrilled with the excitement, uttered a great shout, and bent forward in eagerness. But no one--not a player--encroached upon the meadow. Warriors as guards stalked up and down, but they were not needed. The discipline was perfect. Henry by the side of Timmendiquas shared in the general interest, and he, too, bent forward. The chief bent with him. Young warriors and young girls who made a dash for the ball were about equal in speed. Wyandot women were not hampered by skirts, and forest life made them lithe and sinewy. Both were near the ball, but Henry yet saw nothing to tell which would reach it first. Suddenly a slim brown figure shot out from the ranks of the women, and, with a leap, reached the ball, when the nearest warrior was yet a yard away. There was a great cry of applause, as the girl, straightening up, attempted to run with the ball through the ranks of the men, and throw it between the stakes at their side of the field. Two warriors promptly intercepted her, and now Henry saw why the match between girls and warriors was not so unequal as it had appeared at first. When the warriors intercepted the girl she threw the ball over their heads and as far as she could toward the coveted goal posts. Three warriors ran for it, but the one who reached it kicked it with all his might back toward the goal posts of the girls. It fell into a dense throng there, and a girl promptly threw it back, where it was met by the returning kick of a warrior. The men were allowed to use only their feet, the girls could use both hands and feet. If any warrior touched the ball with his hands he was promptly put off the field by the umpires, and the ball was restored to its original position. The match, well balanced, hotly contested, swayed back and forth. Now the ball was carried toward the women's goal, and then toward the men. Now all the two hundred players would be in a dense throng in the center, and then they would open out as some swift hand or foot sent the ball flying. Often the agile young squaws were knocked down in the hurly burly, but always they sprang up laughing. All around the field the people cheered and laughed, and many began to bet, the wagers being mostly of skins, lead, powder or bright trinkets bought at the British posts. For over a half hour the ball flew back and forth, and so far as Henry could see, neither had gained any advantage. Presently they were all packed once more in a dense throng in the center of the field, and the ball was invisible somewhere in the middle of the group. While the crowd watched for its reappearance all the shouting and cheering ceased. The ball suddenly flew from the group and shot toward the goal posts on the side of the women and a stalwart warrior, giving it another kick, sent it within ten yards of victory for the men. "Ah, the warriors are too strong for them," said White Lightning. But he spoke too soon. There was a brown streak across the grass, and the same girl who had first seized the ball darted ahead of the warrior. She picked up the ball while it was yet rolling and ran swiftly back with it. A warrior planted himself in her way, but, agile as a deer, she darted around him, escaped a second and a third in the same way, and continued her flight toward the winning posts. The crowd gave a single great shout, subsiding after it into a breathless silence. "The Dove runs well," murmured Timmendiquas in English. Henry's sympathies were with her, but could the Dove evade all the warriors? They could not touch the ball, but they might seize the girl herself and shake her until the ball fell from her hands. This, in fact, was what happened when an agile young warrior succeeded in grasping her by the shoulder. The ball fell to the ground, but as he loosed her and prepared to kick it she made a quick dive and seized it. The warrior's foot swung in the empty air, and then he set out after the flying Dove. Only one other guard was left, and it was seen that he would intercept her, but she stopped short, her arm swung out in a curve, and she threw the ball with all her might toward the goal posts. The warrior leaped high to catch it, but it passed six inches above his outstretched fingers, sailed on through the air, cleared the goal posts, and fell ten feet on the other side. The Dove had won the game for her side. The crowd swarmed over the field and congratulated the victorious girls, particularly the fleet-footed Dove, while the beaten warriors drew off in a crestfallen group. Timmendiquas, with Henry at his side, was among the first to give approval, but the renegades remained in their little group at the edge of the field. Girty was not at all pleased at the time consumed by the Wyandots in this game. He had other plans that he wished to urge. "But it's no use for me to argue with them," he said to Braxton Wyatt. "They're as set in their ways as any white people that ever lived." "That's so," said Wyatt, "you're always right, Mr. Girty, I've noticed, too, since I've been among the Indians that you can't interfere with any of their rites and ceremonies." He spoke in a deferential tone, as if he acknowledged his master in treachery and villainy, and Girty received it as his due. He was certainly first in this group of six, and the older ones, Blackstaffe, McKee, Eliot, and Quarles, recognized the fact as willingly as did Braxton Wyatt. The crowd, the game finished, was dissolving, and Girty at the head of his comrades strolled toward Timmendiquas, who still had Henry at his side. "Timmendiquas," he said in Wyandot, "beware of this prisoner. Although but a boy in years, he has strength, courage and skill that few men, white or red, can equal." The eyes of the young chief, full of somber fire, were turned upon the renegade. "Since when, Girty," he asked, "have the Wyandots become old women? Since when have they become both weak and ignorant?" Girty, bold as he was, shrank a little at the stern tone and obvious wrath of the chief. "I meant nothing wrong, Timmendiquas," he said. "The world knows that the Wyandots are both brave and wise." White Lightning shrugged his shoulders, and turned away with his prisoner. Henry could understand only a word or two of what they said, but he guessed its import. Already skilled in forest diplomacy, he knew that it was wisdom for him to say nothing, and he walked on with White Lightning. He watched the chief with sharp side glances and saw that he was troubled. Two or three times he seemed on the point of saying something, but always remained silent. Yet his bearing towards Henry was most friendly, and it gave the captive boy a pang. He knew the hope that was in the mind of White Lightning, but he knew that hope could never come true. "We do not wish to make you suffer, Ware," he said, when they came to the door of Henry's prison lodge, "until we decide what we are to do with you, and before then much water must flow down Ohezuhyeandawa (The Ohio)." "I do not ask you to do anything that is outside your customs," said Henry quietly. "We must bind you as before," said Timmendiquas, "but we bind you in a way that does not hurt, and Heno will bring you food and water. But this is a day of rejoicing with us, and this afternoon our young men and young maids dance. You shall come forth and see it." Henry was re-bound, and a half hour later old Heno appeared with food, meat of the deer and wild turkey, bread of maize, and a large gourd filled with pure cold water. After he had loosened Henry's wrists that he might eat and drink he sat by and talked. Thunder, with further acquaintance, was disclosing signs of volubility. "How you like ball game?" he asked. "Good! very good!" said Henry sincerely, "and I don't see, Thunder, how you could throw that ball so straight up in the air that it would come down where you stood." "Much practice, long practice," said the old man modestly. "Heno been throwing up balls longer by twice than you have lived." When the boy had finished eating, old Heno told him to come with him as the dance was now about to begin, and Henry was glad enough to escape again from the close prison lodge. The dancers were already forming on the meadow where the ball game had been played, and there was the same interest and excitement, although now it was less noisy. Henry guessed from their manner that the dance would not only be an amusement, but would also have something of the nature of a rite. All the dancers were young, young warriors and girls, and they faced each other in two lines, warriors in one and girls in the other. As in the ball game, each line numbered about a hundred, but now they were in their brightest and most elaborate raiment. The two lines were perfectly even, as straight as an arrow, the toe of no moccasin out of line, and they were about a rod apart. At the far end of the men's line a warrior raised in his right hand a dry gourd which contained beads and pebbles, and began to rattle it in a not unmusical way. To the sound of the rattle he started a grave and solemn chant, in which all joined. Then the two lines, still keeping their straightness and evenness, danced toward each other slowly and rhythmically. All the time the song went on, the usual monotonous Indian beat, merely a rising and falling of the note with scarcely any variation. The two lines, still dancing, came close together, and then both bent forward until the head of every warrior touched the head of the girl opposite him. They remained in this position a full half minute, and a young warrior often whispered sweet words in the ear of the girl whose head touched him. This, as Henry learned later, was the wooing or courting dance of the Wyandots. Both sides suddenly straightened up, uttered a series of loud shouts, and began to dance back toward their original position, at the same time resuming the rising and falling chant. When the full distance was reached they danced up, bowed, and touched heads again, and this approaching or retreating was kept up for four hours, or until the sun set. It became to Henry extremely monotonous, but the Indians seemed never to tire of it, and when they stopped at darkness the eyes of all the dancers were glowing with pleasure and excitement. It was quite dark when Henry returned to the lodge for the second time that day, but this time old Heno instead of Timmendiquas was his escort back to prison. "Play over now," said Heno. "Great work begin to-morrow." The old man seemed to be full of the importance of what he knew, and Henry, anxious to know, too, played adroitly upon his vanity. "If any big thing is to be done, I'm sure that you would know of it, Heno," he said. "So they are to begin to-morrow, are they?" "Yes," replied Heno, supposing from Henry's words that he had already received a hint from Timmendiquas. "Great chiefs reach here to-night. Hold council to-morrow." "Ah, they come from all the tribes, do they not?" said Henry, guessing shrewdly. "From all between Ohezuhyeandawa (The Ohio) and the Great Lakes and from the mountains to Yandawezue (The Mississippi)." "Illinois, Ottawas, Miamis, Shawnees, and Delawares?" said Henry. "Yes," said Heno, "Illinois, Ottawas, Miamis, Shawnees, and Delawares. All come to smoke pipes with the Wyandots and hear what we have to say. We small nation, but mighty warriors. No Wyandot ever coward." "That is true," said Henry sincerely. "I've never heard of a Wyandot who flinched in battle. My people think that where one Wyandot warrior walks it takes two warriors of any other tribe to fill his footprints." Old Heno smiled broadly. "Maybe you be at council to-morrow," he said. "You make good Wyandot." "Maybe I could," said Henry to himself, "but it's certain that I never will." Old Heno withdrew, still smiling, and Henry was left alone in the darkness of the prison lodge, full of interest over what was to occur on the morrow, and anxious that he might be present to see. He knew that the conference of the chiefs would be concerning the new war on Kentucky, and now he was not so anxious to escape at once. A week later would be better, and then if the chance came--he never faltered in his belief that it would come--he could carry with him news worth the while. The young chief, Timmendiquas, was a man whom he admired, but, nevertheless, he would prove a formidable leader of such a coalition, the most dangerous to the white people that could be found. Henry listened again for the song among the leaves that had the power to fill him with hope, but he did not hear it. Nevertheless, his courage did not depart, and he felt that the longer the Wyandots waited to dispose of him the better were his chances. Heno came the next morning with his breakfast and announced that all the chiefs of the Ohio Valley had arrived and were now in conference in the council house. "They talk later outside," he said, "and maybe Timmendiquas let you come and hear wise words that great chiefs say." "I'd like to hear," said Henry. "I know that the Indians are great orators." Heno did not reply, but Henry had divined that he was susceptible to flattery. He understood, too, that it was the policy of White Lightning to impress him with the skill and power of the tribes. So he waited patiently. Meanwhile fifty famous chiefs representing all the great nations of the Ohio Valley sat in the temporary council house of the Wyandots, the smallest but the wisest and bravest tribe of them all. They were mostly men of middle age or older, although two or three were nearly, but not quite, as young as Timmendiquas himself. This chief was at once the youngest, the tallest, and the handsomest man present. They sat in rows, but where he sat was the head of the council. All looked toward him. Every chief was in his finest dress, moccasins, leggings, and hunting coat of beautifully tanned deerskin, with blanket of bright color looped gracefully over the shoulder. In one of the rows in a group sat the six renegades, Girty, Blackstaffe, McKee, Eliot, Quarles, and Braxton Wyatt. Every man was bent forward in the stooped formal attitude of one who listens, and every one had the stem of a pipe in his mouth. In one group sat the chiefs of the Ottawas, the most distant of the tribes, dwellers on the far shores of Lake Huron, sometimes fish-eaters, and fugitives at an earlier day from the valley of the Ottawa River in Canada, whence they took their name. The word "Ottawa" in their language meant "trader," and they had received it in their ancient home because they had ideas of barter and had been the "go betweens" for other tribes. They worshiped the sun first and the stars second. Often they held festivals to the sun, and asked his aid in fishing and hunting. They occupied a secondary position in the Ohio Valley because they were newer and were not as fierce and tenacious in war as the older tribes. Ottawa chiefs did not thrust themselves forward, and when they spoke it was in a deprecatory way. Next to the Wyandots were the Illinois, who lived in the valley of the Illinois and who were not numerous. They had been beaten often in tribal wars, until their spirit lacked that fine exaltation which means victory. Like the Ottawas, they felt that they should not say much, but should listen intently to the words of the chiefs who sat with them, and who represented great warrior nations. Next to the Illinois were the Delawares, or, in their own language, the Lenni Lenape, who also were an immigrant race. Once they had dwelt much farther east, even beyond the mountains, but many warlike tribes, including the great league of the Iroquois, the Six Nations, had made war upon them, had reduced their numbers, and had steadily pushed them westward and further westward, until they reached the region now called Ohio. Here their great uncles, the Wyandots, received them with kindness, told them to rest in peace and gave them extensive lands, fine for hunting, along the Muskingum River. The Lenni Lenape throve in the new land and became powerful again. But never in their darkest days, when the world seemed to be slipping beneath their feet, had they lost the keen edge of their spirit. The warrior of the Lenni Lenape had always been willing to laugh in the face of flames and the stake, and now, as their chiefs sat in the council, they spoke often and they spoke boldly. They feared to look no one in the face, not even the far-famed Timmendiquas himself. They were of three clans: Unamis, which is the Turtle; Unaluchtgo, which is the Turkey; and Minsi, the Wolf. Minsi was the most warlike and always led the Lenni Lenape in battle. Chiefs of all three clans were present. Next to the Lenni Lenape were the valiant Shawnees, who held all the valley of the Scioto as far west as the Little Miami or Mud River. They had a record for skill and courage that went far back into the mists of the past, and of all the tribes, it was the Shawnees who hated the whites most. Their hostility was undying. No Shawnee would ever listen to any talk of peace with them. It must be war until the white vanguard was destroyed or driven back over the mountains. So fearless were the Shawnees that once a great band of them, detaching from the main tribe, had crossed the Ohio and had wandered all the way through the southern country, fighting Chickasaws, Creeks, and Choctaws, until they reached the sea, more than a thousand miles from their old home. A cunning chief, Black Hoof, who could boast that he had bathed his feet in the salt water, had led them safely back more than twenty years before, and now this same Black Hoof sat here in the council house of the Wyandots, old and wrinkled, but keen of eye, eagle-beaked, and as shrewd and daring as ever, the man who had led in an almost unknown border exploit, as dangerous and romantic as the Retreat of the Ten Thousand. The Shawnees claimed--and the legend was one that would never die among them--that they originated in a far, very far, land, and that they were divided into 12 tribes or sub-tribes. For some cause which they had forgotten the whole nation marched away in search of a new home. They came to a wide water that was bitter and salt to the taste. They had no canoes, but the sea parted before them, and then the twelve tribes, each with its leader at its head, marched on the ocean bottom with the wall of waters on either side of them until they reached a great land which was America. It is this persistent legend, so remarkable in its similarity to the flight of the children of Israel from Egypt, even to the number of the tribes, that has caused one or two earlier western writers to claim that the Shawnees were in reality the Ten Lost Tribes of Israel. Next to the Shawnees were the Miamis, more numerous perhaps, but not more warlike. They lived along the rivers Miami and Maumee and were subdivided into three clans, the Twigtees, the Weas, and the Piankeshaws. Chiefs of all three clans were present, and they could control many hundreds of warriors. The Wyandots, who lived to the eastward in Ohio, held themselves back modestly. They were a small tribe, but the others often called them "The Nation-That-Never-Knew-a-Coward," and there was no reason for them to push themselves forward. When the time came for a Wyandot chief to speak the time would come for the others to listen. They did speak, and throughout that morning the great question was argued back and forth. Girty and Blackstaffe, the second of the renegades in influence, sometimes participated, and they were listened to with varying degrees of respect, according to the character of the advice they gave. These white men, with their cunning and knowledge of their own people, were of value, but once or twice when they spoke the lips of some of the younger chiefs, always including Timmendiquas, curled with scorn. At noon they came forth from the council house, and Timmendiquas, accompanied by Heno, went to the lodge in which Henry was confined. Heno carried particularly tempting food to Henry. Besides venison and turkey, he brought maple sugar and hominy with a dressing of bear's oil and sugar. Henry had become used to Indian food long since, and he ate with relish. Timmendiquas stood by, regarding him attentively. "You are a strong and valiant foe, Ware," he said at length. "I fight against the white people, but I do not dislike you. I wish, then, that you would come forth and see the great council of the allied tribes in the meadow. The council of the chiefs was held this morning. This afternoon we lay the matter before all the warriors." "I'll come gladly," said Henry. CHAPTER VI THE GANTLET Timmendiquas and Heno left the lodge, but in about ten minutes Heno returned, bringing with him Hainteroh. "Well, how's your arm, Raccoon?" said Henry, wishing to be friendly. Raccoon did not know his English words, but he understood Henry's glance, and he smiled and touched his arm. Then he said something in Wyandot. "He say arm soon be well," said old Heno. "Now you come out and see council, great talk, me on one side of you, Hainteroh on the other." "Yes, I know you've got to guard me," said Henry, "but I won't try to run." They loosed his bonds, and he stepped out with them, once more to see all the people pouring toward the meadow as they had done at the time of the ball game. The crowd was greatly increased in numbers, and Henry surmised at once that many warriors had come with the chiefs from the other tribes. But he noticed, also, that the utmost concord seemed to exist among them. When they reached the meadow they stopped at the edge, and Heno and Hainteroh stood on either side of him. The people were gathered all about, four square, and the chiefs stood on the meadow enclosed by the square. "Now they speak to the Wyandot nation and the visiting warriors," said Heno. A chief of ripe years but of tall and erect figure arose and stood gravely regarding the multitude. "That Kogieschquanohel of the clan of the Minsi of the tribe of the Lenni Lenape," said Heno, the herald. "His name long time ago Hopocan, but he change it to Kogieschquanohel, which mean in language of the Yengees Maker of Daylight. He man you call Captain Pipe." "So that is Captain Pipe, is it?" said Henry. Captain Pipe, as the whites called him, because his later Indian name was too long to be pronounced, was a Delaware chief, greatly celebrated in his day, and Henry regarded him with interest. "Who is that by the side of Captain Pipe?" he asked, indicating another chief of about the same height and age. "That Koquethagaaehlon, what you call Captain White Eyes," replied Heno. "He great Delaware chief, too, and great friend of Captain Pipe." Henry's eyes roamed on and he saw two other chiefs whom he knew well. They were Yellow Panther, head chief of the Miamis, and Red Eagle, head chief of the Shawnees. He had no doubt that Braxton Wyatt would tell them who he was, and he knew that he could expect no mercy of any kind from them. Timmendiquas stood not far away, and in a group, as usual, were the renegades. Captain Pipe stretched forth a long arm, and the multitude became silent. Then he spoke with much strong simile drawn from the phenomena of nature, and Henry, although he knew little of what he said, knew that he was speaking with eloquence. He learned later that Captain Pipe was urging with zeal and fire the immediate marching of all the tribes against the white people. They must cut off this fleet on the river, and then go in far greater force than ever against the white settlements in Kain-tuck-ee. He spoke for half an hour with great vigor, and when he sat down he was applauded just as a white speaker would be, who had said what the listeners wished to hear. His friend, Captain White Eyes, followed, and the gist of his speech, also, Henry learned somewhat later from Heno. He was sorry to differ from his friend, Captain Pipe. He thought they ought to wait a little, to be more cautious, they had already suffered greatly from two expeditions into Kain-tuck-ee, the white men fought well, and the allied tribes, besides losing many good warriors, might fail, also, unless they chose their time when all the conditions were favorable. The speech of Captain White Eyes was not received with favor. The Wyandots and nearly all the visiting warriors wanted war. They were confident, despite their previous failures, that they could succeed and preserve their hunting grounds to themselves forever. Other speeches, all in the vein of Captain Pipe, followed, and then Girty, the renegade, spoke. He proclaimed his fealty to the Indians. He said that he was one of them; their ways were his ways; he had shown it in the council and on the battle field; the whites would surely hang him if they caught him, and hence no red man could doubt his faith. The tribes should strike now before the enemy grew too strong. Great applause greeted Girty. Henry saw that he stood high in the esteem of the warriors. He told them what they wished to hear, and he was of value to them. The boy's teeth pressed down hard on his lips. How could a white man fight thus against his own people, even to using the torch and the stake upon them? When Girty sat down, Timmendiquas himself stood up. His was the noblest figure by far that had faced the crowd. Young, tall, splendid, and obviously a born leader, he drew many looks and murmurs of approval and admiration. He made a speech of great grace and eloquence, full of fire and conviction. He, too, favored an immediate renewal of the war, and he showed by physical demonstration how the tribes ought to strike. He spread a great roll of elm bark upon the ground, extending it by means of four large stones, one of which he laid upon each corner. Then with his scalping knife he drew upon it a complete map of the white settlements in Kain-tuck-ee and of the rivers, creeks, hills, and trails. He did this with great knowledge and skill, and when he held it up it was so complete that Henry, who could see it as well as the others, was compelled to admire. He recognized Wareville and its river perfectly, and Marlowe, too. "We know where they are and we know how to reach them," said Timmendiquas in the Wyandot tongue, "and we must fall upon them in the night and slay. We must send at once to Tahtarara (Chillicothe, the greatest of the Indian towns in the Ohio Valley) for more warriors, and then we must wait for this fleet. Tuentahahewaghta (the site of Cincinnati, meaning the landing place, where the road leads to the river) would suit well, or if you do not choose to wait that late we might strike them where Ohezuhyeandawa (the Ohio) foams into white and runs down the slope (the site of Louisville). This fleet must be destroyed first and then the settlements, or the buffalo, the deer and the forest will go. And when the buffalo, the deer, and the forest go, we go, too." Great applause greeted the speech of Timmendiquas, and the question was decided. Captain White Eyes, who had a melancholy gift of foresight, was in a minority consisting of himself only, and swift runners were dispatched at once to the other tribes, telling the decision. Meanwhile, a great feast was prepared for the visiting chiefs that they might receive all honor from the Wyandots. Escorted by Heno and Hainteroh, Henry went back to his prison lodge, sad and apprehensive. This was, in truth, a formidable league, and it could have no more formidable leader than Timmendiquas. He had seen, too, the boastful faces of the renegades, and he was not willing that Braxton Wyatt or any of them should have a chance to exult over their own people. Timmendiquas came to him the next morning and addressed him with gravity, Henry seeing at once that he had words of great importance to utter. "I was willing for you to see the council yesterday, Ware," said White Lightning, "because I wished you to know how strong we are, and with what spirit we will go forth against your people. I have seen, too, that many of our ways are your ways. You love the forest and the hunt, and you would make a great Wyandot." He paused a moment, as if he would wait for Henry to speak, but the boy remained silent. "You are also a great warrior for one so young," resumed Timmendiquas. "The white youth, Wyatt, says that it is so, and the great chiefs, Yellow Panther of the Miamis, and Red Eagle of the Shawnees, tell of your deeds. They are eager to see you die, but the Wyandots admire a brave young warrior, and they would make you an offer." "What is your offer, Chief?" asked Henry, knowing well that, whatever the offer might be, Timmendiquas was the head and front of it--and despite his question he could surmise its nature. "It is this. You are our prisoner. You are one of our enemies, and we took you in battle. Your life belongs to us, and by our laws you would surely die in torture. But you are at the beginning of life. Manitou has been good to you. He has given you the eye of the eagle, the courage of the Wyandot, and the strength of the panther. You could be a hunter and a warrior more moons than I can count, until you are older than Black Hoof, who led the Shawnees before you were born, to the salt water and back again. "Is death sweet to you, just when you are becoming a great warrior? There is one way, and one only to escape it. If a prisoner, strong and brave like you, wishes to join us, shave his head and be a Wyandot, sometimes we take him. That question was laid before the chiefs last night. The white men, Girty, Blackstaffe, Wyatt, and the others, were against it, but I, wishing to save your life and see you my brother in arms, favored it, and there were others who helped me. We have had our wish, and so I say to you: 'Be a Wyandot and live, refuse and die.'" It was put plainly, tersely, but Henry had expected it, and his answer was ready. His resolution had been taken and could not be altered. "I choose death," he said, adopting the Wyandot's epigrammatic manner. A shade of sadness appeared for a moment on the face of Timmendiquas. "You cannot change?" he asked. "No," replied Henry. "I belong to my own people. I cannot desert them and go against them even to escape death. Such a temptation was placed in my way once before, Timmendiquas, but I had to refuse it." "I would save your life," said the chief. "I know it, and I thank you. I tell you, too, that I have no fancy for fire and the stake, but the price that you ask is too much." "I cannot ask any other." "I know it, but I have made my choice and I hope, Timmendiquas, that if I must go to the happy hunting grounds I shall meet you there some day, and that we shall hunt together." The eyes of the chief gleamed for a moment, and, turning abruptly, he left the lodge. There was joy among the renegades when the decision of Henry was made known, and now he was guarded more closely than ever. Meanwhile, all the boys about to become warriors were being initiated, and the customs of the Ohio Valley Indians in this particular were very different from the ways of those who inhabited the Great Plains. Every boy, when he attained the age of eight, was left alone in the forest for half a day with his face blackened. He was compelled to fast throughout the time, and he must behave like a brave man, showing no fear of the loneliness and silence. As he grew older these periods of solitary fasting were increased in length, and now, at eighteen, several boys in the Wyandot village had reached the last blackening and fasting. The black paint was spread over the neophyte's face, and he was led by his father far from the village to a solitary cabin or tent, where he was left without weapons or food. It was known from his previous fasting about how long he could stand it, and now the utmost test would be applied. The father, in some cases, would not return for three days, and then the exhausted boy was taken back to the village, where his face was washed, his head shaved, excepting the scalp lock, and plentiful food was put before him. A small looking-glass, a bag of paint, and the rifle, tomahawk, and knife of a warrior were given to him. While these ceremonies were going on Henry lay in the prison lodge, and he could not see the remotest chance of escape. He listened at night for the friendly voice among the leaves, but he did not hear it. Timmendiquas did not come again, and two old squaws, in place of Heno, brought him his food and drink. He had no hope that the Wyandots would spare him after his refusal to leave his own people and become an Indian. He knew that their chivalry made no such demand upon them. The hardest part of it all was to lie there and wait. He was like a man condemned, but with no date set for the execution. He did not know when they would come for him. But he believed that it would be soon, because the Wyandots must leave presently to march on the great foray. The fourth morning after the visit of Timmendiquas the young chief returned. He was accompanied by Heno and Hainteroh, and the three regarded the youth with great gravity. Henry, keen of intuition and a reader of faces, knew that his time had come. What they had prepared for him he did not know, but it must be something terrible. A shiver that was of the spirit, but not of the muscles, ran through him. Torture and death were no pleasant prospect to him who was so young and so strong, and who felt so keenly every hour of his life the delight of living, but he would face them with all the pride of race and wilderness training. "Well, Timmendiquas," he said, "I suppose that you have come for me!" "It is true," replied Timmendiquas steadily, "but we would first prepare you. It shall not be said of the Wyandots that they brought to the ordeal a broken prisoner, one whose blood did not flow freely in his veins." Henry's bonds were loosened, and he stood up. Although he had been bound securely, his thongs had always allowed him a little movement, and he had sought in the days of his captivity to keep his physical condition perfect. He would stretch his limbs and tense his muscles for an hour at a time. It was not much, it was not like the freedom of the forest, but pursued by one as tenacious and forethoughtful as he, it kept his muscles hard, his lungs strong, and his blood sparkling. Now, as he stood up, he had all his strength, and his body was flexible and alert. But Heno and Hainteroh seized him by each hand and pulled strongly. He understood. They were acting in a wholly friendly manner for the time being, and would give him exercise. He tried to guess from it the nature of the first ordeal that awaited him, but he could not. He pulled back and felt his muscles harden and tighten. So strong was he that both warriors were dragged to his side of the wigwam. "Good!" said Timmendiquas. "Prison has not made you soft. You shall prove to all who see you that you are already a great warrior." Then they rubbed his ankles and wrists with bear's oil that any possible stiffness from the bonds might be removed, and directed him to walk briskly on the inside circuit of the lodge for about fifteen minutes. He did readily as they suggested. He knew that whatever their motives--and after all they were Indians with all the traits of Indians--they wished him to be as strong as possible for the fate that awaited him outside. The hardier and braver the victim, the better the Indians always liked it. Over a half hour was passed in these preparations, and then White Lightning said tersely and without emotion: "Come!" He led the way, and Henry, following him, stepped from the lodge into the sunlight with Hainteroh and Heno close behind. The boy coming from the half darkness was dazzled at first by the brilliant rays, but in a few moments his eyes strengthened to meet them, and he saw everything. A great crowd was gathered for a third time at the meadow, and a heavy murmur of anticipation and excitement came to his ears. Henry felt that everybody in the Wyandot village was looking at him. It gave him a singular feeling to be thus the center of a thousand eyes, and the little mental shiver came again, because the eyes were now wholly those of savages. He felt a cool breath on his face. The wind was blowing, and from the forest came the faint rustle of the leaves. He listened a moment that he might hear that hopeful note, the almost human voice that had spoken to him, but it was not there. It was just an ordinary wind blowing in the wilderness, and he ceased to listen because now his crisis was at hand. Timmendiquas led toward the meadow, and Heno and Hainteroh came close behind. Now Henry saw what they had prepared for him as the first stage of his ordeal. He was to run the gantlet. Two parallel lines had already been formed, running the longest way of the meadow and far down into an opening of the forest, and all were armed with switches or sticks, some of the latter so heavy, that, wielded by a strong hand, they would knock a man senseless. No sympathy, no kindliness showed in the faces of any of these people. The spirit of the ball and the dance was gone. The white youth was their enemy, he had chosen to remain so, and they knew no law but an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Children and women were as eager as men for the sport. It was a part of their teaching and belief. Henry looked again down the line, and there he saw the renegades, three on one side and three on the other. It seemed to him that theirs were the most cruel faces of all. He saw Braxton Wyatt swinging a heavy stick, and he resolved that it should never touch him. He could bear a blow from an Indian, but not from Braxton Wyatt. Then he looked from the cruel face of the renegade to the forest, so green, so fresh, and so beautiful. What a glorious place it was and how he longed to be there. The deep masses of green leaves, solid in the distance, waved gently in the wind. Over this great green wilderness bent the brilliant blue sky, golden at the dome from the high sun. It was but a fleeting glance, and his eyes came back to earth, to the Wyandots, and to his fate. "I was able to make it the gantlet first," Timmendiquas was saying in his ear. "Others wished to begin at once with the fire." "Thank you, White Lightning," said Henry. He looked for the third time at the line, and he saw that no human being, no matter how great his strength and dexterity, could reach the end of it. It was at least a quarter of a mile in length, and long before he was half way he would be beaten to the earth, limbs broken. They had not intended that he should have the remotest chance of escape. Nor, look as he would, could he see any. Hark! What was that? It was a sound from the forest, a low, sweet note, but clear and penetrating, the wind among the leaves, the voice, almost human, that told him to be of good faith, that even yet in the face of imminent death he would escape. It was no longer an ordinary wind blowing through the wilderness; it was some voice out of space, speaking to him. White Lightning saw the face of his prisoner suddenly illumined, and he wondered. Henry looked down the line for the fourth time, and then the way came to him. He knew what to do, and he drew himself together, a compact mass of muscles, and tense like steel wire. Then, while the clear song from the forest still sang in his ear, he glanced up once more at the beneficent heavens, and uttered his wordless prayer: "O Lord, Thou who art the God of the white man and the Manitou of the red man, give me this day a strength such as I have never known before! Give me an eye quick to see and a hand ready to do! I would live. I love life, but it is not for myself alone that I ask the gift! There are others who need me, and I would go to them! Now, O Lord, abide with me!" They were his thoughts, not his words, but he was the child of religious parents, who had given him a religious training, and in the crisis he remembered. It was the duty of Timmendiquas to give the word, but he waited, fascinated by the singular look on the face of the prisoner. He saw confidence, exaltation there, and he still wondered. But the crowd was growing impatient for its sport. They were bedecked in their gayest for this holiday scene, and the size and obvious strength of the captive indicated that it would be continued longer than common. Timmendiquas glanced at the prisoner again, and for an instant the eyes of the two met. The chief saw purpose written deep in the mind of the other, and Henry caught the fleeting glimpse of sympathy that he had noticed more than once before. "Are you ready?" asked Timmendiquas in tones so low that no one else could hear. "Ready!" replied Henry as low. "Go!" called Timmendiquas. His voice was so sharp that it cracked like a pistol. Henry made a mighty leap forward, and shot down between the lines so swiftly that the first blows aimed at him fell after he had passed. Then a switch cut him across the shoulders, a stick grazed his head, another glanced off his back as he fled, but he was so quick that the sticks and switches invariably fell too late. This was what he had hoped for; if he could keep ahead of the shower of blows for forty or fifty yards all might go well. It would go well! It must go well! Hope flamed high in him, and he seemed to grow stronger at every leap. The Indians were shouting with delight at the sport, but so intent was he upon his purpose that he did not hear them. Henry looked up for a moment, and he saw near him the face of Timmendiquas, who had followed him down the line, seeking, it seemed, to give a blow on his account. Beside him, a warrior held a heavy club poised to strike. Henry saw that he could not escape it, and his heart sank, like a plummet in a pool. But the great chief, so sure of foot, stumbled and fell against the warrior with the poised club. The blow went wide, and Henry was untouched. He ran on, but he understood. He had marked a spot in the line, fifty yards on, perhaps, where it seemed weakest. With the exception of the leader of the renegades, Girty, it was mostly women and children who stood there. Now he was nearing them. He saw Girty's cruel, grinning face, and the heavy stick in his hand poised for a blow. He could not run in a perfectly straight line, because he was compelled to dodge right or left to escape the clubs, and he was not always successful. One, a glancing blow, made his head ring, but in a moment his will threw off the effect, and the sting of it merely incited him to greater effort. Now the face of Girty was just before him, and the shouting of the Indians was so loud that he could not but hear. He saw Girty raise his club, and, quick as lightning, Henry, turning off at a right angle, hurled himself directly at Girty, passed within the circle of the falling club, seized the renegade's arm, and wrenched his weapon from his grasp. It was done in a second, but the Indian warriors near instantly sprang for the pair. The impact of Henry's body knocked Girty to his knees and, as he fell, the youth made a sweeping blow at him with the captured club. Had Henry been left time to balance himself for the stroke, the evil deeds of Simon Girty would have stopped there, and terrible suffering would have been spared to the border. But he struck as he ran, and, although Girty was knocked senseless, his skull was not fractured. Henry darted away at a right angle from the line toward the forest. He had done what was achieved a few times by prisoners of uncommon strength and agility. Instead of continuing between the rows he had broken out at one side, and now was straining every effort to reach the forest, with the whole Wyandot village yelling at his heels. Timmendiquas had seen the deed in every detail. He had marked the sudden turn of the fugitive and the extraordinary quickness and strength with which he had overthrown Girty, at the same time taking from him his weapon, and his eyes flashed approval. But he was a Wyandot chief, and he could not let such a captive escape. After a few moments of hesitation he joined in the pursuit, and directed it with voice and gesture. Henry's soul sang a song of triumph to him. He would escape! There was nobody between him and the forest, and they would not fire just yet for fear of hurting their own people. His strength redoubled. The forest came nearer. It seemed to reach out great green branches and invite him to its shelter. An old woman suddenly sprang up from the grass and seized him by the knees. He made a mighty effort, threw her off, and leaped clear of her clawing hands. But he had lost time, and the warriors had gained. One was very near, and if he should lay hands upon him Henry knew that he could not escape. Even if the warrior were able to hold him only a half minute the others then would be at hand. But he was still keyed up to the great tension with which he had started down the line. His effort, instead of reaching the zenith, was still increasing, and, turning sideways as he ran, he hurled the stick back into the face of the warrior who was so near. The Wyandot endeavored to dodge it, but he was not quick enough. It struck him on the side of the head and he fell, knocked senseless as Girty, the renegade, had been. Then the fleeing youth made another supreme effort, and he drew clear of his pursuers by some yards. The forest was very much nearer now. How cool, how green, and how friendly it looked! One could surely find shade and protection among all those endless rows of mighty trunks! He heard a report behind him and a bullet sang in his ear. The Wyandots, now that he had become a clear target in front of them, began to fire. Henry, remembering an old trick in such cases, curved a little from side to side as he ran. He lost distance by it, but it was necessary in order to confuse the marksmen. More shots were fired, and the Wyandots, shouting their war cries, began to spread out like a fan in order that they might profit by any divergence of the fugitive from a straight line. Henry felt a pain in his shoulder much like the sting of a bee, but he knew that the bullet had merely nipped him as it passed. Another grazed his arm, but the God of the white man and the Manitou of the red to whom he had prayed held him in His keeping. The Wyandots crowded one another, and as they ran at full speed they were compelled to fire hastily at a zig-zagging fugitive. He made one more leap, longer and stronger than all the rest, and gained the edge of the forest. At that moment he felt a tap on his side as if he had been struck by a pebble, but he knew it to be a bullet that had gone deeper than the others. It might weaken him later, but not now; it merely gave a new impulse to his speed, and he darted among the trees, spurning the ground like a racing deer. The bullets continued to fly, but luck made the forest dense, the great trees growing close to one another, and now the advantage was his. Only at times was his body exposed to their aim, and then he ran so fast that mere chance directed the shots. None touched him now, and with a deep exulting thrill, so mighty that it made him quiver from head to foot, he felt that he would make good his flight. Only ten minutes of safety from the bullets, and he could leave them all behind. Henry's joy was intense, penetrating all his being, and it remained. Yes, life here in this green wilderness was beautiful! He had felt the truth of it with all its force when they brought him forth to die, passing from one torture to another worse, and he felt it with equal poignancy now that he had turned the impossible into the possible, now that the coming gift to him was life, not death. His spirit swelled and communicated itself to his body. Fire ran through his veins. He took a single fleeting look backward, and saw many brown figures speeding through the forest. He knew their tactics. The fan would develop into a half curve, and pursue with all the fleetness and tenacity with which the Indian--above all the Wyandot--was capable. If he varied but a single yard from the direct line of his flight some one in the half curve would gain by it. He must not lose the single yard! He glanced up through the green veil of foliage at the sun, and noticed that he was running toward the southeast, the way that he wanted to go. Other such glances from time to time would serve to keep him straight, and again he felt the mighty and exultant swell that was in the nature of spiritual exaltation. The war cries ceased. The Wyandots now pursued in silence, and it would be a pursuit long and tenacious. It was their nature not to give up, and they were filled with chagrin that so notable a prisoner had slipped from them, breaking through their lines and gaining the forest in the face of the impossible. Henry knew all these things, too, and he had no intention of relaxing his speed until he was beyond the range of their rifles. It was well for him that his muscles and sinews were like woven wire, and that he had striven so hard to keep himself in physical trim while he lay a prisoner in the lodge. His breathing was still long and free, and his stride did not decline in either length or quickness. The ground rolled slightly, and was free from undergrowth for the first half mile. Then he came to clumps of bushes, but they did not decrease his speed, and when he looked back again he saw no Wyandot. The fleetest among them had not been able to equal him, and before long he heard them calling signal cries to one another. The chiefs were giving directions, seeking to place the fugitive, who was now lost to sight, but Henry only ran the faster. He did not delude himself with any such foolish belief that they would quit the pursuit because they could no longer see him. CHAPTER VII ALONE IN THE WILDERNESS When Henry looked back a third time and saw that no Wyandot had yet come into view, he made another spurt, one in which he taxed his power of muscle and lung to the utmost. He maintained his speed for a half mile and then slowed down. He had no doubt that he had increased his lead over them, and now he would use cunning in place of strength and speed. It was a country of springs and brooks, and he looked for one in order that he might use this common device of the border--wading in the water to hide his tracks. But he saw none. Here fortune was not kind, and he ran on in the long, easy stride like the gallop of a horse. He still sought to keep a perfectly straight course toward the southeast. It would not permit that deadly half circle to close in, and it would carry him toward his friends and the fleet. He reached rougher ground, low hills with many outcroppings of stone, and he leaped lightly from rock to rock. His moccasined feet, for a space, left no traces, and when he came to the softer earth again he paused. They would certainly lose the trail at the hills, and it would take them five, perhaps ten, minutes to find it once more. He leaned against a tree, drawing great breaths and relaxing his muscles. He permitted everything to give way for a minute or two, knowing that in such manner he would procure the most rest and resiliency. Meanwhile he listened with all the powers of those wonderful, forest-bred ears of his, but heard nothing save a far, faint call or two. After about five minutes he resumed his flight, going at the long, easy frontier lope, and a little later he came to a great mass of tangled and fallen forest where a hurricane had passed. Fortune that had failed him with the brook served him with the trees, and he ran lightly along in the path of the hurricane, leaping from trunk to trunk. He had turned for the first time from his direct course, but now he could afford to do so. It would take the shrewdest of the Wyandot warriors some time to pick up a trail that was lost for a full quarter of a mile, and he did not leave the windrow until fully that distance was covered. He passed some low hills again, and just beyond them he came to a large creek flowing between fairly high banks. This was better luck than he had hoped. The waters felt cool and fresh, and, hot from his long run, he drank eagerly. But the creek would serve another and better purpose, the hiding of his trail. It flowed in the very direction in which he was going, and he waded down stream for forty or fifty yards. Then he went over his head. The creek had suddenly deepened, but he came up promptly and swam easily with the current. Swimming rested him in a way. A new set of muscles came into play, and he swam placidly for two or three hundred yards. Then he turned over on his back and floated as far again. Now, as he floated, he found time to take thought. He saw that the sun was still shining brilliantly overhead, and the forest grew in a dense green wall to the water's edge on either side. He had come so far. It seemed that he had made good his escape, but he was able for the first time to take a survey of his situation. He was alone in the wilderness and without arms. What a ship is to the sailor, so the rifle was to the borderer. It was his meat and drink, his defense, his armor, his truest and trustiest comrade; without it he must surely perish, unless some rare chance aided him, as once in a thousand times the shipwrecked sailor reaches the lone island. Henry knew that he was a long distance from the Ohio, and it would be difficult to locate the fleet. It would have to move slowly, and it may have tied up several times for weather. He floated two or three hundred yards further, and then at a dip in the bank he emerged, the water running in streams from his clothing. He stood there a minute or two, watching and listening, but nothing alarming came to his eye or ear. Perhaps he had shaken off the Wyandots, but he was far too well versed in forest cunning and patience to take it for granted. He was about to start again when he felt a little pain in his side. He remembered now the light impact as if a pebble had struck him, and he knew that the wound had been caused by a bullet. But no blood was there. It had all been washed away by the waters of the creek. The cold stream, moreover, had been good for the wound. He lifted his wet clothing and examined his hurt critically. It might be serious. It would certainly weaken him after a few hours, although the bullet had passed through the flesh, and a few hours now were more precious to him than weeks later. But his pride and joy in life were not yet diminished. He was free and he would not be re-taken. The country around him was as beautiful as any that he had ever seen. The banks of the creek were high and rocky, and its waters were very clear. Splendid forests swept away from either side, and on one far horizon showed the faint line of blue hills. The sun was still shining bright and warm. He re-entered the forest, continuing his flight toward the southeast, and swung along at a good pace. Exercise restored the warmth to his body and also brought with it now and then the little stitch in his side. His clothing gradually dried upon him, and he did not cease his long, easy trot until he noticed that the sun was far down in the west. It had already taken on the fiery red tint that marks it when it goes, and in the east gray shadows were coming. Henry believed that he had shaken off the pursuit for good now, and he sat down upon a log to rest. Then a sudden great weakness came over him. The forest grew dim, the earth seemed to tip up, and there was a ringing sound in his ears. He looked at his hand and saw that it was shaking. It required a great effort of the will to clear his vision and steady the world about him. But he achieved it, and then he took thought of himself. He knew very well what was the matter. His wound had begun to assert itself, and he knew that he could no longer refuse to listen to its will. The sun sank in a sea of red and yellow fire, and the veil of darkness was drawn over the vast primeval wilderness. Henry welcomed the coming of the dusk. Night is kindly to those who flee. He left the log and walked slowly toward the horizon, on which he had seen the dim, blue line of the hills. He would be more likely to find there rude shelter of some sort. The reflex from long and strenuous action both physical and mental--no one fights for anything else as he does for his life--had come, and his body relaxed. The dizziness returned at times, and he knew that he must have rest. He was aware, too, that he needed food, but it was no time to hunt for it. That must be done on the morrow, and intense longing for his rifle assailed him again. It would be more precious to him now than gold or diamonds. A melancholy note came lonesomely through the forest and the twilight. It was the cry of the whippoorwill, inexpressibly mournful, and Henry listened to it a minute or two. He thought at first that it might be a signal cry of the Wyandots, but when it was twice repeated he knew that it was real. He banished it from his mind and went on. A gobble came from a tree near by. He caught the bronze gleam of the wild turkeys sitting high on the branches. They may have seen him or heard him, but they did not stir. Something sprang up in the bushes, ran a little way and stopped, regarding him with great lustrous eyes. It was a deer, but it was unafraid. The behavior of deer and turkey was so unusual that a curious idea gripped Henry. They knew that he was unarmed, and therefore they did not feel the need to run. He always felt a close kinship with the wild things, and he could not put aside this idea that they knew him as he now was, a helpless wanderer. It humiliated him. He had been a lord of creation, and now he was the weakest of them all. They could find their food and shelter with ease, but only luck would bring him either. He felt discouragement because he had suddenly sunk to the lowest place among living things, and that stitch in his side began to grow stronger. It did not come now at intervals but stayed, and soon he must lie down and rest if he had nothing more than the shelter of a tree's outspread boughs. But he came to the hills and, after some hunting, found a rocky alcove, which he half filled with the dead leaves of last year. There he lay down and drew some of the leaves over him. It was wonderfully soothing and peaceful, and the stitch in his side became much easier. As his nerves resumed their normal state, he grew very hungry. But he would have to endure it, and he tried to think of other things. It was quite dark now, but he heard noises about him. He knew that it was the night prowlers, and some of them came very near. It was true that they knew him to be unarmed. In some mysterious way the word had been passed among them that their greatest enemy, man, could do them no harm, and Henry saw bright little eyes looking at him curiously through the darkness. The boy felt deeply his sense of helplessness. Small shadowy forms hopped about through the thickets. He fancied that they were rabbits, and they came very near in the most reckless and abandoned fashion. He was overwhelmed with shame. That a little rabbit eight inches long and weighing only two or three pounds should defy him who had slain bears and buffaloes, and who had fought victoriously with the most powerful and cunning of Indian warriors, was not to be endured. He raised himself up a little and threw a stone at them. They disappeared with a faint noise of light, leaping feet, but in a few moments they came back again. If he frightened them it was only for an instant, and it took an effort of his will to prevent an unreasoning anger toward the most timid and innocent of forest creatures. The night now was well advanced, but full of dusky beauty. The stars were coming out, bright and confident, and their silvery twinkle lighted up the heavens. Henry looked up at them. They would have been to most people mere meaningless points in the vast, cold void, but they made him neither lonely nor afraid. The feeling of weakness was what troubled him. He knew that he ought to sleep, but his nerves were not yet in the perfect accord that produces rest. He resolutely shut his eyes and kept them shut for five minutes. Then he opened them again because he felt a larger presence than that of the rabbits. He saw another half circle of bright eyes, but these were much higher above the ground, and presently he made out the lean forms, the sharp noses, and the cruel white teeth of wolves. Still he was not afraid. They did not seem to be above four or five in number, and he knew that they would not attack him unless they were a large pack, but he felt the insult of their presence. He hated wolves. He respected a bear and he admired a buffalo, but a wolf, although in his way cunning and skillful beyond compare, did not seem to him to be a noble animal. Such contempt for him, a hunter and a warrior, who could slay at two hundred yards, given his rifle, must be avenged, and he felt around at the edge of the hollow until his hand closed upon a stone nearly as large as his fist. Then he closed his eyes all but a tiny corner of the right one and lay so still that even a wolf, with all his wolfish knowledge and caution, might think him asleep. By the faint beam of light that entered the tiny corner of his right eye he saw the wolves drawing nearer, and he marked their leader, an inquiring old fellow who stood three or four inches taller than the others, and who was a foot in advance. The wolves approached slowly and with many a little pause or withdrawal, but the youth was fully as patient. He had learned his lessons from the forest and its creatures, and on this night nothing was cheaper to him than time. It was another proof of natural power and of the effect of long training that he did not move at all for a quarter of an hour. The old wolf, the leader, who stood high in the wolf tribe, who had won his position by genuine wolfish wisdom and prowess, could not tell whether this specimen of man was alive or dead. He inclined to the opinion that he was dead. Certainly he did not move, he could not see a quiver of the eyelash, and he noticed no rising and falling of the chest under the buckskin hunting shirt. A doubled up hand--the one that enclosed the stone--lay pallid and limp upon the leaves, and it encouraged the wise old leader to come closer. He had seen a dead warrior in his time, and that warrior's hand had lain upon the grass in just such a way. The old leader took a longer and bolder step forward. The dead hand flashed up from the leaves, flew back, and then shot forward. Something very hard, that hurt terribly, struck the leader on the head, and, emitting a sharp yelp of pain and anger, he fled away, followed by the others. The warrior, whom he in all his wisdom had been sure was dead, had played a cruel joke upon him. Henry Ware laughed joyously, and turned into a more comfortable position upon the leaves. He was not in his normal frame of mind, or so small an incident would not have caused him so much mirth. But it brought back the divine spark of courage which so seldom died within him. Unarmed as he was, he was not without resources, and he had driven off the wolves. He would find a way for other things. The wind began to blow gently and beneficently, and the murmur of it among the leaves came to him. He interpreted it instantly as the wilderness voice that, calling to him more than once in his most desperate straits, had told him to have faith and hope. He fell asleep to its music and slept soundly all through the night. He awoke the next morning after the coming of the daylight, and sprang to his feet. The sudden movement caused a slight pain in his side, but he knew now that the wound was not serious. Had it been so it would have stiffened in the night, and he would now be feverish, but he felt strong, and his head was clear and cool. Another proof of his healthy condition was the fierce hunger that soon assailed him. A powerful body was demanding food, the furnace needed coal, and there was no way just yet to supply it. This was the vital question to him, but he took wilderness precautions before undertaking to solve it. He made a little circle, searching the forest with eye and ear, but he found no sign that the Wyandots were near. He did not believe that they had given up the pursuit, but he was quite sure that they had not been able to find his last trail in the night. When he had satisfied himself upon this point, he washed his wound carefully in the waters of a brook, and bound upon it a poultice of leaves, the use of which he had learned among the Indians. Then he thought little more about it. He was so thoroughly inured to hardship that it would heal quickly. Now for food, food which he must take with his bare hands. It was not late enough in the year for the ripening of wild fruits and for nuts, but he had his mind upon blackberries. Therefore he sought openings, knowing that they would not grow in the shade of the great trees, and after more than an hour's hunting he found a clump of the blackberry briars, loaded with berries, magnificent, large, black, and fairly crammed with sweetness. Henry was fastidious. He had not tasted food for nearly a day, and he ached with hunger, but he broke off a number of briars containing the largest stores of berries, and ate slowly and deliberately. The memory of that breakfast, its savor and its welcome, lingered with him long. Blackberries are no mean food, as many an American boy has known, but Henry was well aware that he must have something stronger, if he were to remain fit for his great task. But that divine spark of courage which was his most precious possession was kindled into a blaze. Food brought back all his strength, and his veins pulsated with life. Somehow he would find a way for everything. He fixed his course once more toward the southeast. The country here was entirely new to him, much rougher, the hills increasing in height and steepness, and he inferred that he was approaching a river, some tributary of the Ohio. When he reached the crest of a hill steeper than the rest, he dropped down among the bushes as if he had been shot. He had happened to look back, and he caught a passing glimpse of brown among the green. It was quick come, quick gone, but he had seen enough to know that it was an Indian following him, undoubtedly one of the pursuing Wyandots, who, by chance, had hit upon his trail. Had Henry been armed he would have felt no fear. He considered himself, with justice, more than a match for a single warrior, but now he must rely wholly upon craft, and the odds against him were more than ten to one. He was at the very verge of a steep descent, and he knew that he could not slip down the crest of the hill and get away without being seen by the Wyandot, who, he was sure, was aware of his presence. He lay perfectly still for at least five minutes, watching for the warrior and at the same time trying to form a plan. He saw only the waving green bushes, but he knew that he would hear the warrior if he approached. His trained ear would detect the slightest movement among grass or bushes, and he had no doubt that the Wyandot was as still as he. Luck had been against Henry because the crest of the hill was bare, so if he undertook to slip away in that direction he would become exposed, but it favored him when it made the thicket dense and tall where he lay. As long as he remained in his present position the Wyandot could not see him unless he came very close, and he resolved that his enemy should make the first movement. The infinite test of patience went on. A quarter of an hour, a half hour, and an hour passed, and still Henry did not stir. If a blade of grass or a twig beside him moved it was because the force of the wind did it. While he lay there, he examined the thicket incessantly with his eyes, but he depended most upon his ears. He listened so intently that he could hear a lizard scuttling through the grass, or the low drone of insects, but he did not hear the warrior. He looked up once or twice. The heavens were a solid, shimmering blue. Now and then birds, fleet of wing, flashed across its expanse, and a blue jay chattered at intervals in a near tree. The peace that passeth understanding seemed to brood over the wilderness. There was nothing to tell of the tragedy that had just begun its first act in the little thicket. After the first hour, Henry moved a little, ever so little, but without noise. He did not intend to get stiff, lying so long in one position, and, as he had done when a prisoner in the lodge, he cautiously flexed his muscles and took many deep breaths, expanding his chest to the utmost. He must rely now upon bodily strength and dexterity alone, and he thanked God that Nature had been so kind to him. He flexed his muscles once more, felt that they were elastic and powerful, and then he put his ear to the earth. He heard a sound which was not the scuttling of a lizard nor the low drone of insects, but one that he ascribed to the slow creeping of a Wyandot warrior, bent upon taking a life. Henry was glad that it was so. He had won the first victory, and that, too, in the quality in which the Indian usually excelled, patience. But this was not enough. He must win also in the second test, skill. The stake was his life, and in such a supreme moment the boy had no chance to think of mercy and kindliness. Nearly all the wilderness creatures fought for their lives, and he was compelled to do so, too. He now sought the Wyandot as eagerly as the Wyandot sought him. He resumed the pursuit, and he was guided by logic as well as by sight and hearing. The Wyandot knew where he had first lain, and he would certainly approach that place. Henry would follow in that direction. Another dozen feet and he felt that the crisis was at hand. The little waving of grass and bushes that marked the passage of the Wyandot suddenly stopped, and the slight rustling ceased to come. Nerving everything for a mighty effort, Henry sprang to his feet and rushed forward. The Wyandot, who was just beginning to suspect, uttered a cry, and he, too, sprang up. His rifle leaped to his shoulder and he fired as the terrible figure sprang toward him. But it was too late to take any sort of aim. The bullet flew wide among the trees, and the next instant Henry was upon him. The Wyandot dropped his empty rifle and met his foe, shoulder to shoulder and chest to chest. He was a tall warrior with lean flanks and powerful muscles, and he did not yet expect anything but victory. He was one of the many Wyandots who had followed him from the village, but he alone had found the fugitive, and he alone would take back the scalp. He clasped Henry close and then sought to free one hand that he might draw his knife. Henry seized the wrist in his left hand, and almost crushed it in his grasp. Then he sought to bend the Indian back to the earth. The Wyandot gave forth a single low, gasping sound. Then the two fought wholly in silence, save for the panting of their chests and the shuffling sound of their feet. The warrior realized that he had caught a foe more powerful than he had dreamed of and also that the foe had caught him, but he was still sure of his triumphant return to the village with the fugitive scalp. But as they strove, shoulder to shoulder and chest to chest, for full five minutes, he was not so sure, although he yet had visions. The two writhed over the ground in their great struggle. The warrior endeavored to twist his hand loose, but in the unsuccessful attempt to do so, he dropped the knife to the ground, where it lay glittering in the grass whenever the sunbeams struck upon its blade. Presently, as they twisted and strove, it lay seven or eight feet away, entirely out of the reach of either, and then Henry, suddenly releasing the warrior's wrist, clasped him about the shoulders and chest with both arms, making a supreme effort to throw him to the ground. He almost succeeded, but this was a warrior of uncommon strength and dexterity, and he recovered himself in time. Yet he was so hard pushed that he could make no effort to reach the tomahawk that still hung in his belt, and he put forth his greatest effort in order that he might drag his foe from his feet, and thus gain a precious advantage. The last lizard scuttled away, and the drone of the insects ceased. Henry, as he whirled about, caught one dim glimpse of a blue jay, the same that had chattered so much in his idle joy, sitting on a bough and staring at the struggling two. It was a titanic contest to the blue jay, two monstrous giants fighting to the death. All the other forest people had fled away in terror, but the empty-headed blue jay, held by the terrible fascination, remained on his bough, watching with dilated eyes. He saw the great beads of sweat stand out on the face of each, he could hear the muscles strain and creak, he saw the two fall to the ground, locked fast in each other's arms, and then turn over and over, first the white face and then the red uppermost, and then the white again. The blue jay's eyes grew bigger and bigger as he watched a struggle such as he had never beheld before. They were all one to him. It did not matter to him whether white or red conquered, but he saw one thing that they did not see. As they rolled over and over they had come to the very brink of the hill, and the far side went down almost straight, a matter of forty or fifty feet. But this made no impression upon him, because he was only a blue jay with only a blue jay's tiny brain. The two monstrous giants were now hanging over the edge of the precipice, and still, in their furious struggles, they did not know it. The blue jay, perceiving in a dim way that something tremendous was about to happen in his world, longed to chatter abroad the advance news of it, but his tongue was paralyzed in his throat, and his eyes were red with increasing dilation. The two, still locked fast in each other's arms, went further. Then they realized where they were, and there was a simultaneous writhe to get back again. It was too late. The blue jay saw them hang for a moment on the brink and then go crashing into the void. His paralyzed voice came back to him, and, chattering wildly with terror, he flew away from the terrible scene. CHAPTER VIII THE SHADOW IN THE WATER Henry Ware and the Wyandot warrior were clasped so tightly in each other's arms that their hold was not broken as they fell. They whirled over and over, rolling among the short bushes on the steep slope, and then they dropped a clear fifteen feet or more, striking the hard earth below with a sickening impact. Both lay still a half minute, and then Henry rose unsteadily to his feet. Fortune had turned her face toward him and away from the Wyandot. The warrior had been beneath when they struck, and in losing his life had saved that of his enemy. Henry had suffered no broken bones, nothing more than bruises, and he was recovering rapidly from the dizziness caused by his fall. But the warrior's neck was broken, and he was stone dead. Henry, as his eyes cleared and his strength returned, looked down at the Indian, a single glance being sufficient to tell what had happened. The warrior could trouble him no more. He shook himself and felt carefully of his limbs. He had been saved miraculously, and he breathed a little prayer of thankfulness to the God of the white man, the Manitou of the red man. He did not like to look at the fallen warrior. He did not blame the Wyandot for pursuing him. It was what his religion and training both had taught him to do, and Henry was really his enemy. Moreover, he had made a good fight, and the victor respected the vanquished. It was his first impulse to plunge at once into the forest and hasten away, but it got no further than an impulse, His was the greatest victory that one could win. He had not only disposed of his foe; he had gained much beside. He climbed back up the hill and took the gun from the bushes where it had fallen. He had expected a musket, or, at best, a short army rifle bought at some far Northern British post, and his joy was great when he found, instead, a beautiful Kentucky rifle with a long, slender barrel, a silver-mounted piece of the finest make. He handled it with delight, observing its fine points, and he was sure that it had been taken from some slain countryman of his. He recovered the knife, too, and then descended the hill again. He did not like to touch the dead warrior, but it was no time for squeamishness, and he took from him a horn, nearly full of powder, and a pouch containing at least two hundred bullets to fit the rifle. He looked for something else which he knew the Indian invariably carried--flint and steel--and he found it in a pocket of his hunting shirt. He transferred the flint and steel to his own pocket, put the tomahawk in his belt beside the knife, and turned away, rifle on shoulder. He stood a few moments at the edge of the forest, listening. It seemed to him that he heard a far, faint signal cry and then another in answer, but the sound was so low, not above a whisper of the wind, that he was not sure. Whether a signal cry or not, he cared little. The last half hour had put him through a wonderful transformation. Life once more flowed high in every vein never higher. He, an unarmed fugitive whom even the timid rabbits did not fear, he, who had been for a little while the most helpless of the forest creatures, had suddenly become the king of them all. He stood up, strong, powerful, the reloaded rifle in his hands, and looked and listened attentively for the foe, who could come if he chose. His little wound was forgotten. He was a truly formidable figure now, whom the bravest of Indian warriors, even a Wyandot, might shun. Still hearing and seeing nothing that told of pursuit, he entered the forest and sped on light foot on the journey that always led to the southeast. The low rolling hills came again, and they were covered densely with forest, not an opening anywhere. The foliage, not yet touched with brown, was dark green and thick, forming a cool canopy overhead. Tiny brooks of clear water wandered through the mass and among the tree trunks. Many birds of brilliant plumage flew among the boughs and sang inspiringly to the youth as he passed. It was the great, cool woods of the north, the woods that Long Jim Hart had once lamented so honestly to his comrades when they were in the far south. Henry smiled at the memory. Long Jim had said that in these woods a man knew his enemies; the Indians did not pretend to be anything else. Jim was right, as he had just proved. The Wyandots had never claimed to be anything but his enemies, and, although they had treated him well for a time, they had acted thus when the time again came. Henry smiled once more. He had an overwhelming and just sense of triumph. He had defeated the Wyandots, the bravest and most skillful of all the Western tribes. He had slipped through the hundred hands that sought to hold him, and he was going back to his own, strong and armed. The rifle was certainly a splendid trophy. Long, slender, and silver mounted, he had never seen a finer, and his critical eye assured him that its quality would be equal to its appearance. He did not stop running while he examined the rifle, and when he put it back on his shoulder the wind began to blow. Hark! There was the song among the leaves again, and now it told not merely of hope, but of victory achieved and danger passed. Henry was sure that he heard it. He had an imaginative mind like all forest-dwellers, like the Indians themselves, and he personified everything. The wind was a living, breathing thing. He stopped at the end of two or three hours. The sun was sailing high in the heavens, and he had come at last to a little prairie. Game, it was likely, would be here, and he meant now to have food, not blackberries, but the nutritious flesh that his strong body craved. He could easily secure it now, and he stroked the beautiful rifle joyously. Except for the great villages at Chillicothe, Piqua, and a few other places, the Indians shifted their homes often, leaving one region that the game might increase in it again, until such time as they wished to come back, and Henry judged that the country in which he now was had been abandoned for a while. If so, the game should be plentiful and not shy. The prairie was perhaps a mile in length, and at its far edge two deer were grazing. It was not difficult to stalk them, and Henry, choosing the doe, brought her down with an easy shot. He carried the body into the woods, skinned it, cut off the tenderer portions, and prepared for a solid dinner. With his food now before him, he realized how very hungry he was. Yet he was fastidious, and, as usual, he insisted upon doing all things in season, and properly. He brought forth the Indian's flint and steel--he was very glad now that he had had the forethought to take them--and after much effort set about kindling a fire. Flint and steel are not such easy things to use, and it took Henry five minutes to light the blaze, but five minutes later he was broiling tender, juicy slices of deer meat on the end of a twig, and then eating them one by one. He ate deliberately, but he ate a great many, and when he was satisfied he put out the fire. He crushed the coals into the earth with his heels and covered them with leaves, instinctive caution making him do it. Then he went deep into the forest, and, lying down in a thicket, rested a long time. He knew that the Indian tribes intended to gather at Tuentahahewaghta (the site of Cincinnati), the place where the waters of the Licking, coming out of the wild Kentucky woods, joined the Ohio, and he believed that the best thing for him to do was to go to that point. He calculated that, despite his long delay at the Wyandot village, he could yet arrive there ahead of the fleet, and after seeing the Indian mobilization, he could go back to warn it. Only one thing worried him much now. Had his four faithful comrades taken his advice and stayed with the fleet, or were they now in the forest seeking him? He well knew their temper, and he feared that they had not remained with the boats after his absence became long. But these comrades of his were resourceful, and he was presently able to dismiss the question from his mind. He had acquired with the patience of the Indian another of his virtues, an ability to dismiss all worries, sit perfectly still, and be completely happy. This quality may have had its basis originally in physical content, the satisfaction that came to the savage when he had eaten all he wished, when no enemy was present, and he could lie at ease on a soft couch. But in Henry it was higher, and was founded chiefly on the knowledge of a deed well done and absolute confidence in the future, although the physical quality was not lacking. He felt an immense peace. Nothing was wrong. The day was just right, neither too hot nor too cool. The blaze of the brilliant skies and of the great golden sun was pleasantly shaded from his eyes by the green veil of the leaves. Those surely were the finest deer steaks that he had ever eaten! There could not be such another wilderness as this on the face of the earth! And he, Henry Ware, was one of the luckiest of human beings! He lay a full two hours wrapped in content. He did not move arm or leg. Nothing but his long, deep breathing and his bright blue eyes, shaded by half-fallen lashes, told that he lived. Every muscle was relaxed. There was absolutely no effort, either physical or mental. Yet the word passed by the forest creatures to one another was entirely different from the word that had been passed the night before. The slackened human figure that never moved was dangerous, it was once more the king of the wilderness, and the four-footed kind, after looking once and fearfully upon it, must steal in terror away. The wolf felt it. Slinking through the thicket, he measured the great length of the recumbent shape, observed the half-opened eye, and departed in speed and silence; a yellow puma smelt the human odor, thought at first that the youth was dead, but, after a single look, followed the wolf, his heart quaking within him. A foolish bear, also, shambled into the thicket, but he was not too foolish, after he saw Henry, to shamble quickly away. When Henry rose he was as thoroughly refreshed and restored as if he had never run a gantlet, made a flight of a night and a day, and fought with a Wyandot for his life. The very completeness of it had made him rest as much in two hours as another would have rested in six. He resumed his flight, taking with him venison steaks that he had cooked before he put out his fire, and he did not stop until the night was well advanced and the stars had sprung out in a dusky sky. Then he chose another dense thicket and, lying down in it, was quickly asleep. He awoke about midnight and saw a faint light shining through the woods. He judged that it was a long distance away, but he resolved to see what made it, being sure in advance that it was the glow of an Indian camp fire. He approached cautiously, looked from the crest of a low hill into a snug little valley, and saw that his surmise was true. About fifty warriors sat or lay around a smouldering fire, and he inferred from their dress and paint that they were Shawnees. Four who sat together were talking earnestly, and he knew them to be chiefs. It was impossible to hear what they said, but he believed this to be a party on the way to the great meeting at the mouth of Licking. It was evident that he had not escaped too soon, and he withdrew as cautiously as he had approached. An excitable youth would have hastened on in the night at full speed, but Henry knew better and could do better. He returned to his nest in the thicket and fell asleep again, as if he had seen nothing alarming. But he rose very early in the morning, and after a breakfast on the cold deer meat, made a circle around the Indian camp, and continued his southeastern journey at great speed. He traveled all that day, and he saw that he was well into the enemy's country. Indian signs multiplied about him. Here in the soft earth was the trace of their moccasins. There they had built a camp fire and the ashes were not yet cold. Further on they had killed and dressed a deer. There was little effort at concealment, perhaps, none. This was their own country, where only the roving white hunter came, and it was his business, not theirs, to hide. Henry felt the truth of it as he advanced toward the Ohio. He was compelled to redouble his caution, lest at any moment he plunge into the very middle of a war band. He passed more than a half dozen trails of large parties, and he felt sure that, according to arrangement, they were converging on the Ohio, at the point where the Licking emptied the waters and silt of the Kentucky woods into the larger stream. Timmendiquas, no doubt, would be there, and Henry's heart throbbed a little faster at the thought that he would meet such a splendid foe. He lay in a thicket about noonday, and saw over a hundred warriors of the Ottawas, worshipers of the sun and stars, go by. They were all in full war paint, and he had no doubt that they had come from the far western shore of Lake Huron to join the great gathering of the tribes at Tuentahahewaghta and to help destroy the fleet and all river posts if they could. That evening, taking the chances that the Indians would or would not hear him, he shot a wild turkey in a tree, traveled two or three miles further, built a small fire in the lee of a hill, where he cooked it, then ran in a curve three or four miles further, until he came to a thicket of pawpaw bushes, where he ate heartily by a faint moonlight. He watched and listened two hours, and then, satisfied that no one had heard the shot, he went to sleep with the ease and confidence of one who reposes at home, safe in his bed. The night was warm. Sleeping in the open was a pleasure to such as Henry Ware, and he was not disturbed. He had willed that he should wake before daylight, and his senses obeyed the warning. He came back from slumber while it was yet dark. But he could feel the coming dawn, and, eating what was left of the turkey, he sped away. He saw the sun shoot up in a shower of gold, and the blue spread over the heavens. He saw the green forest come into the light with the turning of the world, and he felt the glory of the great wilderness, but he did not stop for many hours. The day was warmer than the one before, and when the sun was poised just overhead he began to feel its heat. He was thirsty, too, and when he heard a gentle trickling among the bushes he stopped, knowing that a brook or spring was near. He pressed his way through the dense tangle of undergrowth and entered the open, where he stood for a few minutes, cooling his eyes with the silver sparkle of flowing water and the delicate green tints of the grass, which grew thickly on the banks of the little stream. He was motionless, yet even in repose he seemed to be the highest type of physical life and energy, taller than the average man, despite the fact that he was yet but a boy in years, and with a frame all bone and sinew. Blue eyes flashed out of a face turned to the brown of leather by a life that knew no roof-tree, and the uncut locks of yellow hair fell down from the fur cap that sat lightly upon his head. Around him the wilderness was blazing with all the hues of spring and summer, yet untouched by autumn brown. The dense foliage of the forest formed a vast green veil between him and the sun. Some wild peach trees in early bloom shone in cones of pink against the green wall. Shy little flowers of delicate purple nestled in the grass, and at his feet the waters of the brook gleamed in the sunshine in alternate ripples of silver and gold, while the pebbles shone white on the shallow bottom. He stood there, straight and strong like a young oak, a figure in harmony with the wilderness and its lonely grandeur. He seemed to fit into the scene, to share its colors, and to become its own. The look of content in his eyes, like that of a forest creature that has found a lair to suit him, made him part of it. His dress, too, matched the flush of color around him. The fur cap upon his head had been dyed the green of the grass. The darker green of the oak leaves was the tint of his hunting shirt of tanned buckskin, with the long fringe hanging almost to his knees. It was the tint, too, of the buckskin leggings which rose above his moccasins of buffalo hide. But the moccasins and the seams of the leggings were adorned with countless little Indian beads of red and blue and yellow, giving dashes of new color to the green of his dress, just as the wild flowers and peach blossoms and the silver and gold of the brook varied the dominant green note of the forest. A careless eye would have passed over him, his figure making no outline against the wall of forest behind him. It was the effect that he sought, to pass through wood and thicket and across the green open, making slight mark for the eye. Henry was not only a lover of the wilderness and its beauty, but he was also a conscious one. He would often stop a moment to drink in the glory of a specially fine phase of it, and this was such a moment. Far off a range of hills showed a faint blue tracery against the sky of deeper blue. At their foot was a band of silver, the river to which the brook that splashed before him was hurrying. Everywhere the grass grew rich and rank, showing the depth and quality of the soil beneath. A hundred yards away a buffalo grazed as peacefully as if man had never come, and farther on a herd of deer raised their heads to sniff the southern wind. It was pleasant to Henry to gaze upon the stretch of meadow before him. So he stood for a minute or two, looking luxuriously, his rifle resting across his shoulder, the sun glinting along its long, slender, blue barrel. Then he knelt down to drink, choosing a place where a current of the swift little brook had cut into the bank with a circular sweep, and had formed a pool of water as clear as the day, a forest mirror. Henry did not feel the presence of any danger, but he retained all his caution as he knelt down to drink, a caution become nature through all the formative years of practice and necessity. His knees made no noise as they touched the earth. Not a leaf moved. Not a blade of grass rustled. The rifle remained upon his shoulder, his right hand grasping it around the stock, just below the hammer, the barrel projecting into the air. Even as he rested his weight upon one elbow and bent his mouth to the water, he was ready for instant action. The water touched his lips, and was cool and pleasant. He had come far, and was thirsty. He blew the bubbles back and drank, not eagerly nor in a hurry, but sipping it gently, as one who knows tastes rare old wine. Then he raised his head a little and looked at his shadow in the water, as perfect as if a mirror gave back his face. Eyes, mouth, nose, every feature was shown. He bent his head, sipping the water a little more, and feeling all its grateful coolness. Then he raised it again and saw a shadow that had appeared beside his own. The mirror of the water gave back both perfectly. An extraordinary thrill ran through him but he made no movement. The blood was leaping wildly in his veins, but his nerves never quivered. In the water he could yet see his own shadow as still as the shadow that had come beside it. Henry Ware, in that supreme moment, did not know his own thoughts, save that they were full of bitterness. It hurt him to be trapped so. He had escaped so much, he had come so far, to be taken thus with ease; although life was full and glorious to him, he could have yielded it with a better will in fair battle. There, at least, one did not lose his forest pride. He had gloried in the skill with which he had practiced all the arts of the wilderness, and now he was caught like any beginner! But while these thoughts were running through his mind he retained complete command of himself, and by no motion, no exclamation, showed his knowledge that he was not alone. He suppressed his rebellious nerves, and refused to let them quiver. The shadow in the water beside his own was distinct. He could see the features, the hair drawn up at the top of the head into a defiant scalp-lock, and the outstretched hand holding the tomahawk. He gazed at the shadow intently. He believed that he could divine his foe's triumphant thoughts. The south wind freshened a little, and came to Henry Ware poignant with the odors of blossom and flower. The brook murmured a quiet song in his ears. The brilliant sunshine flashed alike over grass and water. It was a beautiful world, and never had he been more loth to leave it. He wondered how long it would be until the blow fell. He knew that the warrior, according to the custom of his race, would prolong his triumph and exult a little before he struck. Given a chance with his rifle, Henry would have asked no other favor. Just that one little gift from fortune! The clutch of his fingers on the stock tightened, and the involuntary motion sent a new thought through him. The rifle lay unmoved across his shoulder, its muzzle pointing upward. Before him in the water the shadow still lay, unchanged, beside his own. He kept his eyes upon it, marking a spot in the center of the forehead, while the hand that grasped the rifle crept up imperceptibly toward the hammer and the trigger. A half minute passed. The warrior still lingered over his coming triumph. The boy's brown fingers rested against the hammer of the rifle. Hope had come suddenly, but Henry Ware made no sign. He blew a bubble or two in the water, and while he seemed to watch them break, the muzzle of the rifle shifted gently, until he was sure that it bore directly upon the spot in the forehead that he had marked on the shadow in the water. The last bubble broke, and then Henry seemed to himself to put all his strength into the hand and wrist that held the rifle. His forefinger grasped the hammer. It flew back with a sharp click. The next instant, so quickly that time scarcely divided the two movements, he pulled the trigger and fired. CHAPTER IX THE GATHERING OF THE FIVE As the report of his shot sped in echoes through the forest, Henry Ware sprang to his feet and stood there for a little space, his knees weak under him, and drops of perspiration thick on his face. The rifle was clenched in his hands, and a light smoke came from the muzzle. Thus he stood, not yet willing to turn around and see, but when the last echo of the shot was gone there was no sound. The wind had ceased to blow. Not a leaf, not a blade of grass stirred. He was affected as he had never been in battle, because he knew that a man whose shadow alone he had seen lay dead behind him. He shifted the rifle to one hand only, and wiped his face with the other. Then, as his knees grew stronger and he was able to control the extraordinary quivering of the nerves, he turned. The warrior, the red spot upon his forehead, lay stretched upon his back. He had died without a sound, as if he had been struck by a bolt of lightning. The handle of the tomahawk was still clutched in his fingers, but his rifle had fallen beside him. The single minute that he had paused to exult over the foe who seemed so completely in his power had been fatal. Henry took the powder and bullets from the fallen warrior and added them to his own store--the bullets he found would fit his rifle--but he did not wish to burden himself with the extra rifle, knife, and tomahawk. Nor did he wish to abandon them. Their value was too great in the wilderness. He chose a middle course. He thrust all three in a hollow tree that he found about a mile further on. They were so well hidden in the trunk that there was not one chance in a million of anybody but himself ever finding them. "I may need you again some day," he murmured to the inanimate weapons, "and if so you'll be here waiting for me." He noted well the locality, the trees, and the lay of the land. Everything was photographed on his memory and would remain there until such time as he needed the use of the picture. Then he continued his advance, at the long easy walk that he had learned from the frontiersmen, and soon his shaken nerves were restored. He began to calculate now how far he might be from the Ohio, and, as he was traveling more east than south, he reckoned that it would be several days before he reached the mouth of the Licking. But he felt assured that he would reach it, despite the dangers that were still thick about him. In the afternoon he saw smoke on the horizon, and, going at once to ascertain its cause, he found a small Shawnee village in a cozy valley. He saw signs of preparation among the warriors in it, and he divined that they, too, were destined for the "landing place" on the Ohio, opposite the mouth of the Licking. He left the village after the cursory look and plunged again into the unbroken wilderness. Two or three hours later he decided that he was being followed. He had not seen or heard anything, but it was a sort of divination. He sought to throw it aside, telling himself that it was mere foolishness, but he could not do it. The thought stayed with him, and then he knew that it must be true. He cared little for a single warrior, but he did not wish to be delayed. He increased his speed, but the sense of being followed did not depart. He was not alarmed, but he was annoyed intensely. He had already encountered two warriors, triumphing each time, and it seemed to him that he ought now to be let alone. He made a complete circle, coming back on his own tracks in order to convince himself absolutely that he was or was not followed, and he found a few traces in the soft earth to show him that his sixth sense had not warned him in vain. There moccasins had passed, and the owner of them was undoubtedly pursuing Henry. For what else but his life? It was hard necessity, but he resolved to have it out with this warrior who trailed him so relentlessly. Night was coming on, and he must sleep and rest, but he could not do so with an enemy so near. Hence he now dropped the role of the pursued, and became the pursuer. It was a difficult task, but an occasional trace in the earth helped him, and he followed unerringly. So intent was he upon his object that he did not notice for some time that he was still traveling in a circle, and that his mysterious foe was doing the same. They were going around and around. Both were pursuers and both pursued. Henry's annoyance increased. He had never been irritated so much before in his life. He could not continue forever with this business and let his mission go. Moreover, night was now much nearer. The western world was already sinking into darkness, and the twilight would soon reach him. He wished to deal with his enemy, while it was yet light enough to see. He turned directly about on his own trail and, after advancing a little, lay hidden in the bushes. The warrior, unless uncommonly wary, would soon come in sight. But he did not come. Henry was not able either to see or hear a sign of him. The bushes were tinged with the reddish light of the setting sun, but they moved only in the way in which the wind blew them. His foe had not come into the trap, and Henry knew now that he would not come. He remained a full half hour in his hiding place, and then, turning again, he tried the other way around the circle. A slight motion in the thicket behind him told that his foe was still there, and he stopped. His annoyance gave way to admiration. This was undoubtedly a great warrior who trailed him, a man of courage, the possessor of all forest skill. It must surely be the best of the whole Wyandot tribe. Henry was willing to give full credit. But he must deal with such a foe. His safety and perhaps the safety of many others depended upon it. He could not shake him off; therefore, he must fight him, and he summoned all his energy and faculties for the task. Now began the forest combat between invisible and noiseless forces, but none the less deadly because neither could see nor hear his foe. Yet each knew that the other was always there. It was the slight waving of a bush or the flutter of a leaf, stirred by a moccasin, that told the tale. As the hunt, the deadliest of all hunts, proceeded, each became more engrossed in it, neglecting no precaution, seeking incessantly some minute advantage. Henry was by nature generous and merciful, but at this time he did not think of those things. Wilderness necessity did not permit it. The reddish tint on trees and bushes faded quite away, the sun was gone, and the night came, riding down on the world like a black horseman, but the eyes of the two grew used to the dark as it came, and they continued their invisible battle, circling back and forth in the forest. Henry's admiration for his foe increased. He had never encountered another such warrior. Surpassing skill was his. He knew every trick, every device of the forest. Every move that Henry tried he met on equal terms, and, strive as Henry would to see him, he was still unseen. This singular duel would have exhausted the patience of most men. One or the other, finding it unbearable, would have exposed himself, but not so these two. An hour, two hours, passed, and they were still seeking the advantage. The moon had come out and touched trees and bushes with silver, but they were still creeping to and fro, seeking a chance for a shot. It was Henry who secured the first glimpse. He saw for an instant a face in a bush fifty yards away, and at the same moment he fired. But he knew almost before his finger ceased to pull the trigger that he would miss, and he threw down his head to escape the return shot. He was barely in time. He heard the bullet pass over him, and it seemed to him that it sung a taunting little song as it went by. But he was busy reloading his rifle as fast as he could, and he knew that his foe was doing the same. The rifle reloaded, a sudden extraordinary idea leaped up in his brain. It seemed impossible, but the impossible sometimes comes true. It was the merest of fleeting glimpses that he had caught of that face, but his eye was uncommonly quick, and his mind equally retentive. His mind would not let go of the idea; an impression at first, it quickly became a belief and then a conviction. He was lying on his chest, and, raising his head a little, he emitted the call of the night-owl, soft, long, and weird. He uttered the cry twice and waited. From the woods fifty yards away came the answering hoot of an owl, once, twice, thrice. Henry gave the cry twice again, and the second reply came from the same place, once, twice, thrice. Henry, without hesitation, sprang up to his full length, and walked boldly forward. A second tall figure had risen and was coming to meet him. The moonlight streamed down in a silver shower upon the man who had stalked him so long, and revealed Shif'less Sol. "Sol!" exclaimed Henry. "And I shot at you, thinking that you were a Wyandot." "You did not shoot any harder at me than I did at you," said Shif'less Sol, "an' me all the time thinkin' that you wuz one o' them renegades!" "Thank God we both missed!" said Henry, fervently. "An' thank God that you're here, an' not tied down back thar in the Wyandot village," said Shif'less Sol. Their hands met in the strong firm clasp of those who have been friends through the utmost dangers. "It's fine to see you again, Sol," said Henry. "Are the others well?" "When I last saw 'em," replied the shiftless one. "Tell me how you ran across my trail and what went before," said Henry, as they sat down on a fallen log together. "You'll ricolleck," said Shif'less Sol, "that you told us not to hunt you ef you didn't come back, but to go on with the fleet. I reckon it wuz easier fur you to give that advice than for us to keep it. We knowed from what the others said that you wuz captured, but we hoped that you'd escape. When you didn't come, we agreed right quick among ourselves that we had more business huntin' you than we had with that fleet. "We didn't have much to go by. We guessed thar was a Wyandot village somewhar in these parts, an' we hunted fur it. Last night me an' Tom Ross saw some Injuns who wuz in camp an' who wuz rather keerless fur them. Some white men wuz with 'em, an' we learned from scraps o' talk that we could pick up that you had escaped, fur which news we wuz pow'ful glad. We heard, too, that they wuz goin' to the Ohio at the mouth o' the Lickin,' whar thar wuz to be a great getherin' o' 'em. One or two o' the white men wuz to go on ahead this mornin'. So we let 'em alone an' we spread out so we could find you. "When I run across your trail afore sundown, I wuz shore it belonged to one o' them renegades I heard called Blackstaffe, and I made up my mind to git him." "You come mighty near getting the fellow who stood in his place," said Henry. "I thought I had against me about the best warrior that was ever in these woods." The moonlight disclosed the broad grin and shining teeth of the shiftless one. "I reckon I ain't been sleepin' on no downy couch myself fur the last two hours," he said. "Henry, what's all this about the getherin' at the mouth o' the Lickin'?" "All the tribes will be there--Wyandots, Shawnees, Miamis, Delawares, Ottawas, and Illinois. I've heard them in council. They mean to begin a new and greater war to drive the whites from their hunting ground. The fleet will be attacked in great force again, and all the settlements will have to fight." "Then," said Shif'less Sol, "we'd better pick up the other fellers, Tom an' Saplin' an' Paul, ez soon ez we kin, an' git ahead o' the Indians." "Where are the others?" asked Henry. "Off that way lookin' fur you," replied Sol, waving his hand toward the southeast. "We scattered so ez to cover ez much ground as we could." "We must hunt them and use our signal," said Henry, "two hoots of the owl from the first, three from the others, and then the same over again from both. It's a mighty good thing we arranged that long ago, or you and I, Sol, might be shooting at each other yet." "That's so, an' we're likely to need them bullets fur a better use," rejoined the shiftless one. "Pow'ful good gun you've got thar, Henry. Did the Injuns make you a present o' that before you ran away?" "It was luck," replied Henry, and he told his story of the fight with the Wyandot, the fall over the cliff, and his taking of the rifle and the ammunition. "That fall wuz luck, maybe," said Shif'less Sol sagely, "but the rest o' it wuz muscles, a sharp eye, quickness, an' good sense. I've noticed that the people who learn a heap o' things, who are strong and healthy, an' who always listen and look, are them that live the longest in these woods." "You're surely right, Sol," said Henry with great emphasis. But Henry was in the best of humors. The shiftless one was a power in himself, as he had proved over and over again, and the two together could achieve the impossible. Moreover, the rest of his comrades were near. He felt that the God of the white man, the Manitou of the red man, had been kind to him, and he was grateful. "Do you think we ought to try the signal for the others now, Sol?" he asked. "Not now. I'm shore that they're too fur off to hear. Ef the Injuns heard us signalin' so much they'd come down on us hot-foot." "Just what I was thinking," said Henry. "Suppose we push on a few miles, wait a while and then send out the cry." "Good enough," said the shiftless one. They advanced three or four miles and then stopped in a dense cluster of hickory saplings, where they waited. Within the thicket they could see to some distance on either side, while they themselves lay hidden. Here they talked now and then in low voices, and Shif'less Sol, although he did not speak of his feelings, was very happy. He had believed all the time that Henry would escape, but believing is not as good as knowing. "You shorely had a pow'ful interestin' time in the Wyandot village, Henry," he said, "an' that chief, White Lightning--I've heard o' him afore--'pears to hev been good to you. What did you say his Injun name wuz?" "Timmendiquas. That means Lightning in Wyandot, and our people have tacked on the word 'white.' He's a great man, Sol, and I think we're going to meet him again." "Looks likely. I don't blame him for puttin' up sech a pow'ful good fight fur the huntin' grounds, 'though they look to me big enough for all creation. Do you know, Henry, I hev sometimes a kind o' feelin' fur the Injuns. They hev got lots o' good qualities. Besides, ef they're ever wiped out, things will lose a heap o' variety. Life won't be what it is now. People will know that thar scalps will be whar they belong, right on top o' thar heads, but things will be tame all the time. O' course, it's bad to git into danger, but thar ain't nothin' so joyous ez the feelin' you hev when you git out o' it." The night advanced, very clear and pleasantly cool. They had heard occasional rustlings in the thicket, which they knew were made by the smaller wild animals, taking a look, perhaps, at those curious guests of theirs and then scuttling away in fright. Now absolute stillness had come. There was no wind. Not a twig moved. It seemed that in this silence one could hear a leaf if it fell. Then Henry sent forth the cry, the long, whining hoot of the owl, perfectly imitated, a sound that carries very far in the quiet night. After waiting a moment or two he repeated it, the second cry being exactly the same in tone and length as the first. "Now you listen," said Shif'less Sol. There was another half minute of the absolute silence, and then, from a point far down under the southeastern horizon came an answering cry. It was remote and low, but they heard it distinctly, and they waited eagerly to see if it would be repeated. It came a second time, and then a third. Henry answered twice, and then the other came thrice. Call and answer were complete, and no doubt remained. "I judge that it's Saplin' who answered," ruminated Shif'less Sol. "He always did hev a hoot that's ez long ez he is, an' them wuz shorely long." "I think, too, that it was Long Jim," said Henry, "and he'll come straight for us. In five minutes I'll send out the cry again, and maybe another will answer." When Henry gave the second call the answer came from a point almost due east. "That's Tom," said the shiftless one decisively. "Couldn't mistake it. Didn't that owl hoot sharp and short fur an owl? Jest like Tom Ross. Don't waste any words that he kin help, an' makes them that he has to use ez short ez he kin." Another five minutes, and Henry gave the third call. The answer came from the southwest, and the shiftless one announced instantly that it was Paul. "O' course we know it's Paul," he said, "'cause we know that his owl is the poorest owl among the whole lot o' us, an' I've spent a lot o' time, too, trainin' his hoot. No Injun would ever take Paul's owl to be a real one." Henry laughed. "Paul isn't as good in the woods as we are," he said, "but he knows a lot of other things that we don't." "O' course," said Shif'less Sol, who was very fond of Paul. "It's shorely a treat to set by the camp fire an' hear him tell about A-Killus, an' Homer, an' Virgil, an' Charley-mane, and all the other fierce old Roman warriors that had sech funny names." "They'll be here in less than half an hour," said Henry. "So we'd better leave the thicket, and sit out there under the big trees where they can see us." They took comfortable seats on a fallen log under some giant maples, and presently three figures, emerging from various points, became palpable in the dusk. "Tom," murmured Henry under his breath, "and Jim--and Paul." The three uttered low cries of joy when they saw the second figure sitting on the log beside that of Shif'less Sol. Then they ran forward, grasped his hands, and wrung them. "How did you escape, Henry?" exclaimed Paul, his face glowing. "Shucks! he didn't escape," said Shif'less Sol, calmly. "Henry owes everything that he is now, includin' o' his life, to me. I wuz scoutin' up by the Wyandot village, an' I captured in the thickets that thar chief they call White Lightnin'--Timmendiquas he told me wuz his high-toned Injun name. I took him with my hands, not wishin' to hurt him 'cause I had somethin' in mind. Then I said to him: 'Look at me,' an' when he looked he began to tremble so bad that the beads on his moccasins played ez fine a tune ez I ever heard. 'Is your name Hyde?' said he. 'It is,' said I. 'Solomon Hyde?' said he. 'Yes,' said I. 'The one they call Shif'less Sol?' said he. 'Yes,' said I. 'Then,' said he, 'O great white warrior, I surrender the whole Wyandot village to you at once.' "I told him I didn't want the whole Wyandot village ez I wouldn't know what to do with it ef I had it. But I said to him, puttin' on my skeriest manner: 'You've got in your village a prisoner, a white boy named Henry Ware, a feller that I kinder like. Now you go in that an' send him out to me, an' be mighty quick about it, 'cause ef you don't I might git mad, an' then I can't tell myself what's goin' to happen.' "An' do you know, Saplin'," he continued, turning a solemn face upon Jim Hart, "that they turned Henry over to me out thar in the woods inside o' three minutes. An' ef I do say it myself, they got off pow'ful cheap at the price, an' I'm not runnin' down Henry, either." Long Jim Hart, a most matter-of-fact man, stared at the shiftless one. "Do you know, Sol Hyde," he said indignantly, "that I believe more'n half the things you're tellin' are lies!" Shif'less Sol burst into a laugh. "I never tell lies, Saplin'," he said. "It's only my gorgeeyus fancy playin' aroun' the facts an' touchin' 'em up with gold an' silver lights. A hoe cake is nothin' but a hoe cake to Saplin' thar, but to me it's somethin' splendid to look at an' to eat, the support o' life, the creater o' muscle an' strength an' spirit, a beautiful thing that builds up gran' specimens o' men like me, somethin' that's wrapped up in poetry." "Ef you could just live up to the way you talk, Sol Hyde," said Long Jim, "you'd shorely be a pow'ful big man." "Maybe Indians have heard our calls," said Henry, "and if so, they'll come to look into the cause of them. Suppose we go on four or five miles and then sleep, all except one, who will watch." "The right thing to do," said Tom Ross briefly, and they proceeded at once, Tom leading the way, while Henry and Paul, who followed close behind, talked in low voices. A long, lonesome sound came from the north, and then was repeated three or four times. Henry laughed. "That's real," he said. "I'd wager anything that if we followed that sound we'd find a big owl, sitting on a limb, and calling to some friend of his." "You ain't mistook," said Tom Ross sententiously. As they walked very fast, it did not take them long to cover the four or five miles that they wished, and they found a comfortable, well-hidden place in a ravine. The darkness also had increased considerably, which was good for their purpose, as they were hunting for nobody, and wished nobody to find them. All save Tom Ross lay down among the bushes and quickly fell asleep. Tom found an easy seat and watched. CHAPTER X THE GREAT BORDERER Tom Ross watched until about an hour after midnight, when he awoke Henry, who would keep guard until day. "Heard anything?" asked the boy. "Nuthin'" replied Tom with his usual brevity, as he stretched his long figure upon the ground. In a minute he was fast asleep. Henry looked down at the recumbent forms of his comrades, darker shadows in the dusk, and once more he felt that thrill of deep and intense satisfaction. The five were reunited, and, having triumphed so often, he believed them to be equal to any new issue. Henry sat in a comfortable position on the dead leaves of last year, with his back against the stump of a tree blown down by some hurricane, his rifle across his knees. He did not move for a long time, exercising that faculty of keeping himself relaxed and perfectly still, but he never ceased to watch and listen. About half way between midnight and morning, he heard the hoot of the owl and also the long, whining cry of the wolf. He did not stir, but he knew that hoot of owl and whine of wolf alike came from Indian throats. At this hour of the night the red men were signaling to each other. It might be the Wyandots still in pursuit of the escaped prisoner, or, more likely, it was the vanguard of the hosts converging on Tuentahahewaghta (the landing place opposite the mouth of the Licking, the site of Cincinnati). But Henry felt no apprehension. The night was dark. No one could follow a trail at such a time. All the five were accomplished borderers. They could slip through any ring that might be made, whether by accident or purpose, around them. So he remained perfectly still, his muscles relaxed, his mind the abode of peace. Cry of owl and wolf came much nearer, but he was not disturbed. Once he rose, crept a hundred yards through the thicket, and saw a band of fifty Miamis in the most vivid of war paint pass by, but he was yet calm and sure, and when the last Miami had disappeared in the darkness, he returned to his comrades, who had neither moved nor wakened. Dawn came in one great blazing shaft of sunlight, and the four awoke. Henry told all that he had seen and heard. "I'm thinkin' that the tribes are all about us," said Shif'less Sol. "Shorely," said Tom Ross. "An' we don't want to fight so many," said Long Jim. "An' that bein' the case," said Shif'less Sol, "I'm hopin' that the rest o' you will agree to our layin' quiet here in the thicket all day. Besides, sech a long rest would be a kindness to me, a pow'ful lazy man." "It's the wisest thing to do," said Henry. "Even by daylight nothing but chance would cause so faint a trail as ours to be found." It was settled. They lay there all day, and nobody grew restless except Paul. He found it hard to pass so much time in inaction, and now and then he suggested to the others that they move on, taking all risks, but they merely rallied him on his impatience. "Paul," said Long Jim, "thar is one thing that you kin learn from Sol Hyde, an' that is how to be lazy. Uv course, Sol is lazy all the time, but it's a good thing to be lazy once in a while, ef you pick the right day." "You don't often tell the truth, Saplin'," said Shif'less Sol, "but you're tellin' it now. Paul, thar bein' nuthin' to do, I'm goin' to lay down ag'in an' go to sleep." He stretched himself upon a bed of leaves that he had scraped up for himself. His manner expressed the greatest sense of luxury, but suddenly he sat up, his face showing anger. "What's the matter, Sol?" asked Paul in surprise. The shiftless one put his hand in his improvised bed and held up an oak leaf. The leaf had been doubled under him. "Look at that," he said, "an' then you won't have the face to ask me why I wuz oncomf'table. Remember the tale you told us, Paul, about some old Greeks who got so fas-tee-ge-ous one o' 'em couldn't sleep 'cause a rose leaf was doubled under him. That's me, Sol Hyde, all over ag'in. I'm a pow'ful partickler person, with a delicate rearin' an' the instincts o' luxury. How do you expect me to sleep with a thing like that pushed up in the small o' my back. Git out!" As he said 'Git out,' he threw the leaf from him, lay down again on his woodland couch, and in two minutes was really and peacefully asleep. "He is shorely won'erful," said Long Jim admiringly. "Think I'll try that myself." He was somewhat longer than the shiftless one in achieving the task, but in ten minutes he, too, slept. Paul was at last able to do so in the afternoon, when the sun grew warm, and at the coming of the night they prepared to depart. They traveled a full eight hours, by the stars and the moon, through a country covered with dense forest. Twice they saw distant lights, once to the south and once to the east, and they knew that they were the camp fires of Indians, who feared no enemy here. But when dawn came there was no sign of hostile fire or smoke, and they believed that they were now well in advance of the Indian parties. They shot two wild turkeys from a flock that was "gobbling" in the tall trees, announcing the coming of the day, and cooked them at a fire that they built by the side of a brook. After breakfast Henry and Tom Ross went forward a little to spy out the land, and a half mile further on by the side of the brook they saw two or three faint prints made by the human foot. They examined them long and carefully. "Made by white men," said Henry at last. "Shorely," said Tom Ross. "Now, I wonder who they can be," said Henry. "It's not the renegades, because they would not leave the Indians." "S'pose we go see," said Tom Ross. The trail was faint and difficult to follow, but they managed to make it out, and after another half mile they saw two men sitting by a small camp fire under some trees. The fire was so situated that no one could come within rifle shot of it without being discovered by those who built it, and Henry knew that the two men sitting there had noticed him and Ross. But the strangers did not move. They went on, calmly eating pieces of buffalo steak that they were broiling over the coals. Although nearly as brown as Indians, they were undoubtedly white men. The features in both cases were clearly Caucasian, and, also, in each case they were marked and distinctive. Henry and Ross approached fearlessly, and when they were near the fire the two men rose in the manner of those who would receive visitors. When they stood erect the distinction of their appearance, a distinction which was not of dress or cultivation but which was a subtle something belonging to the woods and the wilderness, was heightened. They differed greatly in age. One was in middle years, and the other quite young, not more than twenty-two or three. Each was of medium height and spare. The face of the elder, although cut clean and sharp, had a singularly soft and benevolent expression. Henry observed it as the man turned his calm blue eyes upon the two who came to his fire. Both were clad in the typical border costume, raccoon skin cap, belted deerskin hunting shirt, leggings and moccasins of the same material, and each carried the long-barreled Kentucky rifle, hatchet, and knife. Their dress was careful and clean, and their bearing erect and dignified. Their appearance inspired respect. Henry looked at them with the greatest curiosity. He believed that he knew the name of the elder man, but he was not yet sure. "My name is Henry Ware," said Henry, "and my friend is Tom Ross. Our home is at Wareville in Kentucky, whenever we happen to be there, which hasn't been often lately." "I think I've heard of both of you," said the elder man in mild tones that accorded well with his expression. "Mine is Boone, Dan'l Boone, and this young fellow here with me is Simon Kenton. Simon's a good boy, an' he's learnin' a lot." Henry instinctively took off his cap. Already the name of Boone was celebrated along the whole border, and it was destined to become famous throughout the English-speaking world. The reputation of Simon Kenton, daring scout, explorer, and Indian fighter, was also large already. "We're proud to see you, Mr. Boone and Mr. Kenton," said Henry, "and to shake your hands. When we saw this fire we did not dream what men we were to find sitting beside it." Daniel Boone laughed in his kindly, gentle way, and his fine large eyes beamed benevolence. Nor was this any assumption or trick of manner, as Henry soon learned. The man's nature was one of absolute simplicity and generosity. With a vast knowledge of the woods and a remarkable experience, he was as honest as a child. "I'm nothin' but plain Dan'l Boone," he said, "an' there ain't any reason why you should be proud to see me. But white folks ought to be glad when they meet one another in these woods. Simon, fry some more o' them buffalo steaks for our friends." Kenton, who had said nothing but who had listened attentively, went about his task, working with skill and diligence. "Set down," said Boone. Henry and Tom obeyed the hospitable invitation and took the crisp steaks that Kenton handed to them. They were not hungry, but it was the custom of the border for white men when they met to take meat together, as the Arabs taste salt. But the steaks were uncommonly tender and juicy, and they were not compelled to force their appetites. Both Boone and Kenton looked admiringly at Henry as he ate. But a boy in years, he had filled out in an extraordinary manner. He was not only a youthful giant, but every pound of him was bone and muscle and lean flesh. "I've heard of you more than once, Henry Ware," Boone said. "You've been a captive 'way out among the Indians o' the northwest, but you came back, an' you've fought in the battles in Kentucky. I was a prisoner, too, for a long time among the Indians." "I've heard all about it, Mr. Boone," said Henry eagerly. "I've heard, too, how you saved Boonesborough and all the other wonderful things that you've done." Boone, the simple and childlike, blushed under his tan, and Simon Kenton spoke for the first time. "Now don't you be teasin' Dan'l," he said. "He's done all them things that people talk about, an' more, too, that he's hid, but he's plum' bashful. When anybody speaks of 'em he gets to squirmin'. I'm not that way. When I do a big thing, I'm goin' to tell about it." Boone laughed and gave his comrade a look of mild reproof. "Don't you believe what he tells you about either him or me," he said. "Simon's a good boy, but his tongue runs loose sometimes." Henry knew that an explanation of his and Tom's appearance there was expected, and now he gave it. "I've just escaped from the Indians, a Wyandot band, Mr. Boone," he said, "and I was lucky enough to meet in the forest four old comrades of mine. The other three are back about a mile. We came on ahead to scout. Indians of different tribes are in great numbers behind us." "We reckoned that they were," said Boone. "Me an' Simon have been takin' a look through the woods ourselves, and we know that mighty big things are stirrin'." "The biggest yet," said Henry. "We've been to New Orleans, and we've come back up the Mississippi into the Ohio with a big fleet of boats and canoes loaded with arms, ammunition, and all kinds of supplies. It is commanded by a brave man, Adam Colfax, and they mean to take all these things up the river to Pittsburgh, where they will be carried over the mountains to our people in the east who are fighting Great Britain." "I've heard of that fleet, too," said Boone, "an' it's got to get to Pittsburgh, but it won't have any summer trip. Now, what did you hear among the Wyandots?" "I saw chiefs from all the valley tribes, Wyandots, Shawnees, Miamis, Lenni-Lenape, Ottawas, and Illinois," replied Henry, "and they've bound themselves together for a great war. Their bands are on the march now to the meeting place on the Ohio, opposite the mouth of the Licking. The renegades, too, are with the Wyandots, Mr. Boone. I saw with my own eyes Girty, Blackstaffe, McKee, Eliot, Quarles, and Braxton Wyatt." Boone's mild eyes suddenly became threatening. "They'll all be punished some day," he said, "for making cruel war on their own kind. But I can tell you somethin' else that we've just found out. While you were down the Mississippi, some new people have built a settlement an' fort on the south bank of the Ohio some distance before you get to the mouth of the Licking. I think it was a plum' foolish thing to do to settle so far north, but they've got a strong fort and the river is narrow there. They say that they can stop the Indian canoes from passing and help our own people. They call their place Fort Prescott." "But won't it help, Mr. Boone?" asked Henry. "It would if they could hold it, but that man Girty has gone on ahead with five hundred picked warriors to take it. It's only a little fort, an' there ain't more than seventy or eighty men in it. I'm afraid he'll take it." "They must have help," said Henry impulsively. "My friends and I travel light and fast, and we can at least warn them of what is coming. There's a lot in being ready." "That's so," said Boone, "an' I reckoned that you'd go when you heard what I had to say. Me an' Simon would have gone if we didn't have to warn another place back of the river. But we'll come with help, if they can hold out a while." "Then it's all settled," said Henry. "It's settled," said Daniel Boone. Tom Ross at once went back for the others, and they quickly came. They, too, were delighted to meet the famous Boone and Kenton, but they wasted little time in talk. Boone, with his hunting knife, drew a map on deerskin, and he added verbal details so explicit that skilled forest runners like the five could not fail to go straight to Fort Prescott. In a quarter of an hour they started. When they reached the forest they glanced back and saw Boone and Kenton leaning on their long rifles, looking at them. Paul impulsively waved his hand. "These are two men to trust!" he exclaimed. "Shorely!" said Tom Ross. They did not speak again for a long time. Dropping into Indian file, Henry in the lead, they traveled fast. They knew that the need of them at Fort Prescott was great. Evidently the men who had built the fort were inexperienced and too confident, and Henry, moreover, had a great fear that Girty and his army would get there first. The renegade was uncommonly shrewd. He would strike as quickly as he could at this exposed place, and if successful--which in all likelihood he would be--would turn the captured cannon against the fleet of Adam Colfax. If superhuman exertions could prevent such a disaster, then they must be made. It was a warm day, and Paul was the first to grow weary. The way led wholly through woods, and it seemed to him that the heat lay particularly heavy under the boughs of the great trees which served to enclose it and which shut out wandering breezes. But he would not complain. He strove manfully to keep up with the others, step for step, although his breath was growing shorter. Henry about noon looked back, noticed that Paul was laboring, and stopped for a rest of a half hour. Two or three hours later they struck a great trail, one so large that all knew at least five hundred warriors must have passed. It was obvious that it had been made by Girty and his army, and they saw with a sinking of the heart that it was hours cold. The Indian force was much ahead of them, and its trail led straight away to Fort Prescott. "I'm afraid they'll beat us to the fort," said Henry. "They've got such a big start. Oh, that Girty is a cunning man! If we could only warn the garrison! Surprise is what they have most to dread." "It means that we must get there somehow or other and tell them," said Paul. "We've got to do the impossible." "Shorely," said Tom Ross. "That is so," said Henry quietly. "We must try for Fort Prescott. If all of us cannot get there in time, then as many as can must. If only one can do it, then he must reach it alone." "It is agreed," said the others together, and the file of five resumed its swift flight toward the Ohio. CHAPTER XI THE RACE OF THE FIVE They followed for a while in the trail of Girty and his band, and they inferred from all the signs that the Indian force was still moving very fast. The element of surprise would certainly be a great aid to those who attacked, and Henry judged that this was not alone the plan of Girty. The master mind of Timmendiquas was somewhere back of it. The day marched on. The skies were without a cloud, and the sun became a hot blue dome. No air stirred in the deep forest, and every face became wet with perspiration, but the pace was not decreased until midway between noon and twilight, when they stopped for another half hour of complete rest. They had left Girty's trail, but they had crossed several other trails, evidently of bands varying in numbers from twenty to fifty. But all converged on the point which their map showed to be Fort Prescott, and the dangers had thickened greatly. They were now near the Ohio, and the savages swarmed in all the woods before them. They must not merely reach Fort Prescott, but to do it they must pass through a cloud of their foes. "I'm thinkin' that we'll have to fight before we reach the river," said Shif'less Sol to Henry. "More than likely," replied the boy. "But remember our agreement. Some one of us must get into Fort Prescott." "O' course," said Shif'less Sol. When they started again they kept carefully into the deepest of the woods, taking the thickets by preference. Their speed was decreased, but they had reached the point now where it was of vital importance not to be detected. They passed the remains of two camp fires. At both the bones of buffalo and deer, eaten clean, had been thrown about carelessly, and at the second the ashes were not yet cold. Moreover, they began to hear the Indian calls in the forest, cry of bird or beast, and Henry watched anxiously for the setting sun. Warriors might strike their trail at any moment, and darkness would be their greatest protection. The sun had never before been so slow to sink, but at last it went down under the horizon, and the dusky veil was drawn over the earth. But the moon soon came out, an uncommonly brilliant moon, that flooded the forest with a pure white light, so intense that they could mark every ridge in the bark of the big trees. The stars, too, sprang out in myriads, and contributed to the phenomenal brightness. "This is bad," said Henry. "This is so much like daylight that I believe they could follow our tracks." The long plaintive howl of a wolf came from a point directly behind them, not a quarter of a mile away. "They hev it now," said Long Jim, "an' they're follerin' us fast." "Then there is nothing to do but run," said Henry. "We must not stop to fight if we can help it." They broke into the long frontier trot, still heading south, slightly by east, and they did not hear the plaintive cry again for a half hour, but when it came it was nearer to them than before, and they increased their gait. A mile further on, Henry, who was in the lead, stopped abruptly. They had come to the steep banks of a wide and deep creek, a stream that would be called a river in almost any other region. "We can't wade it," said Tom Ross. "Then we must swim it," said Shif'less Sol. "Yes. But listen," said Henry Ware. From a point up the stream came a low, measured beat, like a long sigh. "Paddles," said Henry, speaking low, "and those paddles belong to Indian canoes, at least a dozen of them. They are coming down the creek, which must empty into the Ohio not a great many miles from here." "If we run along the bank uv the creek we give them behind us a chance to gain," said Tom Ross. "And then be enclosed between the war party and the canoes," said Henry. "No, we must swim for it at once. Every fellow tie his ammunition around his neck, and hold his rifle above his head. If we have to fight we must have weapons for the fighting." His counsel was quickly taken, and then there was a plunk as he sprang into the creek. Four more plunks followed almost instantly, as every one leaped into the water in his turn. Four heads appeared above the surface of the stream and, also, four outstretched arms holding rifles. It was not such an easy task to swim with a single arm, but all five had learned to do it, and across the creek they went, still in single file, Henry leading the way. Here, with no boughs and leaves to intercept it, the moonlight fell with uncommon brilliancy upon the water. The entire surface of the creek, a deep and placid stream, was turned to molten silver, shimmering slightly under the night wind. The heads, necks, and outstretched arms of the swimmers were outlined perfectly against it. Every feature of the five was disclosed, and behind them, shown clearly, was the crumbling wake of every one. They were compelled to swim somewhat with the stream, because the opposite bank was so steep that to climb it would take time that could not be spared. Henry, as he swam, with the strong, circular sweep of a single arm, listened, and he heard the rhythmical sweep of the paddles growing louder. The creek curved before him, and the steep bank, too deep to climb at such a moment, was still there. He saw, too, that it ran on for at least a hundred yards more, and meanwhile the canoes, with nothing in their way, were coming swiftly. He could almost count the strokes of the paddles. He glanced back and looked into the eyes of Shif'less Sol directly behind him. He knew by his comrade's look that he, too, had heard. The faces of the others showed the same knowledge. "Swim as fast as you can, boys," he whispered, "but be careful not to splash the water!" They scarcely needed this advice, because they were already making supreme efforts. Meanwhile, the unconscious pursuit was coming nearer. Only the curve that they had just turned kept them hidden from the occupants of the canoes. It was a terribly long hundred yards, and it seemed to all of the five that they scarcely moved, although they were swimming fast. "I've been chased by the Injuns through the woods an' over the hills an' across the prairies," groaned Shif'less Sol, "an' now they've took to chasin' me through the water. They'd run me through the sky if they could." "Look out, Sol," said Henry. "The Indians are so near now that I think I can hear them talking." The sound of low voices came, in fact, from a point beyond the curve, and now they could hear not only the beat of the paddles, but the trickle of the water when one was lifted occasionally from the stream. In another minute the canoes would turn the curve, and their occupants could not keep from seeing the fugitives. Henry swam desperately, not for himself alone, but to lead the way for his comrades. At last he saw the shelving bank, twenty yards away, then ten, then five. His feet touched bottom, he ran forward and sprang ashore, the water running from him as if from some young river god. But rifle and ammunition had been kept above the flood, and were dry. Just as he reached the bank a shout of triumph, having in it an indescribably ferocious note, filled all the forest and was returned in dying echoes. The Indians in their canoes had turned the curve and had instantly seen the fugitives, four of whom were still in the creek. Exultant over this sudden find and what they regarded as a sure capture, they plied their paddles with such a spasm of energy that the canoes fairly leaped over the water. Henry, on the bank, knew that only instant and deadly action could save his comrades. He threw up his rifle, took a single glance along the polished barrel, which glittered in the moonlight, and fired. An Indian in the foremost canoe, uttering a cry which was all the more terrible because it was checked half way, dropped his paddle into the water, fell over the side of the canoe, hung there a moment, and then sank into the creek. The boat itself stopped, and the one just behind it, unable to check its impetus, ran into it, and both capsized. Despite Indian stoicism, cries arose, and six or seven warriors were struggling in the water. Meanwhile, Shif'less Sol and Ross also gained the land and fired. Another warrior was slain, and another wounded. All the canoes, menaced by such a deadly aim, stopped, and several of the occupants fired at the five on the bank. But firing from such an unsteady platform, their bullets went wild, and only cut the leaves of the forest. Henry had now reloaded, but he did not pull the trigger a second time. He had noticed a movement in the woods on the opposite bank of the creek, the one that they had just left. Bushes were waving, and in a moment their original pursuers came into view. Henry sent his bullet toward them, and Shif'less Sol did the same. Then the five turned to flee. A great medley of shouts and yells arose behind them, yells of anger, shouts of encouragement as the two Indian parties, the one from the canoes and the other from the woods, joined, and Henry heard splash after splash, as pursuing warriors sprang into the water. He knew now that, in this instance, at least, the race would be to the swift, and the battle to the strong. They did not run in Indian file, but kept well abreast, although Henry, at the right end of the line, made the course. No one spoke. The only sounds were the light, swift tread of moccasins and of rapid breathing. Their pursuers, too, had ceased to shout. Not a single war cry was uttered, but every one of the five knew that the warriors would hang on hour after hour, throughout the night, and then throughout all the next day, if need be. For an hour they sped through the woods, and once or twice in the more open places, as Henry looked back, he saw dim brown figures, but they were never near enough for a shot. Then he would increase his pace, and his four comrades would do the same. Fortune, which had favored them so many times, did not do so now. It persisted in remaining an uncommonly brilliant night. It seemed to Henry's troubled mind that it was like the full blaze of noonday. The moon that rode so high was phenomenal, a prodigy in size, and burnished to an exasperating degree. Every star was out and twinkling as if this were its last chance. They reached the crest of a little hill, and now they saw the dusky figures behind them more plainly. The Indians fired several shots, and Henry and Tom Ross replied, reloading as they ran. "Faster! A little faster!" cried Henry, and their breath grew shorter and harder as they dashed on. The muscles of their legs ached. Little pains smote them now and then in the chest, but they could not stop. It was just such a border fight and pursuit as the woods, both north and south of the Ohio, often witnessed, and of most of which there was never any historian to tell. Their speed was now decreasing, but they knew that the speed of the Indians must be decreasing, too. All were trained runners alike, pursuers and pursued, but they could not go on at such a high pace forever. Fortunately the far side of the hill and much of the ground beyond was covered thickly with hazel-nut bushes. Into these they dashed, and now they were hidden again from view. The closeness of the bushes caused them to drop once more into Indian file, and now Henry, with those keen backward glances of his, examined his comrades with an eye that would not be deceived. Paul showed signs of great weariness. He swayed a little from side to side as he ran, and the red of exertion in his face gave place to the white of exhaustion. Henry reckoned that he could not last much longer and he prayed for darkness and deep thickets without end. He looked up again. Surely the dazzling splendor of that exasperating moon had been dimmed a little! And among the myriads of stars some were twinkling with less fervor, if he could believe what he saw. Would bad fortune turn to good? He looked again in five minutes, and now he was sure. A cloud, light and fleecy, but a cloud, nevertheless, was drawing itself closely across the face of the moon. Many of the stars, actually grown bashful, were not twinkling now at all, and others had become quite pale and dim. The thickets, too, were holding out, and their pursuers were not now in sight. They continued thus for a half hour more, and the blessed clouds, not clouds of rain, but clouds of mists and vapors, were increasing. The moon had become but a dim circle and the last reluctant star was going. The forest was full of shadows. Henry turned once more to Paul, whose breath he could hear coming in gasps. "Turn north, Paul," he said. "They will follow us and they will miss you in the darkness and these thickets. Hide in some good place and we'll come back for you." He held out his hand, Paul gave it one clasp, and turned away at a sharp angle. He ran northward while the pursuit rushed past him, and then he fell down in a thicket, where he lay panting. The four, who had been a few minutes before the five, kept on, saying nothing, but all thinking of Paul. They had not deserted him. It was in the compact that even one should continue as long as he could. They would return for him. But would any one live to come back? The way grew rougher. Once, as they crossed a hill, they were outlined for a moment on its crest, and a half dozen shots were fired by the pursuers. Long Jim checked an exclamation, but Shif'less Sol heard the slight sound. "What is it, Jim?" he asked. "Nuthin'," replied Long Jim, "'cept I stumbled a little. Them must be Wyandots an' Shawnees follerin' us, Sol, from the way they hang on." "It don't make much difference what they are so long ez they don't quit." The four went on now with measured tread under the dusky heavens, over hillocks, down little valleys, and across brooks, which they leaped with flying feet. It seemed that they would never tire, but the trained warriors behind them were no less enduring. Once, twice, thrice they caught sight of them, and when a longer period of invisibility passed they knew, nevertheless, that they were still there. Now Long Jim suddenly wavered, but gathered himself together in an instant and continued his long leaps. Henry glanced at him and saw a patch of red on the sleeve of his buckskin hunting shirt. "You've been hit, Jim," he said. "It's nuthin'," said Long Jim doggedly, but he staggered again as he spoke. "Turn to the north, Jim," said Henry sharply. "We'll come for you, too!" Long Jim lifted a face of agony to the heavens. It was not agony of the body, but agony of the spirit, because he could not go on with the others. "Go, Jim, while they can't see you," repeated Henry. Long Jim waved his hand in a gesture of farewell, and, turning abruptly, disappeared in the bushes as quickly as if great waters had closed over him. The three, who had been a minute before the four, did not look back. There were still life and strength in them, and the power to run. The Ohio could not be far away now, and they ought to strike it before morning. "I'd like to stop an' fight," breathed Shif'less Sol. "I don't partickerly mind bein' chased sometimes, but I do mind bein' chased all the way back to New Or-lee-yuns." Henry, despite their desperate situation, could not withhold a smile, which, however, was hidden from the shiftless one by the darkness. "No choice seems to be left to us," he said. "It's run, Sol, run and keep on running." A groan of weariness from the shiftless one was his only reply. But he kept by the side of Henry. Tom Ross was on the other side, and the three flitted through the bushes with a long swinging stride that still covered ground at a remarkable rate. Once they came to low, marshy soil, a swamp almost, where back water from the Ohio or the creek evidently stood in flood time, and they were forced to curve about, thus giving their pursuers a chance to come diagonally and to make a great gain upon them. As they turned due south, skirting the side of the marsh, Tom Ross was in the woods furthest away from the soft ground. A rifle shot from some point deeper in the forest was fired at him, but the bullet only whistled by his ear and passed on to be lost in the marsh. Henry saw a dusky figure spring from the darkness and hurl itself upon Tom. He and the shiftless one instantly whirled about to help their comrade, but Tom and the warrior were now rolling over and over in the struggle of life and death. Neither combatant in such a close grip could use his rifle, but each had drawn a knife, and the blades glittered as the men sought for a blow. Henry and the shiftless one looked for an opening, but they could not strike without as much danger to their comrade as to themselves, and they stood by, lost for the moment in doubt, knowing that all the time the pursuing band was coming nearer. It was a furious struggle of bodily strength and passion, exerted to the utmost, and while the time seemed very long to those who would help, but could not find the chance, it was in reality not more than a minute. Then both knives flashed. One figure suddenly relaxed and lay still, but the other sprang to its feet. It was Tom Ross who arose, and a cry of relief, low, but very deep, broke from each of the spectators. But Tom had not gone unscathed. The blade of the warrior had ripped open all the clothing on his left shoulder and had also cut deep into the flesh. Already the black blood was dripping upon the leaves. "Bound to weaken me, an' I must stop somewhar to tie it up," said Tom tersely. "You two go on." "We'll come back for you, too, Tom," said Henry, deeply moved, knowing how much it cost Silent Tom Ross to fall by the way. "I turn to the east," said Tom. "I'll be restin' somewhar in the woods." He slid away through the bushes and in an instant was gone. Henry, in order to keep the pursuit in the main channel and let the departure of Tom Ross pass unnoticed, sent back a fierce and challenging cry, the first that the fugitives had given forth that night. It was answered instantly from a point very near, the triumphant shout issuing from the throats of men who believed their victory sure and at hand. "We must reach the Ohio, Sol," said Henry, "you and I, or you or I." "Both or one," said Shif'less Sol. "Come on." His face was upturned a little and, although there was no moonlight now, Henry saw it clearly. There was nothing of listlessness or despair in the face of the shiftless one. The look of exaltation that sometimes came upon him shone from his eyes. Dauntless and true, he would remain to the last. "Thar's a gleam among the trees," he said ten minutes later, "an' it looks like water." "It must be the Ohio! It surely is the Ohio!" said Henry. "We must swim for it, Sol." The shiftless one only nodded in reply, but both as they ran tied their ammunition again around their necks, seeing at the same time that their powder horns were stopped up tightly. The trees thinned fast, open muddy ground appeared, and before them stretched a broad yellow current, the Ohio. They called up the last reserve of their strength and ran as swiftly as they could over the moist, sinking earth. But they were now visible to their pursuers, who had not yet emerged from the forest, and more bullets were fired. "Are you hit, Sol?" asked Henry, anxiously of his comrade. "No," replied the shiftless one. "Too dark fur 'em to take good aim." The river seemed to widen as they approached it. It might be narrow enough somewhere near here for cannon to command it, but it was a giant stream, nevertheless, and a swimming head upon its surface would be exposed for a long way to rifle shots. Shif'less Sol wheeled and fired at the group that was now emerging from the woods, causing it to hesitate and then stop for a few minutes, although several shots were fired in return. The shiftless one felt a sharp, stinging pain in his side as a bullet glanced off his ribs, but he did not wince. "Jump, Henry," he cried, "jump ez fur out into the river ez you kin!" The bank at the very edge of the water was about a dozen feet high, and Henry leaped as far as he could. He heard a splash behind him as Sol, too, sprang into the water of the Ohio, but the shiftless one remained in the shadow of the bank. "What is it, Sol?" cried Henry in alarm. "I've been touched a leetle by a mite o' lead. It don't amount to much, but to-night I don't believe I kin swim the Ohio. I'll drift down river under the bank an' they'll never see me." Sol was already floating away with the stream in the deepest shadow, and Henry, swimming as before with only one arm, struck out strongly for the Kentucky shore. CHAPTER XII THE ONE WHO ARRIVED Henry Ware, when his last comrade, hurt and spent, drifted away in the darkness, felt that he was alone in every sense of the word. But the feeling of failure was only momentary. He was unhurt, and the good God had not given him great strength for nothing. He still held the rifle in his left hand above his head and swam with the wide circular sweep of his right arm. The yellow waves of the Ohio surged about him and soon he heard the nasty little spit, spit of bullets upon the water near his head and shoulders. The warriors were firing at him as he swam, but the kindly dusk was still his friend, protecting him from their aim. He would have dived, swimming under water as long as his lungs would hold air. But he did not dare to wet his precious rifle and ammunition, which he might need the very moment he reached the other shore--if he reached it. He heard the warriors shooting, and then came the faint sound of splashes as a half dozen leaped into the water to pursue him. Henry changed the rifle alternately from hand to hand in order to rest himself, and continued in a slanting course across the river, drifting a little with the current. He did not greatly fear the swimmers behind him. One could not attack well in the water, and they were likely, moreover, to lose him in the darkness, which was now heavy, veiling either shore from him. Had it not been for the rifle it would have been an easy matter to evade pursuit. Swimming with one arm was a difficult thing to do, no matter how strong and skillful one might be. But the pursuing warriors, who would certainly carry weapons, suffered from the same disadvantage. He heard another faint report, seeming to come from some point miles away, and a bullet struck the water near him, dashing foam in his eyes. It was fired from the bank, but it was the last from that point. He was so far out in the river now that his head became invisible from the shore, and he was helped, also, by the wind, which caused one wave to chase another over the surface of the river. Henry was now about the middle of the stream, here perhaps half a mile in width, and he paused, except for the drifting of the current, and rested upon arm and shoulder. He looked up. The sky was still darkening, and only a faint silvery mist showed where the moon was poised. Then he looked toward either shore. Both were merely darker walls in the general darkness. He did not see any of the heads of the swimming warriors on the surface of the river, and he believed that they had lost him in the obscurity. Refreshed by his floating rest of a minute or two, he turned once more toward the Kentucky shore. It was an illusion, perhaps, but it seemed to him that he had been lying at the bottom of a watery trough, and that he was now ascending a sloping surface, broken by little, crumbling waves. He swam slowly and as quietly as possible, taking care to make no splash that might be heard, and he was beginning to believe that he was safe, when he saw a dark blot on the yellow stream. Far down was another such blot, but fainter, and far up was its like. They were Indian canoes, and the one before him contained but a single occupant. Henry surmised at once that they were sentinels sent there in advance of the main force, and that the trained eyes of the warriors in the canoes would pierce far in the darkness. It seemed that the way was shut before him, and that he would surely be taken. He felt for an instant or two a sensation of despair. If only the firm ground were beneath his feet he could fight and win! But the watching warrior before him was seated safely in a canoe and could pick him off at ease. Undoubtedly the sentinels had been warned by the shots that a fugitive was coming, and were ready. But he was not yet beaten. He called once more upon that last reserve of strength and courage, and, as he floated upon his back, holding the rifle just over him, he formed his plan. He must now be quick and strong in the water, and he could not be either if one hand was always devoted to the task of keeping the rifle dry. He must make the sacrifice, and he tied it to his back with a deerskin strap used for that purpose. Then, submerged to his mouth, he swam slowly toward the waiting canoe. It was a tremendous relief to use both hands and arms for swimming, and fresh energy and hope flowed into every vein. It was a thing terrible in its delicacy and danger that he was trying to do, but he approached it with a bold heart. He was absolutely noiseless. He made not a single splash that would attract attention, and he knew that he was not yet seen. But he could see the warrior, who was high enough above the water to stand forth from it. The man was a Wyandot, and to the swimming eyes, so close to the surface of the river, he seemed very formidable, a heavily-built man, naked to the waist, with a thick scalp lock standing up almost straight, an alert face, and the strong curved nose so often a prominent feature of the Indian. One brown, powerful hand grasped a paddle, with an occasional gentle movement of which he held the canoe stationary in the stream against the slow current. A rifle lay across his knees, and Henry knew that tomahawk and knife were at his belt. He not only seemed to be, but was a formidable foe. Henry paused and sank a little deeper in the water, over his mouth, in fact, breathing only through his nose. He saw that the warrior was wary. Some stray beams of moonlight fell upon the face and lighted up the features more distinctly. It was distinctly the face of the savage, the hunter, a hunter of men. Henry marked the hooked nose, the cruel mouth, and the questing eyes seeking a victim. He resumed his slow approach, coming nearer and yet nearer. He could not be ten yards from the canoe now, and it was strange that the Indian did not yet see him. His whole body grew cold, but whether from the waters of the river he did not know. Yet another yard, and he was still unseen. Still another yard, and then the questing eyes of the Wyandot rested on the dark object that floated on the surface of the stream. He looked a second time and knew that the head belonged to some fugitive whom his brethren pursued. Triumph, savage, unrelenting triumph filled the soul of the Wyandot. It had been his fortune to make the find, and the trophy of victory should be his. It never entered into his head that he should spare, and, putting the paddle in the boat, he raised the rifle from his knees. The Wyandot was amazed that the head, which rose only a little more than half above the water, should continue to approach him and his rifle. It came on so silently and with so little sign of propelling power that he felt a momentary thrill of superstition. Was it alive? Was it really a human head with human eyes looking into his own? Or was it some phantasy that Manitou had sent to bewilder him? He shook with cold, which was not the cold of the water, but, quieting his nerves, raised his rifle and fired. Henry had been calculating upon this effect. He believed that the nerves of the Wyandot were unsteady and, as he saw his finger press the trigger, he shot forward and downward with all the impulse that strong arms and legs could give, the bullet striking spitefully upon the water where he had been. It was a great crisis, the kind that seems to tune the faculties of some to the highest pitch, and Henry's mind was never quicker. He calculated the length of his dive and came up with his lungs still half full of air. But he came up, as he had intended, by the side of the canoe. The Wyandot, angry at the dexterity of the trick played upon him, and knowing now that it was no phantasy of Manitou, but a dangerous human being with whom he had to deal, was looking over the side of the canoe, tomahawk in hand, when the head came up on the other side. He whirled instantly at the sound of splashing water and drew back to strike. But a strong arm shot up, clutched his, another seized him by the waist, and in a flash he was dragged into the river. Henry and the warrior, struggling in the arms of each other, sank deep in the stream, but as they came up they broke loose as if by mutual consent and floated apart. Henry's head struck lightly against something, and the fierce cry of joy that comes to one who fights for his life and who finds fortune kind, burst from him. It was the canoe, still rocking violently, but not overturned. He reached out his hand and grasped it. Then, with a quick, light movement, he drew himself on board. The Wyandot was fifteen feet away, and once more their eyes met. But the positions were reversed, and the soul of the Wyandot was full of shame and anger. He dived as his foe had done, but he came up several feet away from the canoe, and he saw the terrible youth with his own rifle held by the barrel, ready to crush him with a single, deadly blow. The Wyandot perhaps was a fatalist and he resigned himself to the end. He looked up while he awaited the blow that was to send him to another world. But Henry could not strike. The Indian was wholly helpless now and, his first impulse gone, he dropped the rifle in the canoe, seized the paddle, and with a mighty sweep sent the canoe shooting toward the Kentucky shore. He had turned none too soon. Other canoes drawn by the shot were now coming from both north and south. The Wyandot turned and swam toward one of them, while Henry continued his flight. Henry was so exultant that he laughed aloud. A few minutes before he had been swimming for his life. Now he was in a canoe, and nothing but the most untoward accident could keep him from reaching the Kentucky shore. One or two shots were fired at long range from the pursuing canoes, but the bullets did not come anywhere near him, and he replied with an ironic shout. The Wyandot's bullet pouch and powder horn, torn from him in the struggle, were lying in the boat. Henry promptly seized them, and reloaded the Wyandot's rifle. Just as he finished the task his canoe struck against the shore, and, as he leaped out, he gave it a push with his foot that sent it into the current. Then carrying the Indian's rifle in addition to his own, strapped on his back, he darted into the woods. Once more Henry Ware trod the soil of Kain-tuck-ee, and for an instant or two he did not think of his wounded or exhausted companions behind. Nature had been so kind to him in giving him great physical power, which formed the basis of a sanguine character, that he always and quickly forgot hardships and dangers passed and was ready to meet a new emergency. The muddy Ohio was flowing from him in plentiful rills, but one rifle was loaded, and he had of dry ammunition enough to serve. Moreover, his trifling wound was forgotten. His mind responded to his triumph, and, laughing a little, he shook his captured rifle gleefully. He stopped three or four hundred yards from the river in a dense clump of oak and elm and listened. He could hear no sound that betokened the approach of the Indians, nor did he consider further pursuit likely. They would be too busy with their intended attack on Fort Prescott to be searching the woods in the night for a lone fugitive, who, moreover, had shown a great capacity for escaping. The night was dark and a cool wind was blowing. A less hardy body would have been chilled by the immersion in the Ohio, but Henry did not feel it. He was now studying the country, half by observation and half by instinct. It was hilly, as was natural along the course of the river, but the hills seemed to increase in height toward the north and east, that is, up the stream. It was reasonable to infer that Fort Prescott lay in that direction, as its builders would choose a high point for a site. Henry began his advance, sure that the fort was not far away. The wind rose, drying his yellow hair and blowing it about his face. His clothing, too, began to dry, but he was unconscious of it. The dusky sky served him well. There were but few stars, and the moon was only half-hearted. Nevertheless, he kept well in the thickets, although he veered back toward the Ohio, and now and then he saw its broad surface turned from yellow to silver in the faint moonlight. He saw, also, two or three dark spots near the shore, moving slowly, and he knew that they were Indian canoes. Girty and his force were almost ready for the attack on the fort. A portion of the band was already crossing to the southern shore, and it was likely that the attack would be made from several sides. Henry increased his pace and came into a little clearing partly filled with low stumps, while others that had either been partially burned or dragged out by the roots lay piled on one side. It looked like a poor little effort of man to struggle with the wilderness, and Henry smiled in the darkness. If this tiny spot were left alone, and it surely would be if Fort Prescott fell, the forest would soon claim it again. But he was glad to see it, because it was a sign that he was approaching the fort. A little further on he came to a small field of Indian corn, the fresh green blades shimmering in the moonlight and giving forth a pleasant, crooning sound as the wind blew gently upon them. Beyond, on the crest of the hill, he saw a dark line that was a palisade, and beyond that a blur that was roofs. This obviously was Fort Prescott, and Henry examined it with the eye of a general. The place was located well for defense, on the top of a bare hill, with the forest nowhere nearer than two hundred yards and the underbrush cut cleanly away in order that it might afford no ambush. Henry judged that a spring, rising somewhere inside the palisade, flowed down to the Ohio. He had no fault to find with the place except that it was advanced too far into the Indian country, but that single fault was most serious and might prove fatal. The fort seemed strong and well built and it was likely that one or two sentinels were on the watch, although he could not see from the outside. One of his hardest problems was now before him, how to enter the fort and give the warning without first being fired upon as an enemy. He had no time to waste, and he decided upon the boldest course of all. He drew all the air that he could into his lungs, and then, uttering a piercing shout, magnified both in loudness and effect by the quiet night, he rushed directly for the lowest point in the palisade. "Up! up!" he cried. "You are about to be attacked by the tribes! Up! Up! if you would save yourselves!" Before he was half way to the palisade two heads looked over it, and the muzzles of two long rifles were thrust toward him. "Don't shoot!" he cried. "I'm a friend and I bring warning! Don't you see I'm white?" It was hard in the darkness of night to see that one so brown as he was white, but the bearers of the rifles were impressed by his forcible words and withdrew their weapons. Henry ran on, and, despite the burden of his two rifles, seized the top of the parapet with his hands and in a moment was over. As he disappeared on the inside, a rifle shot was fired from some point behind, and a bullet whistled where he had been. Henry alighted upon his feet and found facing him two men in buckskin, rifle in hand and ready for instant action. His single glance showed that they were men of resolution, not awed either by his dramatic appearance or the rifle shot fired with such evident hostile intent. "Who are you?" asked one. "My name is Henry Ware," replied Henry rapidly, "and I bring you word that you are about to be attacked by a great force of the allied tribes led by the famous chiefs, Timmendiquas, Yellow Panther, and Red Eagle and the renegades, Girty, Blackstaffe, Eliot, McKee, Quarles, and Wyatt." It was a terrible message that he delivered, but his tone was full of truth, and both men paled under their tan. While Henry was speaking, lights were appearing in the log houses within the palisades, and other men, drawn by the shot, were approaching. One, tall, well built, and of middle age, was of military appearance, and Henry knew by the deference paid to him that he must be the chief man of the place. "What is it?" he asked in a voice of much anxiety. "The stranger brings news of an attack," replied one of the sentinels. "Of an attack by whom?" "By Indian warriors in great force," said Henry. "I've just escaped from them myself, and I know their plans. They are in the woods now beyond the clearing." "To the palisade, some of you," said the man sharply, "and see that you watch well. I believe that this boy is telling the truth." "I would not risk my life merely to tell you a falsehood," said Henry quietly. "You do not look like one who would tell a falsehood for any purpose," said the man. He looked at Henry with admiration, and the boy's gaze met his squarely. Nor was it lacking in appreciation. Henry knew that the leader--for such he must be--was a man of fine type. "My name is Braithwaite, Major Braithwaite," said the man, "and I believe that I am, in some sort, the commander of the fort which I now fear is planted too deep in the wilderness. I had experience with the savages in the French war and I know how cunning and bold they are." Henry learned later that he was from Delaware, that he had earned the rank of major in the great French and Indian war, and that he was brave and efficient. He had opposed the planting of the colony on the river, but, being out-voted, he had accepted the will of the majority. Major Braithwaite acted with promptness. All the men and larger boys were now coming forth from the houses, bringing their rifles, and as he assigned them to places the Indian war cry rose in the forest on three sides of the fort, and bullets pattered on the wooden palisade. CHAPTER XIII AT THE FORT The cry of the warriors in the woods was answered by a single cry from the log houses. It was that of the women and children, but it was not repeated. They had learned the frontier patience and courage and they settled themselves down to helping--the women and all the children that were large enough--and to waiting. The men at the palisade replied to the Indian volley, some shooting from the crest, while others sent their bullets through loopholes. Major Braithwaite was standing erect near Henry. After the volley and reply, followed by silence, he took one look about to see that the palisade was well-manned. Then it seemed to Henry that his figure stiffened and grew taller. His nostrils distended and a spark appeared in his eyes. The old soldier smelt the fire and smoke of battle once more, and the odor was not wholly ungrateful to him. "Young sir," he said, turning to Henry, "we owe you a great debt. You got here just in time to save us from surprise." "I'm glad," replied Henry, "that one of us was lucky enough to get through." "One of you? What did you mean? Did others start?" Henry flushed. He had not meant to say anything about the circumstances of his coming. It was a slip, but he could not take it back. "There were five of us when we started," he said. "We were sure that at least one of us would get here." "Good God! You do not mean to tell me that the others have all been killed?" "No," replied Henry confidently. "They were wounded or broke down. I'll find 'em or they'll find me. We've been ahead of a fleet that is carrying arms, ammunition, and other things for our people in the east. That fleet ought to reach here in a few days." The Major's face showed a little relief. "Pray God it will come in time," he said earnestly. "We need it here, and so do our brethren in the east. What do you think is likely to happen here? My experience with the Indians on the Canada frontier tells me that I can never know what to expect of them. But you've probably had more experience in that way." The boy, before answering, looked up at the sky. It had grown darker. It was a very timid moon, and nearly every star had withdrawn. "They'll try to rush us soon," he replied. "The night helps them. How many men have you got?" "About eighty, but counting the half-grown boys and several women who can shoot we are able to put a hundred rifles into the defense." "Then we can hold 'em back for a long time," said Henry. "Tell the men to watch well at the palisade, and I'll take a look around." He glided naturally into his position of wilderness leader, and Major Braithwaite, a cultivated man with a commission, a man who was old enough to be his father, yielded to him without pique or the thought of it. The wild youth of great stature and confident bearing inspired him with a deep sense of relief at such a crisis. Henry went swiftly among the log houses, which were arranged in rows much after the fashion of Wareville, with a central blockhouse, from the upper story of which riflemen could fire upon enemies who sought to rush across the clearing against the palisade. In a little hollow just beyond the group of houses a cool, clear spring bubbled up, trickled away, passed under the palisade, and flowed into the Ohio. It was an invaluable spring inside the walls and Henry thought its presence, together with the beauty and healthfulness of the site, had determined the location of Fort Prescott. On the side of the river, the bank dropped down rather steeply to the Ohio, which was not more than a hundred yards away, and which was contracted here to less than half its usual width. Cannon planted on this height could easily sweep the river from shore to shore, and Henry drew a sudden sharp breath. He believed that he had half defined the plan of Timmendiquas, Girty, and their confederates--to seize Fort Prescott, command the river, and shut off the fleet. But how? He could not yet see where they would obtain the means. The river was dusky, but Henry's eyes, used to the darkness, could search its surface. He saw a number of moving black dots, three near the center of the stream and others at the farther shore. He could not discern the outlines because of the distance, but he was sure that they were Indian canoes, always watching. He went back to Major Braithwaite and he was conscious, on the way, that many eyes were gazing at him with curiosity from the open doors of the log houses. It was quickly known to all that a stranger, a most unusual stranger, had come with a warning so quickly justified, and when they saw him they found that the report was true. But Henry took no apparent notice. He found Major Braithwaite standing near the southern side of the palisade. "Well, what do you think of us?" asked the Major, smiling rather wanly. "It's a good fort," replied Henry, "and that spring will be a great thing for you. We came near being taken once in our own fort of Wareville because the wells failed and we had no spring. Have you put any men in the top of the blockhouse?" "Eight of our best riflemen are there." "Tell them never to stop watching for a second and tell the men at the palisades to do the same. In their fights with us the warriors always rely on their belief that they have more patience than we have, and usually they have." The Major breathed hard. "I would that this thing were well over," he said. "I have a wife and two little children in one of those houses. Speaking for myself and all the rest of us, too, I cannot thank you too much, young sir, for coming to the fort with this warning." "It is what we always owe to one another in the woods," said Henry. "I think it likely that they will attack about three or four o'clock in the morning. If I were you, sir, I'd have coffee served to the riflemen, that is, if you have coffee." "We have it," said the Major, and soon the women were preparing the coffee. Everybody drank, and then the riflemen resumed their watch upon the forest. Some were men of experience and some were not. Those who were not believed, as the weary hours passed, that it was a false alarm and wished to go to sleep, leaving perhaps a half dozen sentinels to keep guard. But Major Braithwaite would not allow it. Not an expert in the forest himself, he believed that he knew an expert when he saw one, and he already had implicit faith in Henry Ware. The two were together most of the time, passing continually around the enclosure. Henry looked up at the sky, where no ray of moonlight now appeared, and where rolling clouds increased in the darkness. The forest was merely a black shadow, and the clearing between it and the palisade lay in heavy gloom. The wise forethought of Major Braithwaite had caused a narrow platform, or rather ledge, to be run around the inside of the palisade at such a height that a man could stand upon it and fire over the top of the stakes. Henry and the Major stepped upon the ledge and looked at the clearing. The Major saw nothing--merely the black background of earth, forest and sky. Nor did Henry see anything, but he believed that he heard something, a faint, sliding sound, perhaps like that of a great serpent when it trails its long length over the grass and leaves. It was such a noise as this that he was expecting, and he sought with attentive ear and eye to locate it. Ear guided eye, and he became sure that the sound came from a point fifteen or twenty yards in front of them, but approaching. Then eye discerned a darker blot against the dark face of the earth, and presently turned this blot into the shape of a creeping warrior. There were other creeping forms to right and left, but Henry, raising his rifle, fired at the first that he had seen. All the warriors, dozens of them, sprang to their feet, uttering their cry, and rushed upon the wall, firing their rifles as they came. The defenders replied from the top of the palisade through the loopholes and from the upper story of the blockhouse. The Indians kept up their war cries, terrifying in their nature and intended for that purpose, while the white men shouted encouragement to one another. The sharp, crackling fire of the rifles was incessant, and mingled with it was the sighing sound of bullets as they struck deep into the wood of the palisade. It was a confused struggle, all the more grim because of the darkness. Many of the Indians reached the palisade. Some were shot down as they attempted to climb over. Others knelt under the wall and fired through the very loopholes. One warrior leaped over the palisade, escaping all the bullets aimed at him, and, tomahawk in hand, ran toward a woman who stood by one of the houses with the intention of striking her down. He was wild with the rage of battle, but a lucky shot from the window of the blockhouse slew him. He fell almost at the feet of the horrified woman, and it was seen the next morning that he belonged to the fearless Wyandot nation. Henry stood for a time on the ledge, firing whenever he saw a chance, wasting no bullets, but after a while he sprang down and ran along the line, believing that he could be of more service by watching as well as fighting. He knew that the brunt of the Indian attack would be likely to veer at any moment, and presently it shifted to the eastern side. Luckily he was there, and at his call the Major came with more men. The warriors were repelled at this point, also. At the end of a half hour the attack sank, and then ceased on all sides. The defenders were victorious for the time, and there was great rejoicing among those who did not know all the ways of the forest. "It is merely a withdrawal for another and better opportunity, is it not?" said Major Braithwaite to Henry. "Of course," replied the boy. "They do not give up as easy as that. It was so dark that I don't think much damage was done to either side. Besides, a lot of them are there yet, hiding against the palisade, and if they get a chance they will pick off some of your men." As Henry spoke, a bullet whizzed through a loophole, and a defender was struck in the shoulder. The others quickly moved out of range. Major Braithwaite was very grave. "Those savages are a great danger," he said. "How are we to get at them." "If we lean over the wall to shoot down at 'em," said Henry, "they can shoot up at us, and they can see us better. It's a big question. Ah, I know what to do. Those stakes are green wood, are they not?" "Yes. Why?" "They won't burn unless the fire is nursed?" "I shouldn't think so." "Then we'll have our red friends out without much danger to ourselves." Henry quickly told his plan, and the Major was all approval. Pots and kettles were filled with coals from the smouldering fires in the houses--in every Kentucky pioneer cabin the fire was kept over night in this manner ready for fresh wood in the morning--and then they were carried to the wooden barrier, the bearers taking care to keep out of range of the loopholes. A line of men stood along the ledge, and at a whispered word from Henry twenty heaps of red hot coals were dropped over the palisade, falling down at its foot. A series of howls, wild with pain, arose, and a dozen figures, leaping up, darted toward the forest. Two were shot by the riflemen in the blockhouse, but the rest made good the wood. More coals and boiling water, also, were emptied along the whole line of the stockade, but only three more warriors were roused up, and these escaped in the darkness. All were gone now. Henry laughed quietly, and Major Braithwaite joined in the laugh. "It was a good plan," he said, "and it worked well. Now, I think, young sir, you ought to get a little sleep. I don't think they can surprise us, and it will not be long before day." Henry lay down on a bed of furs in one of the houses, with the first rifle that he had taken by his side--the other he had already given to the defenders--and soon he slept soundly. He was troubled somewhat by dreams, however; in these dreams he saw the faces of his four lost comrades. He awoke once while it was yet dark, and his mind was heavy. "I must go back for them at the very first chance," he said to himself, and then he was asleep again. He awoke of his own accord two hours after sunrise, and after he had eaten a breakfast that one of the women brought him, he went forth. A splendid sun was ascending the heavens, lending to the green wilderness a faint but fine touch of gold. The forest, save for the space about the fort and a tiny cutting here and there, was an enclosing wall of limitless depth. It seemed very peaceful now. There was no sign of a foe in its depths, and Henry could hear distantly the song of birds. But the boy, although sure that the warriors were yet in the forest, looked with the most interest and attention toward the river. The morning sunshine turned its yellow to pure gold, and the far hills rising abruptly were a green border for the gold. But Henry was not seeking either beauty or grandeur. He was looking for the black dots that he had seen the night before. They were not on the surface of the river, but he believed that he could detect them against the bank, hidden partly in the foliage. Yet he was not sure. "Good morning, my young friend, I trust that you slept well and are refreshed," said a cheery voice behind him. It was Major Braithwaite, dressed now in the buff and blue of a colonial officer, who saluted him, his fine, tall figure upright and military, and his face expressing confidence. He noticed Henry's eyes on his buff and blue and he said: "I brought with me the new uniform of our army and I put it on. It is the first time that I have ever worn in battle the uniform of what I trust will prove to be a new nation. I serve in the deep wilderness, but still I serve." Henry might have smiled at such precision of speech and a certain formality of manner, but he knew it to be the result of a military training, and it did not decrease his liking for the Major. "I've slept well and I'm rested," he replied. "What damage did they do to us last night?" "Two of our men were slain--brave fellows--and we have already buried them. Five more were wounded, but none severely. Do you think, Mr. Ware, that having had a taste of our mettle, they have withdrawn?" "No," replied Henry emphatically. "They wouldn't think of leaving. They, too, must have suffered little loss. You see, sir, the darkness protected both sides, and they are in the woods there now, trying to think of the easiest way to take Fort Prescott." But Henry, as he spoke, turned his eyes from the woods toward the river, and Major Braithwaite, impressed even more in the daylight than in the night by his manner and appearance, noticed it. The Major, although not a skilled forest fighter, despite his experience in the great French and Indian war, was a shrewd observer and judge of mankind. "Why do you look so often and with so much anxiety toward the Ohio?" he asked. "What do you expect there?" "I believe it's our greatest source of danger." "In what way?" "I don't know, I may be mistaken," replied Henry, not wishing to cause an alarm that might prove groundless. "We must pay attention to the forest just now. Something is moving there." He was looking again toward the green wall, upon which a white spot suddenly appeared. "It's a white cloth of some kind," said Major Braithwaite. "That means a flag of truce. Now what in the name of Neptune can they want?" "We'll soon see," said Henry, as he and the Major advanced to the palisade and stepped upon the ledge. Many others did the same, and not a few among them were women and children. The Major did not send them away, as a bullet from the forest could not reach them there. A man came from among the trees, waving a white rag on a stick, but stopped out of rifle shot. The man was tanned almost as brown as an Indian, and he was dressed in Indian style, but his features were undoubtedly Caucasian. "Do you know who he is?" asked the Major. "Yes," replied Henry, "it is the worst scoundrel in all the west, the leader of the men who fight against their own people, the king of the renegades, Simon Girty." "Girty coming to us under a white flag!" exclaimed the Major. "What can he want?" "We'll soon see," said Henry. "Look, there are the chiefs." A dozen stately figures issued from the green gloom and stood beside Girty, silent and impressive, their hands folded upon the muzzles of their rifles, which rested upon the ground, their figures upright, figure and face alike motionless, an eagle feather waving defiantly in every scalp lock. There was something grand and formidable in their appearance, and all those who looked from the palisade felt it. "Do you know any of them?" asked Major Braithwaite. "Yes," replied Henry. "I see Yellow Panther, head chief of the Miamis; Red Eagle, head chief of the Shawnees, and Captain Pipe and Captain White Eyes, Delaware chiefs, but I do not see Timmendiquas, the White Lightning of the Wyandots, the bravest and greatest of them all. There are two more renegades behind the chiefs. They are Blackstaffe and Braxton Wyatt." "Girty is coming forward. He is going to speak," said the Major. The renegade advanced another dozen feet, still holding the white flag above him, and hailed them in a loud voice. "Ho, you within the fort!" he cried. "I wish to speak with your leader, if you have one." Major Braithwaite stepped upon the highest point of the ledge. He showed above the palisade from the waist up, and the morning sunshine touched his cocked hat and buff and blue with an added glory. It was a strange figure in the forest, but the face under the cocked hat was brave and true. "I am the commander here," said Major Braithwaite in a clear and penetrating voice. "What does Simon Girty want with us?" "I see you know me," said the renegade laughing. "Then you ought to know, too, that it's worth while to listen to what I have to say." Henry stood on a lower part of the ledge. Only his head appeared above the palisade, and Girty and Wyatt had not yet noticed him. But Major Braithwaite, almost unconsciously, looked down to him for advice. "Draw him out as much as you can," said Henry. "I am listening," said the Major. "Proceed." "I want to tell you," called Girty, "that this place is surrounded by hundreds of warriors. We've got the biggest force that was ever gathered in the west, and it ain't possible for you to escape us." A groan came from the palisade. It was some of the women who uttered it. But the Major waved his hand in reproof, and no one cried out again. "You have yet to prove what you say," he replied. "We beat you off last night." "That was only a little skirmish," said Girty. "We were just feeling of you. See, here are a dozen great chiefs beside me, Shawnee, Miami, Delaware, and others, which shows that we can send against you a thousand warriors, two thousand, if we wish. But we mean to be merciful. I'm a white man and the chiefs will listen to me. But if you don't do as I say, nothing will be left of this place two days from now but ashes and coals. All the men will be dead, and the women and children will be carried away, the women to be squaws of our warriors, the children to grow up as Indians, and never to know that they were white." Faces along the barrier blanched. Major Braithwaite himself shuddered, but he replied in a strong voice: "And what is the alternative that you offer us?" "We admit that we would lose lives in taking your fort, lives that we wish to save. So we promise you that if you surrender, your women and young children shall go safely up the Ohio on boats to Pittsburgh, the men to be held for ransom." "Don't think of accepting, Major!" exclaimed Henry. "Don't think of it, even if they had ten thousand warriors! If you put your people in his power, Girty would never dream of keeping his promise, and I doubt if the chiefs understand what he is saying while he is speaking English!" "Never fear that I shall do such a thing, my boy," said Major Braithwaite. "Meekly surrender a place like this to a scoundrel like Girty!" Then he called out loudly: "It may be that you can take us in two days as you say, but that you will have to prove, and we are waiting for you to prove it." "You mean, then," said Girty, "that we're to have your scalps?" "Major," said Henry earnestly, "let me speak to them. I've lived among the Indians, as I told you before, and I know their ways and customs. What I say may do us a little good!" "I believe in you, my boy," said Major Braithwaite with confidence. "Speak as you please, and as long as you please." He stepped from the high point of the ledge, and Henry promptly took his place. Braxton Wyatt uttered a cry of surprise and anger as the figure of the great youth rose above the palisade, and it was repeated by Simon Girty. The two knew instinctively who had put Fort Prescott on guard, and their hearts were filled with black rage. "Simon Girty," called Henry in the language of the Shawnees, which he spoke well, "do you know me?" He had deliberately chosen the Shawnee tongue because he was sure that all the chiefs understood it, and he wished them to hear what he would have to say. "Yes, I know you," said Girty angrily, "and I know why you are here." Henry suddenly put on the manner of an Indian orator. He had learned well from them when he was a captive in the Northwestern tribe, and for the moment the half-taunting, half-boastful spirit which he wished to show really entered into his being. "Simon Girty," he called loudly, "I came here to save these people and to defeat you, and I have succeeded. You cannot take this fort and you cannot frighten its men to surrender it. Renegade, murderer of your kind, wretch, liar, I know and these people know that if they were to surrender you would not keep your word if you could. How can any one believe a traitor? How can your Indian allies believe that the man who murders his own people would not murder them when the time came?" Girty's face flamed with furious red, but Henry went on rapidly: "If Manitou told me that I should fall in fair fight with a Wyandot or a Shawnee or a Miami I should not feel disgraced, but if I were to be killed by the dirty hand of you, Girty, or the equally dirty hand of Braxton Wyatt, who stands behind you, I should feel myself dishonored as long as the world lasts." Girty, choking with rage, drew his tomahawk from his belt and shook it at Henry, who was more than a hundred yards away. The chiefs remained motionless, silent and majestic as before. "And you great chiefs," continued Henry, "listen to me. You will fail here as you have failed before. Help, great help, is coming for these people. I brought them the warning. I aroused them from sleep, and I know that many men are coming. Pay heed to me, Yellow Panther, head chief of the Miamis, and Red Eagle, head chief of the Shawnees, that you may know who I am, and that my words are worth hearing. I am that bearer of belts, Big Fox, who came with Brown Bear and The Bat into the council lodge of the Miamis and sent the warriors of the Shawnees and the Miamis astray. I was white and my comrades were white, but you did not know me, cunning as you are." Now Yellow Panther and Red Eagle stirred. These were true things that he told, and curiosity and anger stirred in them. "Who is this that taunts us?" they asked of Girty. "It's a young fiend," replied the renegade. "Wyatt has told me all about him. Boy as he is, he's worth a whole band of warriors to the people behind those walls." "There is more that you should remember, Red Eagle and Yellow Panther," continued Henry, wishing to impress them. "It was I and my comrades who carried the message to the wagon train that you fought at the ford, where you were beaten, where you lost many warriors. I see that you remember. Tell your warriors that Manitou favors my friends and me, that we have never yet failed. We were present when the Indians of the south and many renegades like Girty and Wyatt here, men with black hearts who told lies to their red friends, were beaten in a great battle. As they failed in the south, so will you fail here. A mighty fleet is coming, and it will scatter you as the winter wind scatters the dead leaves." Henry paused. He had calculated his effects carefully. He wished to create feeling between red man and renegade, and he wished to plant in the red mind the belief that he was really protected by Manitou. The tribes, at least, might hesitate and delay, and meanwhile the fleet was coming. "I'll see that you're burned at the stake when we take this place," shouted Girty, "and I'll see that it's the slowest fire a man ever died over." "I've said what I had to say," called back the youth. He stepped down from the wall. The renegades and the chiefs retired to the woods. "What were you saying to them?" asked Major Braithwaite. "I was telling them of their former failures," replied Henry. "I was trying to discourage them and to make them hate the renegades." CHAPTER XIV SIX FIGURES IN THE DUSK The hours moved slowly, and Henry began to believe that his grandiloquent speech--purposely so--had met with some success. No attack was made, and delay was what he wanted. The woods seemed to remain the home of peace and quiet. Major Braithwaite had a pair of strong military glasses, and, as an additional precaution, he and Henry searched the woods with them from the upper windows of the blockhouse. Still there was no evidence of Indian attack, and Henry turned the glasses upon the river. He could now make out definitely the canoes, half hidden under the foliage on the far bank, but no stir was there. All things seemed to be waiting. Henry turned the glasses down the river. He had a long view, but he saw only the Ohio and its yellow ripples. He lowered the glasses with an impatient little movement and handed them back to their owner. "Why are you disappointed?" asked Major Braithwaite. "I was hoping that the fleet might be coming, which would be a vast help to you here, but I see no sign of its approach. Of course it's slow work for rowers and oarsmen to come week after week against a strong current, and they have been delayed, too, by storms." The news, confined hitherto to a few, spread through the fort, that a fleet might come soon to their help, and there was a wonderful revival of spirits. People were continually climbing to the cupola of the blockhouse, and the Major's glasses were in unbroken use. Always they were pointed down the stream, and women's eyes as well as men's looked anxiously for a boat, a boat bearing white men, the vanguard of the force that would come to save them. The sight of these women so eagerly studying the Ohio moved Henry. He knew, perhaps better than they, that they had the most to fear, and he resolved never to desert them. In this interval of quiet Henry went down to the little spring which was just east of the last row of houses, but a full twenty yards from the palisade. The ground sank away abruptly there, leaving a little bluff of stone three or four feet high. The stream, two inches deep and six inches broad, beautifully clear and almost as cold as ice, flowed from an opening at the base of the bluff. A round pool, five or six feet across and two feet deep, had been cut in the stone at the outlet of the spring, and a gourd lay beside it for the use of all who wished to drink. Henry drank from the pool and sat down beside it with his back against a rock. He watched the water, as it overflowed the pool, trickle away toward the river, and then, closing his eyes, he thought of his comrades, the faithful four. Where were they now? He felt a powerful temptation, now that he had warned Fort Prescott, to slip away in the darkness of the night that was to come and seek them. Three of them were wounded and Paul, who alone was unhurt, did not have the skill of the others in the forest. But powerful as the temptation was, it was a temptation only and he put it away. They must wait, as he himself would have been glad to wait, had it been Shif'less Sol or any other who had arrived instead of himself. He kept his eyes shut a long while. It seemed to him at this time that he could think more strongly and clearly with all external objects shut out. He saw now without any flattery to self that his presence in the fort was invaluable. Major Braithwaite did not understand forest strategy, but nature and circumstance combined had compelled the boy to learn them. He knew, too, of the fleet of Adam Colfax and its elements, and the plans of the allied tribes and their elements. He seemed to hold the very threads of fate in his hands, whether for good or ill. Henry Ware opened his eyes, and chance directed that he should open them when his gaze would rest up the stream. There was a black beam in the very center of the circle of vision, and he stared at it. It was moving, and he rose to his feet. He knew that the object was a boat, but it was much larger than an Indian canoe, much larger even than the great war canoes that they sometimes built, capable of carrying thirty or forty men. It was not long, slim, and graceful, but broad of beam, and came slowly and heavily like one of the large square flatboats in which the pioneers sometimes came down the Ohio. Henry believed this boat an object to be dreaded, and he walked swiftly toward the blockhouse, where Major Braithwaite was standing. The Major noticed his manner and asked: "Is it anything alarming?" "I am afraid so. It's the big boat that you see out there in the river. Suppose we go to the top of the blockhouse and look at it through your glasses." The Major went without a word. He was unconsciously relying more and more upon the boy whom he variously addressed as "Young sir" and "My young friend." Nor did he take the first look. He handed the glasses to Henry, who made a long examination of the boat and then, sighing, passed them back to the Major. Major Braithwaite's survey was not so long and he looked puzzled when he took the glasses down. "Now, what in the name of Neptune do you make of it, young sir?" he asked. "It's a flatboat that once belonged to an emigrant party," said Henry. "Such boats, built for long voyages and much freight, are of heavy timbers and this is no exception. They have mounted upon it two cannon, twelve pounds at least. I can see their muzzles and the places that have been cut away in the boat's side to admit them." Major Braithwaite's face whitened. "Cannon here in the wilderness!" he exclaimed. "One of our stations in Kentucky has been attacked with cannon." "Where do they get them?" "They are brought all the way from Canada and they are worked by the renegades and white men from Canada." "This is a great danger to us." "It is certainly a very great danger, Major." Henry took another look through the glasses. The boat, driven by great sweeps, came on in a diagonal course across the river, bearing down upon the fort. Nobody on board it could yet be seen, so well protected were they by the high sides. It was near enough now to be observed by everybody in the fort, and many curious eyes were turned upon it, although the people did not yet know, as Henry and the Major did, the deadly nature of its burden. The two descended from the blockhouse. The boat was now much nearer, still coming on, black and silent, but behind it at some distance, hovered a swarm of canoes filled with warriors. The big boat stopped and swayed a little in the current. There was a flash of flame from her side, a puff of smoke, and a crash that traveled far up and down the river. A cannon ball struck inside the palisade, but buried itself harmlessly in the ground, merely sending up a shower of dirt. There was a second flash, a second puff and crash, and another cannon ball struck near its predecessor, like the first doing no harm. But consternation spread inside the fort. They could reply to rifles with rifles, but how were they to defend themselves from cannon which from a safe range could batter them to pieces? While the terrible problem was yet fresh in their minds, the attack on land was resumed. Hundreds of the warriors issued from the woods and began to fire upon the palisade, while the cannon shot were sent at intervals from the floating fortress. Major Braithwaite retained his courage and presence of mind. All the women and children were told to remain within the heavy log houses, which were thick enough to turn cannon balls, and the best shots of the garrison manned the palisade, replying to the Indian fire. Henry did not yet take much part in the combat. He believed that the attack upon the palisade was largely in the nature of a feint, intended to keep the defenders busy while the cannon did the real work. Not even Wyandots would storm in broad daylight walls held by good riflemen. He soon knew that he was right, as the rifle fire remained at long range with little damage to either side, while the flatboat was steadily drawing nearer, and the cannon were beginning to do damage. One man was killed and another wounded. Several houses were struck, and here and there stakes in the palisade were knocked away. Major Braithwaite, despite his courage, showed alarm. "How can we fight those cannons?" he said. "Who is the best marksman you have?" asked Henry. "Seth Cole?" replied the Major promptly. "Will you call Seth Cole?" Seth Cole came promptly. He was a tall, thin man, cool of eye and slow of speech. "Are you ready to go with me anywhere, Mr. Cole?" asked Henry. "I'm thinkin' that what another feller kin stand I kin, too," replied Seth. "Then you're ready," said Henry, and he quickly told his plan. Major Braithwaite was astonished. "How in the name of Neptune do you ever expect to get back again, my young friend?" he exclaimed. "We'll get back," replied the boy confidently. "Let us slip out as quietly as we can, Major, but if you see any movement of the Indians to gain that side you might open a covering fire." "I'll do it," said the Major, "and God bless you both." He wrung their hands and they slipped away. The palisade fronting the river ran along the very edge of the cliff, which rose at a sharp angle and was covered with bushes clustering thickly. It was impossible for a formidable Indian force to approach from that side, climbing up the steep cliff, and but little attention was paid to it. Henry and Seth Cole waited until one of the cannon was fired, hiding the flatboat in its smoke, and then they leaped lightly over the palisade, landing among the bushes, where they lay hidden. "You're sure that no one saw us?" said Henry. "I'm thinkin' that I'm shore," replied Seth. "Then we'll go on down the cliff." Nimble and light-footed, they began the descent, clinging to rocks and bushes and sedulously keeping under cover. Luckily the bushes remained thick, and three-fourths of the way to the bottom they stopped, Henry resting in the hollow of a rock and Seth lying easily in a clump of bushes. They were now much nearer the flatboat, and while hidden themselves they could see easily. Henry had uncommonly keen sight, and the eyes of the sharpshooter Seth Cole were but little inferior to his. He now saw clearly the muzzles of the two cannon, elevated that they might pitch their balls into the fort, and he marked those who served them, renegades and men from Canada, gunners, spongers, and rammers. He could even discern the expression upon their faces, a mingling of eagerness and savage elation. Behind the flatboat, at a distance of fifty or sixty yards, still hovered the swarm of canoes filled with Wyandots, Shawnees, Miamis, Illinois, Ottawas, and Delawares, raising a fierce yell of joy every time a shot struck within the palisade. "Do you think you can reach them with a bullet, Seth Cole?" asked Henry Ware. "I'm thinkin' I kin." "I'm sure _I_ can. See them reloading the cannon. You take the fellow with the sponge and I'll attend to the gunner himself." "I'm thinkin' I'll do it," said Seth Cole. "Jest you give the word when to pull the trigger." The two remained silent, each settling himself a little firmer in his position in the thick shrubbery. The sponger ran his sponge into the muzzle of the cannon, cleaned out the barrel, and an Indian next to him, evidently trained for the purpose, handed him a fresh charge. The gunner took aim, but he did not fire. A bullet struck him in the heart, and he fell beside the gun. The sponger, hit in the head, fell beside him. Both died quietly. The Indian, staring for a few moments, snatched up the sponge, but Henry had reloaded swiftly, and a third shot struck him down. There was consternation on the flatboat. The light wisps of white smoke made by the rifles of the sharpshooters were lost in the dusky cloud raised by the cannon fire, and they did not know whence these deadly bullets came. The second cannon was ready a couple of minutes later, but, like the first, its load was not discharged at the fort. The gunner was struck down at his gun and the rammer, hit in the shoulder, fell into the stream. Two Indians standing near were wounded, and panic seized the warriors at the sweep. The Ohio had seldom witnessed such sharpshooting, and Manitou was certainly turning his face away from them. They began to use the sweeps frantically, and the boat with its cannon sheered away to escape the deadly bullets. Henry and Seth were reloading with quickness and dispatch. "These are good rifles of ours that carry far, and they're still within range," said Henry. "I'm thinkin' that we kin reach 'em," said Seth. "I'll take the warrior near the head of the boat." "I'll take the one a leetle further down." "Ready, Seth?" "I'm thinkin' I am." The two pulled trigger at the same time, and both warriors fell. The boat, rocking heavily under the efforts of many hands at the sweeps, was driven furiously out of range, and Henry and Seth laughed low, but with pleased content. This was war, and they were fighting for the lives of women and children. "I'm thinkin' that we've put 'em to guessin' for a while," said Seth. "We surely have," said Henry, "and as those cannon won't come into action again for some time we'd better get back into the fort." "Yes, we had," said Seth, "but I'm thinkin' I'm mighty glad you brought me along. Don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much. Curious, though, they didn't spot us there." "Too much of their own cannon smoke floating about. Anyway, we've beat cannon balls with rifle bullets--that is, for the present. See, all the canoes, too, are going back to the other side of the river." "Yes, an' the firin' on the fur side o' the fort's dyin' down. They must have seen what's happened, and are changin' tactics." The ascent of the cliff was more difficult, but they managed to make it, still keeping under cover, and scaled the palisade. Major Braithwaite greeted them with joy and gratitude. "I was afraid that neither of you would ever come back," he said, "but here you are and you've driven off the cannon with rifles. It was great work, in the name of Neptune, it was!" "No work at all," said Seth Cole, "jest play. Enjoyed myself tremenjeously." The attack from the woods now ceased, as Henry reckoned it would when the cannon were driven off. He believed that there was concerted action on land and water, and that Timmendiquas had arrived. All the movements of the besieging force showed the mind of a general. When the last shot was fired the Major and Henry made a tour about the fort. Three more lives had been lost and there were wounds, some serious, but they were upborne by a second success and the courage of the garrison grew. Several of the houses had been struck by cannon balls, but they were not damaged, and three or four small boys were already playing with a ball that they had dug from the earth. "I wish we had cannon with which to reply to them," said Major Braithwaite. "Every fort in this wilderness should have at least one. You have driven away the boat with its guns, but it will come back, and when it returns it will be on guard against your sharpshooting." "It will certainly come back if it has a chance," said Henry. There was significance in his tone, and the Major looked at him. "If it has a chance? What do you mean by those words?" he asked. "We've got to put that boat out of action." "Sink it?" "No, if we sank it they might raise it again and have the cannon ready for action again in a few hours. We've got to burn the boat and then the cannon will be warped and twisted so they can't fix it short of a foundry." "But we can't get at the boat." "It must be done or this fort will surely be taken to-morrow. You know what that means." Major Braithwaite groaned. He had a vision of his own wife and children, but he thought of the others, too. "How?" he asked. Henry talked to him earnestly, but the Major shook his head. "Too dangerous!" he said. "You would all be lost. I cannot sanction such an enterprise. The fort cannot spare good men, nor could I let you go in this way to your death." Henry talked more earnestly. He urged the necessity, the cruel necessity, of such an attempt, and the Major yielded at last, although with great reluctance. "You want volunteers, I suppose?" he said. "Yes. I know that Seth Cole will go, and I'm sure that others, too, will be willing to do so." The remainder of the day passed without any demonstration from the besiegers, and Henry noticed with pleasure that the coming night promised to be dark. Already he had selected his assistants, Seth Cole and four others, all powerful swimmers, but the enterprise was kept a secret among the six and Major Braithwaite. He ate a hearty supper, lay down and slept a while. When he awoke, he found that the promise of the night was fulfilled. It was quite dark, with clouds and light flurries of rain. There was no moon. It was past midnight, and the Indian encampment, both on land and water, showed no sign of movement. The woods were without camp fires, but at the far bank of the river several lights could be seen. The river itself was in shadow. Most of the people at the fort, exhausted by their long labors and watches, were asleep, but Henry and his five comrades gathered near the spring, carrying with them three little iron pots, carefully covered with tin tops. "It's a pity we haven't two or three hand grenades," said Major Braithwaite. "These are rather cumbrous things." "I've heard Paul say that they used pots like these in ancient times," said Henry, "and I guess that if they did so, we can, too. What do you say, Seth?" "I'm thinkin' that we kin," said Seth confidently. "Leastways, I'm thinkin' that we're ready to try." "That is surely the right spirit," said Major Braithwaite, with a little tremor in his voice. "You lads are about to embark upon a desperate undertaking. I would not say that the chances are against you, if you did not know it already, but there is nothing truer than the fact that fortune favors those who dare much. I pray that all of you may come back." He shook hands with them all, and stood by the palisade as, one by one, they climbed over it and dropped into the dark. Henry and his five comrades on the outside of the palisade remained for a little space crouched against the wooden wall. All six searched the thickets on the slope with eye and ear, but they could neither see nor hear anything that betokened the presence of an enemy. It was not likely that Indian scouts would be lying in such a place, practically hanging to the side of the cliff between the palisade and the river, but Henry was not willing to neglect any precaution. The slightest mischance would ruin all. He gave silent but devout thanks that this night of all nights should prove to be so dark. It was a singular file that made its way down the cliff through the thick brush, six dusky figures carrying rifles, and three of them, in addition, gingerly bearing small iron pots. When nearly to the bottom of the cliff their singularity increased. They stopped in a little alcove of the rocks, hid their rifles and ammunition among the bushes, took off every particle of clothing, all of which they hid, also, except their belts. They buckled the belts tightly around their bare waists, but every belt carried in it a tomahawk and hunting knife. They still bore the three little iron pots which they handled so gingerly. Six white figures slipped through the remaining bushes, six white figures reached the edge of the river, and then all six slid silently into the water, which received them and enveloped them to the chin. Henry, Seth Cole, and a man named Tom Wilmore bore the three iron pots above their heads, swimming with a single hand. CHAPTER XV THE DEED IN THE DARK Henry was the leading swimmer, but he paused ten yards from the shore and the others paused with him. Six black dots hung in a row on the dark surface of the river. But so well did they blend with the shadow of the stream that an Indian eye on the bank, no matter how sharp, might have passed them over. "The thing to do," said Henry, "is to make no noise. We must swim without splashing and we've got to find that flatboat with the cannon on it. You understand?" Not a word was said in reply, but five heads nodded, and the silent six resumed their swim across the Ohio. They had entered the stream as far up as possible in order that they might go diagonally toward the south, thus taking advantage of the current. Henry turned over on his back, floating easily with the help of one hand and holding the little pot above his face. Once he opened it a little to feel that it was still warm from within, and, satisfied that it was so, he floated silently on. His position made it easiest for him to look upward, but not much was to be seen there. The promise of the night still held good in performance. Rolling clouds hid the moon and stars, and again Henry gave thanks for so favorable a night. His comrades swam so silently that he turned a little on his side to see that they were there. Five black dots on the water followed him in a close row, and, proud of their skill, he turned back again and still floated with his face to the skies. They soon passed the middle of the river, and now the extremely delicate part of their task was come. The lights on the northern bank had increased to a half dozen and were much larger. They seemed to be camp fires. Dim outlines of canoes appeared against the bank. Henry paused, and the five black heads behind him paused with him. He raised his head a little from the water and studied the shore. A shape, bigger and darker than the others, told him where the flatboat lay. Owing to its greater draught, it was anchored in deeper water than the canoes, which was a fortunate thing for the daring adventurers. Henry saw the muzzles of the cannon, and a dark figure by each, evidently the warriors on guard. He could see them, but they could not see him and his comrades, whose heads were blurred with the darkness of the river. He turned on his side and whispered to Seth, who was next to him: "I think we'd better swim above the flatboat, keeping at a good distance, and then drop down between it and the bank. They will not be expecting an enemy from that side. What do you think of it, Seth?" Seth Cole nodded, and they swam silently up stream. If any one splashed the water it passed for the splash of a leaping fish, and there was no alarm in the Indian camp. Henry, studying the shore minutely as he swam with slow stroke, could not see motion anywhere. The fires burned low, and now that they were dropping down near the shore he saw the dim outlines of figures beside them. Some of the warriors slept in a sitting posture with their heads upon their knees, which were clasped in their arms, while others lay in their blankets. The canoes, in which Indians also slept, were tied to saplings on the bank. They swam now with the greatest slowness, barely making a stroke, drifting rather. Henry knew that not all the warriors on the bank were asleep. Sentinels stood somewhere among the trees, and it was hard to escape the vigilance of an Indian on watch. Only a night of unusual darkness made an approach such as theirs possible. A broad shape rose out of the obscurity. It was the flatboat, now not twenty feet away, and Henry paused a moment, the five heads pausing with him. "Nobody is watching on this side of the boat," whispered the youthful leader, "and it will not be hard to climb over the side. We must all do so at once and make a rush." "I'm thinkin' you're right," Seth Cole whispered back. They headed straight for the flatboat and each put a hand upon its side. A Miami sentinel on the bank heard a splash a little louder than usual, and he saw a gleam of white in the water beside the flatboat. The Miami sprang forward for a better look, but he was not in time. Six white figures rose from the water. Six white figures gave a mighty heave, and the next moment they were upon the deck. The sentinels, looking toward the middle of the river, heard the sound of light, pattering footsteps behind them, and wheeled about. Despite their courage, they uttered a cry of superstitious horror. Surely these white, unclad figures were ghosts, or gods come down from the skies! One in his fright sprang overboard, but the other, recovering himself somewhat, fired at the foremost of the invaders. His bullet missed, and Henry, not noticing him, rushed toward the little cabin. Here he saw some bedding, evidently taken with the boat from its former owners, and he emptied the coals from the iron pot among it. A blaze instantly sprang up and spread with great rapidity. Despite the heat, Henry scattered the burning cloth everywhere with a canoe paddle that lay on the floor. Seth Cole and Tom Wilmore were also setting the boat on fire in a half dozen places. The flames roared around them, and then they rushed upon the deck, where the sounds of conflict had begun. There were renegades as well as Indians upon the boat, and both soon realized that the invaders were human beings, not spirits or ghosts. Several shots were fired. A man from Fort Prescott was slightly wounded in the shoulder, and the red blood was streaking his white skin. But one of the invaders had used his tomahawk to terrible purpose--the figure of a warrior lay motionless upon the deck. As Henry sprang to the relief of his comrades he ran directly into some one. The two recoiled, but their faces were then not more than a foot apart, and Henry recognized Braxton Wyatt. Wyatt knew him, too, and exclaimed: "Henry Ware!" He had been sleeping upon the boat and instantly he raised a pistol to make an end of the one whom he hated. Henry had no time to draw tomahawk or knife, but before the trigger could be pulled he seized the renegade in the powerful clasp of his bare arms. The excitement of the moment, the imminence of the crisis, gave a superhuman strength to the great youth. He lifted Braxton Wyatt from his feet, whirled him into the air, and then sent him like a stone from a sling into the deep water of the Ohio. The renegade uttered a cry as he sank, but when he came up again he struggled for the shore, not for the boat. The renegade McKee had already been driven overboard, and the Indians, who alone were left on the boat, felt their superstition returning when they saw Braxton Wyatt tossed into the river as if by the hand of omnipotence. The flames, too, had gained great headway, and were now roaring high above the deck and the heat was increasing fast. If these were devils--and devils they certainly must be!--they had brought with them fire which could not be fought. The Indians hesitated no longer, and the last of them, leaping overboard, swam for the land. "It's time for us to go, too," said Henry to his panting comrades. "They'll get over their fright in a minute or two and be after us." "I'm thinkin' you're right," said Seth Cole, "but nothin' kin save this boat now. She must be an old one. She burns so fast." Henry sprang into the river and the five followed him, swimming with their utmost power toward the southern shore. They heard behind them the crackling of the flames, and a crimson light was cast upon the water. Henry looked back over his shoulder. The boat was blazing, but the light from it reached his comrades and himself. The Indians on the bank saw them. Hasty bullets began to flick the water near them. Canoes were already starting in chase. "If that light keeps up, they're bound to git us," said Seth Cole. "But it won't keep up," said Henry. "Swim, boys! Swim with all your might! It's not Indians alone that we've got to dodge!" Tired as they were, they increased their speed by a supreme effort for a minute or so, and then as if by the same impulse all looked back. The boat was a mass of flame, a huge core of light, casting a brilliant reflection far out over the river and upon the bank, where trees, bushes, and warriors alike stood out in the red flare. The boat seemed to quiver, and suddenly it leaped into the air. Then came a tremendous explosion and a gush of overpowering flame. Henry and his comrades dived instantly and swam as far as they could under water toward the eastern shore. When they came up again the flatboat and its terrible cannon were gone, heavy darkness again hung over land and water, and pieces of burning wood were falling with a hissing splash into the river. But they heard the voices of warriors calling to each other, organizing already for pursuit. Their expedition was a brilliant success, but Henry knew that it would be a hard task to regain Fort Prescott. Led by the renegades and driven on by their bitter chagrin, the Indians would swarm upon the river in their canoes, seeking for them everywhere with eyes used to darkness. "Are you all here, boys?" he asked. He had been scorched on the shoulder by a burning fragment, but in the excitement he did not notice it. Two of the men were slightly wounded, but at that time they thought nothing of their hurts. All six were there, and at Henry's suggestion they dived again, floating down stream as long as they could hold their breath. When they came up again the six heads were somewhat scattered, but Henry called to them softly, and they swam close together again. Then they floated upon their backs and held a council of war. "It seems likely to me," said Henry, "that the Indian canoes will go straight across the stream after us, naturally thinking that we'll make at once for Fort Prescott." "I'm thinkin' that you're tellin' the truth," said Seth Cole. "Then we must drop down the stream, strike the bank, and come back up in the brush to the place where our rifles and clothes are hid." "Looks like the right thing to me," said Tom Wilmore. "I'll want my rifle back, but 'pears to me I'll want my clothes wuss. I'm a bashful man, I am. Look thar! they've got torches!" Indians standing up in the canoes were sweeping the water with pine torches in the search for the fugitives, and Henry saw that they must hasten. "We must make another dash for the bank," he said. "Keep your heads as low down on the water as you can." They swam fast, but the Indian canoes were spreading out, and one tall warrior who held a burning pine torch in his hand uttered a shout. He had seen the six dots on the stream. "Dive for it again," cried Henry, "and turn your heads toward the land!" He knew that the Indians would fire, and as he and his comrades went under he heard the spatter of bullets on the water. When they rose to the surface again they were where they could wade, and they ran toward the bank. They reached dry land, but even in the obscurity of the night their figures were outlined against the dark green bush, and the warriors from their canoes fired again. Henry heard near him a low cry, almost suppressed at the lips, and if it had not been for the red stain on Tom Wilmore's shoulder he would not have known who had been hit. "Is it bad, Tom?" he exclaimed. "Not very," replied Wilmore, shutting his teeth hard. "Go on. I can keep up." A boat suddenly shot out of the dusk very near. It contained four Indian warriors, two with paddles and two with upraised rifles. One of the rifles was aimed at Henry and the other at Seth Cole, and neither of them had a weapon with which to reply. Henry looked straight at the muzzle which bore upon him. It seemed to exercise a kind of terrible fascination for him, and he was quite confident that his time was at hand. He saw the warrior who knelt in the canoe with the rifle aimed at him suddenly turn to an ashy paleness. A red spot appeared in his forehead. The rifle dropped from his hands into the water, and the Indian himself, collapsing, slipped gently over the side and into the Ohio. The second Indian had fallen upon his back in the canoe, and only the paddlers remained. Henry was conscious afterward that he had heard two shots, but at the time he did not notice them. The deliverance was so sudden, so opportune, that it was miraculous, and while the frightened paddlers sent their canoe flying away from the bank, Henry and his comrades darted into the thick bush that lined the cliff and were hidden from the sight of all who were on the river. "Our clothes and our rifles," whispered Henry. "We must get them at once." "They fired from the fort just in time," said Tom Wilmore. Henry glanced upward. The palisade was at least three hundred yards away. "Those bullets did not come from Fort Prescott," he said. "It's too far from us, and they were fired by better marksmen than any who are up there now." "I think so, too," said Seth Cole, "an' I'm wonderin' who pulled them triggers." Shif'less Sol and Tom Ross were first in Henry's mind, but he knew that both had suffered wounds sufficient to keep them quiet for several days, and he believed that the timely shots were the work of other hands. Whoever the strangers might be they had certainly proved themselves the best and most timely of friends. They reached the thicket in which they had hidden their clothes and rifles, and found them untouched. "Queer how much confidence clothes give to a feller!" exclaimed Seth Cole, as he slipped on his buckskins. "It's so," said Henry, "and it's so, too, that you're not a whole man until you get back your rifle." When he grasped the beautiful weapon which had been his prize he felt strength flowing in a full tide in every vein. Before he was halt, a cripple, but now he was a match for anybody. He heard a quick, gasping breath, and the sound of a soft fall. Tom Wilmore had sunk forward, prone in the bushes. His wound in the shoulder was deeper than he had admitted. Through the thicket came the sounds of pursuit. The warriors had left the canoes and were seeking them on land. But the borderers had no thought of deserting their senseless comrade. Two of the men raised him up between them, and Henry, Seth Cole, and the sixth, armed with weapons of range and precision, protected the rear. Up the slope they went toward the fort. Henry presently heard light footsteps among the bushes and he fired toward the sound. He did not believe that he could hit anything in the darkness and uncertainty, but he wished to attract the attention of the watchers of the palisade. The diversion was effective, as shots were fired over their heads when they came near the wooden walls, and the pursuers drew back. Tom Wilmore revived and demanded to be put down. It hurt his pride that he should have to be carried. He insisted that he was not hurt seriously, and was on his feet again when they reached the palisade. The anxious voice of Major Braithwaite hailed from the dark. "Is it you, Ware; is it you, young sir?" "We are here, all of us," replied Henry, and the next instant they were at the foot of the palisade, where Major Braithwaite and at least twenty men were ready to receive them. When they were helped over the wall the Major counted quickly: "One! two! three! four! five! six! all here, and only two wounded! It was a wonderful exploit! In the name of Neptune, how did you do it?" "We took the flatboat just as we planned," replied Henry with pardonable pride. "We set it on fire, and it blew up, also just as we planned. Those cannon are now twisted old iron lying at the bottom of the Ohio River." "We saw the fire and we heard the explosion," said the Major. "We knew that your daring expedition had succeeded, but we feared that your party would never be able to reach the fort again." "We are here, however, thanks to the assistance of somebody," said Henry, "and nobody is hurt badly except Tom Wilmore there." "An' I ain't hurt so bad, neither," said Tom shame-facedly. "Things did git kinder dark down thar, but I'm all right now, ready for what may happen to be needed." A few scattering shots were fired by the Indians in the woods at the foot of the bluff, and a few more from canoes on the river, but the garrison did not take the trouble to reply. Henry was quite sure that the Indians would not remain in the brush on the cliff, as the morning would find them, if there, in an extremely dangerous position, and, deeply content with the night's work, one of the best that he had ever done, he sought sleep in the log house which had been assigned to him. It was a little one-roomed cabin with a bed of buffalo robes and bearskins, upon which the boy sank exhausted. He had made sure, before withdrawing, that Tom Wilmore was receiving the proper attention, and hence he had little upon his mind now. He could enjoy their triumph in its full measure, and he ran back rapidly over incidents of their daring trip. Everything was almost as vivid as if it were occurring again, and he could account for detail after detail in its logical sequence until he came to the two gunshots that had saved them. Who had fired the bullets? In any event, it was evident that they had effective friends outside the walls, and while he was still wondering about them he fell asleep. The siege the next day was desultory. There were occasional shots from the forest and the river, but the far-reaching cannon were gone, and the garrison paid little attention to rifle bullets that fell short. Moreover, they were all--men, women and children--full of courage. The exploit of the six in blowing up the flatboat and sending the cannon to the bottom of the river seemed to them a proof that they could do anything and defeat any attempt upon Fort Prescott. But Henry and Major Braithwaite in the cupola of the blockhouse once more looked southward over the surface of the Ohio and wondered why the fleet did not come. Henry, with the coming of the day, felt new misgivings. The Indians, with the whole forest to feed them and freedom to go and come as they pleased--vast advantages--would persist in the siege. Timmendiquas would keep them to it, and he might also be holding back the fleet. White Lightning was a general and he would use his forces to the best advantage. After a last vain look through the glasses down the river, he took another resolve. "I'm going out again to-night, Major," he said. "I'm going to hasten the fleet." "We can ill spare you, my lad," said the Major, putting an affectionate hand upon his shoulder, "but perhaps it is best that you should go. You saved us once, and it may be that you will save us twice. I'll not say anything about your going to the people in general. They think you bring good fortune, and it might discourage them to know that you are gone." * * * * * It was night, and only Major Braithwaite and Seth Cole saw Henry leave Fort Prescott. "I'll be back in a few days, Major," said the boy, "and I'll bring help." "You've given us great help already, young sir," said Major Braithwaite. "How, in the name of Neptune, we can ever thank you sufficiently, I don't know." "I'm thinkin' we do owe you a lot," said Seth Cole tersely. The boy smiled in the dark as he shook their hands. He was not foolish to conceal from himself that he liked their praise, but he tried to disclaim credit. "I was merely a little luckier than my comrades," he said, "but don't you let them surprise you, Major. Keep a good watch. Since those cannon were blown up and sunk, you can hold them." "We'll do it or, in the name of Neptune, we'll die trying," said Major Braithwaite. "I'm thinkin' we kin do it," said Seth Cole. Then Henry was over the palisade and gone, slipping away so quietly that Major Braithwaite was startled. The boy was there, and then he wasn't. Henry dropped over the wall on the side next to the river, which he knew to be the safest way of departure because the least guarded. Twenty or thirty yards from the fort he lay among the bushes and listened. He was full of confidence and eager for his task. Rest and sleep had restored all his strength. He had his fine rifle, a renewed supply of ammunition, and had no fear of either the wilderness or the darkness. He crept down through the bushes much nearer to the bank, and he saw a half dozen Indian canoes moving slowly up and down the river not far from the shore. They were patrols. The warriors did not intend to be surprised by another dash from the fort. Henry indulged himself in silent laughter. His comrades and he had certainly put a spoke in the savage wheel. He watched the boats a few moments and in one of them he saw two white faces that he recognized. They belonged to Braxton Wyatt and Blackstaffe. Again Henry laughed silently. He remembered the look on Braxton Wyatt's face when he threw him into the Ohio. But Wyatt deserved much more than to be hurled into muddy water, and the villain, Blackstaffe, was worse because he was older, knew more, and had done more crime. Henry raised his rifle a little. From the point where he lay he might reach Blackstaffe with a bullet, but he could not do it. He could not shoot a man from ambush. He moved carefully along the side of the cliff down the river. It was steep footing, but it would be perhaps impossible to pass anywhere else, and he proceeded with slowness, lest he set a pebble rolling or make the bushes rattle. He reached the place where they had scrambled ashore after burning the flatboat and he paused there a moment. His mind returned to the two mysterious shots that had saved them. Could he have been mistaken in his surmise, and could it have been Shif'less Sol and Tom Ross or perhaps Long Jim who had fired the timely bullets? He was not one to spend his time in guesses that could not be answered, and he resumed his advance, increasing his speed as the cliff became less precipitous. It was an average night, not a black protecting one, and he knew that he must practice great caution. He intended when further down to swim the river, but it was not yet safe to expose himself there, and he clung to the southern bank. He soon had proof that all his caution was needed. He heard a soft footstep and quietly sank down in the bushes. A Miami sentinel passed within twenty feet of him, and the boy did not rise again until he was out of sight. Twenty yards further he saw another, and then the glow of lights came through the trees. He knew it to be an Indian camp fire, although the warriors themselves were hidden from him by a swell of the earth. But he felt an intense desire to see this fire, or rather those about it. It was a legitimate wish, as any information that he might obtain would be valuable for the return--and he intended to return. He crept to a point near the crest of the swell, and then he lay very close, glad that the bushes there were so thick and that they hid him so well. Six men were coming and he recognized them. Two were white, Girty and Blackstaffe, and there were Yellow Panther, Red Eagle, Captain Pipe, the Delaware, and White Lightning, the great Timmendiquas of the Wyandots. They were talking in the Shawnee tongue, which he understood well, and despite all his experience and self-control, a tremor shook him. They stopped near him and continued their conversation. Every word that they said reached the listener in the bush. "The place was warned, as Ware said. There's no doubt of it," said Girty viciously, nodding toward the hill on which stood Fort Prescott. "His boast was true. Braxton Wyatt knows him. He was tossed by him into twenty feet of the Ohio. It must have been worth seeing." Girty laughed. He could take a malignant pleasure in the misfortune of an ally. Henry also saw the white teeth of Timmendiquas gleam as his lips curved into a smile. But in him the appeal was to a sense of humor, not to venom. He seemed to have little malice in his nature. "It is so," said Timmendiquas in Shawnee. "It was certainly the one called Ware, a bold youth, and powerful. It was wonderful the way in which he broke through our lines at the running of the gantlet and escaped. He must be a favorite of Manitou." "Favorite of Manitou! It was his arms and legs that got him away," snarled Girty. His tone was insolent, domineering, and the dark eyes of Timmendiquas were turned upon him. "I said he was a favorite of Manitou," he said, and his words were edged with steel. "Our friend, Girty, thinks so, too." His hand slipped down toward the handle of his tomahawk, but it was the eye more than the hand that made the soul of Girty quail. "It must be as you say, Timmendiquas," he replied, smoothly. "He surely seemed to have been helped by some great power, but it's been a bad thing for us. If he hadn't come, we could have taken Fort Prescott with our first rush. Then with our cannon on the hill we could have stopped this fleet which is coming." "I have heard that in the far South this fleet beat another fleet which had cannon," said Timmendiquas. "Yes," said Girty. "Braxton Wyatt was there and saw it done. Red men and white were allied, and they had a ship of their own, but it was blown up in the battle. But here our cannon would have been on a hill. It is a long way to Canada and we cannot send there for more." "We can win without cannon," said White Lightning with dignity. "Do you think that all the nations and all the chiefs of the great valley are assembling here merely for failure? Have we not already held back the white man's fleet?" "We've certainly held it for a few days," replied Girty, "but we've not taken Fort Prescott." "We will take it," said Timmendiquas. Henry listened with the greatest eagerness. He did not wish to miss a word. Now he understood why the fleet had not come. It had been delayed in some manner, probably by rifle fire at narrow portions of the river, and it would be the tactics of Timmendiquas to beat it and the fort separately. It would be his task to bring them together and defeat Timmendiquas instead. Yet he felt all his old admiration and liking for the great young chief of the Wyandots. The other chiefs were no mean figures, but he towered above them all, and he had the look of a king, a king by nature, not by birth. Henry hoped that they would stay and talk longer, that he might hear more of their plans, but they walked away toward the camp fire, where he could not follow, and, rising from the bushes, he passed swiftly between the fire and the river, pursuing his journey down stream. He saw two more Indian sentinels, but they did not see him, and when he looked back the flare of the camp fire was gone. Two miles below the fort the river curved. No watching canoe would be likely to be there, and Henry thought it would be a good place to swim the river. He was about to prepare himself for his task, when by the moonlight, which was now clear, he saw the print of footsteps in the soft earth near the shore. There was a trail evidently made by two men. It ran over the soft earth twenty feet, perhaps, and was then lost among the bushes. He examined the footsteps carefully and he was sure that they were made by white men and within the hour. He crouched among the bushes and uttered a faint, whining cry like the suppressed howl of a wolf. It was a cry literally sent into the dark, but he took the chance. A similar cry came back from a point not very far away, and he moved toward it. He heard a light rustle among the bushes and leaves and he stopped, lying down in order that he might be hidden and, at the same time, watch. Henry was quite convinced that those who made the footprints had also made the noise, and he was still sure that they were white men. They might be renegades, but he did not think so. Renegades were few in number, and they were likely at such a time to stay closely in the Indian camp. He was puzzled for a little while how to act. He might stalk these strangers and they might stalk him in the darkness for hours without either side ascertaining a single fact concerning the identity of the other. He decided upon a bold policy and called loudly: "Who is there?" His was unmistakably a white voice, the voice of a white Anglo-Saxon, and back came the reply in the same good English of the white man: "Who are you?" "A friend from the Kentucky settlements," replied Henry, and stood up. Two figures, also, rose from the brush, and after a few moments' inspection advanced. Henry could scarcely restrain a cry of pleasure as he recognized the men. They were Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton. Boone laughed in his quiet, low way as they came forward. "About to take another night swim in the Ohio, Indians or no Indians?" he said. Henry understood at once. It was these two who had saved them; the timely bullets had come from the rifles of these famous borderers. "We owe our lives to you and Mr. Kenton, Mr. Boone," he said, grasping the hand that Daniel Boone held out to him. Boone laughed again in his quiet fashion. No sound came from his lips, but his face quivered with mirth. "You certainly were a good swimmer," he said. "I never saw a fellow walk through the water faster in my life." "We had every reason to swim fast," said Henry with a smile. "Don't say anything more about our savin' you," said Daniel Boone. "It's what anybody else in our place ought to have done an' would have done. We've been hangin' around the fort havin' worned another place first, waitin' for a chance to help. Some hunters are comin' up from the South and we expect to join them to-morrow, but we won't be strong enough to do much." "All the tribes are here, are they not?" asked Henry. "Bands from 'em all are here. They must have two or three thousand warriors scattered around Fort Prescott. I reckon I can tell you where most of the big bands are placed." The three sat down on the ground and talked low. Henry felt greatly encouraged by the presence of these two men, so skillful and so renowned. Watchful sentinels, but little could evade them, and they would be a source of valuable strength to fort and fleet alike. "You saw Timmendiquas?" said Boone. "Yes, he is here," said Henry, "and he is leading the attack." "Then our people have got to look out," said Boone emphatically. "We'll watch around here the best way we can while you go on with what you're tryin' to do." He held out his hand again as Henry rose to depart. For a man who lived a life of constant danger and who had passed through so many great adventures, he had a singularly gentle and winning manner. Henry's admiration and respect were mingled with a deep liking. He would have referred again to the saving of his life, but he knew that the great borderer would not like it. "Good-by, Mr. Boone," he said, and their hands met in a hearty clasp. He and Kenton also bade farewell in the same friendly manner, and then Henry went down to the river. "We'll watch again," said Boone, laughing in his dry way; "you can't tell when you'll need us." CHAPTER XVI THE RETURN TRAIL Henry, with the aid of Boone and Kenton, rolled the trunk of a small fallen tree to the river. Then he took off his clothes, made them and his arms and ammunition into a bundle, which he put on the log, said good-by to the two men, and launched himself and his fortunes once more upon the Ohio. He pushed the log before him, taking care to keep it steady, and swam easily with one hand. Fifty yards back he looked out and saw the two hunters standing on the bank, leaning on the muzzles of their long rifles. They were watching him and he waved his free hand in salute. Boone and Kenton took off their raccoon skin caps in reply. He did not look back again until he was nearly to the northern shore, and then they were gone. He reached the bank without obstruction, moored his log among some bushes, and, when he was dry, dressed again. Then he went down stream along the shore for several miles, keeping a watch for landmarks that he had seen before. It was a difficult task in the night, and after an hour he abandoned it. Finding a snug place among the bushes, he lay down there and slept until dawn. Then he renewed his search. Henry, at present, was not thinking much of the fleet. His mind was turning to his faithful comrades who had dropped one by one on the way. Both fleet and fort could wait a while. So far as he was concerned, they must wait. He roved now through the bushes and along the water's edge, looking always for something. It was a familiar place that he sought, one that might have been seen briefly, but, nevertheless, vividly, one that he could not forget. He came at last to the spot where he and Shif'less Sol had sprung into the water. Just there under the bank the shiftless one had drifted away, while he swam on, drawing the pursuit after him. It had been only a glimpse in the dusk of the night, but he was absolutely sure of the place, and as he continued along the bank he examined every foot of it minutely. Henry did not expect to find any traces of footsteps after so many days, but the bank for some distance was high and steep. It would not be easy to emerge from the river there, but he felt sure that Shif'less Sol had left it--if he survived--at the first convenient point. In about three hundred yards he came to a dip in the high bank, a gentle slope upon which a man could wade ashore. Shif'less Sol, wounded and drifting with the current, would certainly reach this place and use it. Henry, without hesitation, turned aside into the woods and began to look for a trail or a sign of any kind that would point a way. Twenty yards from the landing he found a dark stain on an oak tree, a little higher than a man's waist. "Shif'less Sol," he murmured. "He was wounded and he leaned here against this tree to rest after he came from the river. Now, which way did he go?" He tried to make a reckoning of the point at which Tom Ross had been compelled to turn aside, and he reckoned that it lay northwest. It seemed likely to him that Shif'less Sol, if he could travel at all, would go in the direction or supposed direction of Tom Ross, and Henry went northwestward for about a mile before stopping, following a narrow little valley, leading back from the river and not well wooded. The traveling was easy here, and easy traveling was what a wounded man would certainly seek. His stop was made because he had come to a brook, a clear little stream that flowed somewhere into the Ohio. Henry again used his reasoning faculties first, and his powers of observation afterward. Wounds made men hot and thirsty, and hot and thirsty men would drink cool water at the first chance. He got down on his knees and examined the grass minutely up and down the brook on both banks. He was not looking for footprints. He knew that time would have effaced them here as it had done back by the river. He was searching instead for a dim spot, yellowish red, somber and ugly. He came presently to the place, larger and more somber than he had anticipated. "Here is where Sol knelt down to drink," he murmured, "and his blood flowed upon the grass while he drank. Poor old Sol!" He was afraid that Sol had been steadily growing weaker and weaker, and he dreaded lest he should soon find a dark, still object among the bushes. A hundred yards further he found something else that his eyes easily read. The ground had been soft when a man passed and, hardening later, had preserved the footsteps. The trail lay before him, clear and distinct for a distance of about a rod, but it was that of a staggering man. A novice even could have seen it. The line zigzagged, and the footprints themselves were at irregular distances. "Poor old Sol," Henry murmured again. Just beyond the soft ground he found another of the somber splotches, and his heart sank. No one could stand a perpetual loss of blood, and for a dark moment or two Henry was sure that Shif'less Sol had succumbed. Then his natural hopefulness reasserted itself. Shif'less Sol was tough, enduring, the bravest of the brave. It seemed to Henry's youthful mind that his lion-hearted comrade could not be killed. He continued his advance, examining the ground carefully everywhere, and following that which offered the least obstacle to a wounded and weak man. He saw before him a mass of grass, high and inviting, and when he looked in the center of it he found what he hoped, but not what he dreaded. Some one had lain down there and had rested a long time or slept, perhaps both, and then had been able to rise again and go on. The crushed grass showed plainly the imprint of the man's body, and the somber stains were on either side of the impression. But the grass had not been threshed about. The man, when he lay there, had scarcely moved. Henry was in doubt what inference to draw. It was certain that Shif'less Sol had not been feverish, or he might have lain in utter exhaustion. As long as the grass lasted, its condition, broken or swept aside, showed the trail, but when he came into the woods again it was lost. There was no grass here and the ground was too hard. Nor did the lie of the land itself offer any hint of Shif'less Sol's progress. It was all level and one direction was no more inviting than another. Henry paused, at a loss, but as he looked around his eyes caught a gleam of white. It came from a spot on a hickory tree where the bark had been deftly chipped away with a hatchet or a tomahawk, leaving the white body of the tree, exposed for two or three square inches. Henry read it as clearly as if it had been print. In fact, it was print to him, and he knew that it had been so intended. Shif'less Sol had felt sure that Henry would come back after his friend, and this was his sign of the road. Shif'less Sol knew, too, that the attention of the tribes would be concentrated upon the fort and the fleet, and the warriors would not be hunting at such a time for a single atom like himself. Henry found a second chipped tree, a third, and then a fourth. The four made a line pointing northwestward, but more west than north. He was quite sure now of the general direction that he must pursue, and he advanced, the chipped trail leading deeper and deeper into a great forest. At the crossing of another brook he looked for the somber sign, but it was not there. Instead, a short distance farther on, he found some tiny fragments of buckskin, evidently cut into such shape with a sharp knife. Near them were several of the reddish stains, but much smaller than any he had seen before. It was again a book of open print to Henry, and now he felt a surge of joyous feeling. Shif'less Sol had washed his wound at the brook back there and he had stopped here to bind it up with portions of his buckskin clothing, cutting the bandage with his sharp knife. The act showed, so Henry believed, that he was gaining in strength, and when he next saw a chipped tree he observed the mark carefully. It was about the same in width and length, but it was much deeper than usual. A piece of the living wood had gone with the bark. Henry smiled. His strong imagination reproduced the scene. There was Shif'less Sol standing erect and comparatively strong for the first time since the last night of the flight. He had raised his tomahawk, and then, in the pride of his strength, had sunk it four times into the tree, cutting out the thick chip. Henry murmured something again. It was not now "Poor old Sol," it was "Good old Sol." He lost the trail at the end of another mile, but after some searching found it again in another chipped tree, and then another close by. It still pointed in a northwesterly direction, more west than north, and Henry hence was sure that he could never lose it long. Soon he came upon a little heap of ashes and dead coals with feathers and bones lying about. The feathers were those of the wild turkey, and this chapter of the book was so plain that none could mistake it. Sol had shot a wild turkey, and here he had cooked it and eaten of it. His fever had gone down or he would have had no appetite. Undoubtedly he was growing much stronger. He traveled several miles further without seeing anything unusual, and then he came abruptly out of the deep forest upon a tiny lake, a genuine jewel of a little lake. It was not more than a half of a mile long, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards across, and its deep waters were very clear and beautiful. The chipped trail--the last tree was not more than twenty feet back--pointed straight to the middle of this lake and Henry was puzzled. His own shore was low, but the far one was high and rocky. Henry was puzzled. He could not divine what had been in Shif'less Sol's mind, and, a tall erect figure, rifle on shoulder, he stared at the lake. Across the water came a mellow, cheerful hail: "Henry! Oh-h-h, Henry!" Henry looked up--he had recognized instantly the voice of Shif'less Sol, and there he was, standing on the bluff of the far shore. "Swim over!" he called, "and visit me in my house!" Henry looked down toward the end of the lake. It would be a half mile walk around it, and he decided in favor of swimming. Again he made his clothes and arms into a bundle, and in three or four minutes was at the other side of the lake. As he came to the cliff Shif'less Sol extended a helping hand, but Henry, noticing that he was pale and thin, did not take it until he had sprung lightly upon the rocks. Then he took it in a mighty clasp that the shiftless one returned as far as his strength would permit. "I'm pow'ful glad to see you, Henry," said Shif'less Sol, "but I don't think you look respeckable without some clothes aroun' you. So put 'em on, an' I'll invite you into my house." "It's fine to see you again, Sol! Alive and well!" exclaimed Henry joyfully. "Wa'al, I'm alive," said Shif'less Sol, "but I ain't what you would sca'cely call well. A bullet went clean through my side, and that's a thing you can't overlook just at the time. I ain't fit yet for runnin' races with Injuns, or wrastlin' with b'ars, but I've got a good appetite an' I'm right fond o' sleep. I reckon I'm what you'd call a mighty interestin' invalid." "Invalid or not, you're the same old Sol," said Henry, who had finished dressing. "Now show me to this house of yours." "I can't say rightly that it's the mansion o' a king," said Shif'less Sol solemnly. "A lot o' the furniture hasn't come, an' all the servants happen to be away at this minute. Guess I'll have to show you 'roun' the place myself." "Go ahead; you're the best of guides," said Henry, delighted to be with his old comrade again. The shiftless one, still going rather weakly, led the way a few steps up the almost precipitous face of the rock toward some bushes growing in the crevices. Then he disappeared. Henry gazed in amazement, but Shif'less Sol's mellow laugh came back. "Walk right in," he said. "This is my house." Henry parted the bushes with his hand and stepped into a deep alcove of the rock running back four or five feet, with a height of about five feet. The entrance was completely hidden by bushes. "Now, ain't this snug?" exclaimed Shif'less Sol, turning a glowing face upon Henry, "an' think o' my luck in findin' it jest when I needed it most. Thar ain't a better nateral house in all the west." It was certainly a snug niche. The floor was dry and covered with leaves, some pieces of wood lay in a corner, on a natural shelf was the dressed body of a wild turkey, and near the entrance was a heap of ashes and dead coals showing where a fire had been. "It is a good place," said Henry emphatically, "and you certainly had wonderful luck in finding it when you did. How did it come about, Sol?" "I call it Fisherman's Home," returned the shiftless one, "because me that used to be a hunter, scout, explorer an' Injun-fighter, has to fish fur a while fur a livin'. When I wuz runnin' away from the warriors, with my side an' my feelin's hurtin' me, I come to this lake. I knowed that jest ez soon ez you got the chance, providin' you wuz still livin', you'd foller to find me, an' so I blazed the trail. But when I got here it set me to thinkin'. I saw the high bank on this side, all rocks an' bushes. I reckoned I could come over here an' hide among 'em an' still see anybody who followed my trail down to the other side. I wuz strong enough by that time to swim across, an' I done it. Then when I wuz lookin' among the rocks an' bushes fur a restin' place, I jest stumbled upon this bee-yu-ti-ful mansion. It ain't furnished much yet, ez I told you, but I've sent an order to Philadelphy, an' I'm expectin' a lot o' gor-gee-yus things in a couple o' years." "And you live by fishing, you say?" "Mainly. You remember we all agreed a long time ago always to carry fishin' lines an' hooks, ez we might need 'em, an' need 'em pow'ful bad any time. It looked purty dang'rous to shoot off a gun with warriors so near, although I did bring down wild turkeys twice in the night. But mostly I've set here on the ledge with my bee-yu-ti-ful figger hid by the bushes, but with my line an' hook in the water." "Is the fishing good?" "Too good. I don't s'pose the fish in Hyde Lake--that's what I've named it--ever saw a hook before, an' they've been so full o' curiosity they jest make my arm ache. It's purty hard on a lazy man like me to hev to pull in a six or seven pound bass when you ain't rested more'n half a minute from pullin' in another o' the same kind. I tell you, they kep' me busy, Henry, when what I wuz needin' wuz rest." Henry smiled. "Were you fishin' when you saw me?" he asked. "I shorely wuz. I'm mostly fishin', an' when I'm fishin' I mostly keep my eyes turned that way. I've been sayin' to myself right along for the last two or three days: 'Henry will be along purty soon now. He shorely will. When he comes, he'll follow that chipped trail o' mine right down to the edge o' the water. Then he'll stan' thar wondering an' while he's standin' and wondering I'll give him an invite to come over to my bee-yu-ti-ful mansion,' and, shore enough, that's jest what happened." Henry sat down on a heap of leaves and leaned luxuriously against the wall. "You cook at night?" he said. "O' course, and I always pick a mighty dark hour. Hyde Lake, desarvin' its name, is full o' eight or ten kinds o' fine fish, an' here are some layin' under the leaves that I cooked last night. I eat pow'ful often myself. Livin' such a lazy life here, I've growed to be what Paul calls a eppycure. Remember them tales he used to tell about the old Romans and Rooshians an' Arabiyuns and Babylonians that got so fine they et hummin' birds' tongues an' sech like, an' then the flood wuz sent to drown 'em all out 'cause they wuzn't fitten to live. I don't think hummin' birds' tongues a sustainin' kind o' diet, anyway." "I remember the tales, but not just that way, Sol. However, it doesn't matter." "Hev a fish, Henry. You've traveled fur, an' I made up my mind from the fust that I'd offer refreshment an' the fat o' the water to anybody comin' to my house. We kin cook the turkey to-night, an' then eat him, too." He handed to Henry a fine specimen of lake trout, admirably broiled, and the boy ate hungrily. Shif'less Sol took another of the same kind and ate, also. Henry, from his reclining position, could see through the screen of leaves. The surface of the little lake was silver, rippling lightly under the gentle wind, and beyond was the green wall of the forest. He felt a great peace. He was rested and soothed, both body and mind. The shiftless one, too, felt a deep content, although he had always been sure that Henry would come. For nearly a quarter of an hour neither spoke again, and Henry could hear the faint lapping of the water on the rocks below. It was the shiftless one who at last broke the silence. "You reached Fort Prescott, o' course?" he asked. "Yes," replied Henry. "I got in, and I warned them in time. We beat off a land attack, and then they advanced on us by the river." "What could canoes do against a fort on a hill?" "They had cannon brought from Canada." "Cannon! Then I s'pose they battered the fort down with 'em, an' you're all that's left." "No, they didn't. They might have done it, but they lost their cannon." "Lost 'em! How could that happen?" "The boat carrying them was blown up, and the cannon with it." The shiftless one looked at Henry, and the boy grew uncomfortable, blushing through his tan. Shif'less Sol laughed. "Ef them cannon wuz blowed up--an' they shorely wuz ef you say so," he said, "it's mighty likely that you, Henry Ware, had a lot to do with it. Now, don't be bashful. Jest up an' tell me the hull tale, or I'll drag it out o' you." Henry, reluctantly and minimizing his part as much as he could, told the story of the blowing up of the flatboat and the cannon. Shif'less Sol was hugely delighted. "Them shore wuz lively doin's," he said. "Wish I'd been thar. I'll always be sorry I missed it. An' at the last you wuz saved by Dan'l Boone an' Simon Kenton. Them are shorely great men, Henry. I ain't ever heard o' any that could beat 'em, not even in Paul's tales. I reckin Dan'l Boone and Simon Kenton kin do things that them Carthaginians, Alexander an' Hannibal an' Cæsar an' Charley-mane, couldn't even get started on." "They certainly know some things that those men didn't." "More'n some. They know a pow'ful lot more. I reckon, Henry, that Dan'l Boone is the greatest man the world has yet seed." Henry said nothing. The shiftless one's simple admiration and faith appealed to him. They rested a while longer, and then Henry asked: "Sol, do you think that we can find Tom Ross?" "Ef he's alive, we kin. We jest got to." "I knew that would be your answer. Do you think you will be strong enough to start in the morning?" "I've been weak, Henry, but I'm gainin' now mighty fast. I didn't suffer much 'cept loss o' blood, an' me bein' so healthy, I'm making gallons o' new first-class blood every day. Yes, Henry, I think I kin start after Tom to-morrow mornin'." "Then we'll find him if he's alive, but we'll spend the time until then in quiet here." "'Ceptin' that I'm boun' to cook my turkey to-night." Henry presently climbed to the top of the bank, a distance of eight or ten feet above the hollow, but precipitous. It was probably this steepness that had prevented any large wild animal from using the place as a lair. It would also make attack by Indians, should any come, extremely difficult, but Henry did not anticipate any danger from them now, as their attention was centered on the fort and the fleet. Shif'less Sol followed him up the cliff, and when they stood on the hill Henry noticed again the thinness of his comrade. But the color was returning to his cheeks, and his eye had regained the alert, jaunty look of old. Henry calculated that in a week Shif'less Sol would be nearly as strong as ever. The shiftless one saw his measuring look, and understood it. "My time ez a fisherman is over," he said. "I'll be a hunter, an' explorer, an' fighter of warriors ag'in. But I think, Henry, we ought to remember the hollow, an' keep it ez one o' them places Paul calls inns. Ef we wuz ever 'roun' here ag'in, we might want to drop in an' rest a while." Henry agreed with him, and examined the country for a distance of about a half mile. He did not see any evidence of warriors, but he knew they could not be far away and he returned to the hollow, where he and Shif'less Sol spent the rest of the day, each lying upon a bed of leaves and gazing through the screen of bushes toward the shimmering surface of the lake. Nor did they say much, only a word or two now and then. Henry felt a great sense of luxury. He did not realize fully until now all that he had been through recently, the mighty strain that had been put upon his nervous organization, and the absolute freedom from any sort of effort, whether mental or physical, was precious to him. It was almost the twilight hour when they heard the faint whirring of wings. Henry looked up through half-closed eyes. A cloud of wild ducks, hundreds of them, settled down upon the lake. "I'd like to take a shot at them," he said. "There's nothing better than a wild duck cooked as Jim Hart can cook it." "But I wouldn't shoot jest now if I were you," said the shiftless one, "'cause somebody else is ahead of you." Henry came at once from his dreamy state and rose to a sitting position. Two Indians were walking down to the edge of the lake. He saw them clearly through the curtain of bushes and leaves. They held guns in their hands, and their eyes were on the ducks, which fairly blackened a portion of the lake's surface. "They're lookin' fur food, not scalps," whispered the shiftless one. "Tain't likely they'll see my blazed tree, specially since dark is comin' on." The two Indians fired into the cloud of ducks, then waded in and took at least a dozen dead ones. The foolish ducks flew further up the lake and settled down again, where a further slaughter was committed. Then the Indians, loaded with the spoil, went away. "Them warriors had shotguns," said Shif'less Sol, "an' they were out huntin' fur some big war party, most likely, one o' them that's watchin' the fort. But they ain't dreamin' that fellers like you and me are aroun' here, Henry." The night dropped down like a great black mask over the face of the world, and Shif'less Sol announced that he was going to cook his turkey. "I'm tired o' fish," he said, "fish fur breakfast, fish fur dinner, an' fish fur supper. Ef it keeps on this way, I'll soon be covered with scales, my blood will be cold, an' I'll die ef I'm left five minutes on dry land. Don't say a word, Henry, I'm goin' to cook that turkey ef I lose my scalp." Henry did not say anything. He thought there was little danger, the night was so dark, and Sol broiled his bird to a turn over smothered coals. When it was done he took it up by the leg and held it out admiringly. "I don't believe Jim Hart hisself could beat that," he said, "an' Jim is shorely a pow'ful good cook, I guess about the best the world has ever seed. Don't you think, Henry, that ef Jim Hart had been thar to cook wild turkey an' venison an' buffler meat for all them old Romans an' Egyptians, an' sech like, with the cur'ous appetites, always lookin' fur new dishes, they'd have rested satisfied, an' wouldn't hev decayed down to nothin'? 'Pears strange to me why they'd keep on lookin' roun' fur hummin' bird tongues an' them other queer things when they could have had nice cow buffler steak every day o' thar lives." The two ate the turkey between them, and Shif'less Sol, thumping his chest, said: "Now, let us set forth. It is Solomon Hyde hisself ag'in, an' he feels fit fur any task." They started about ten o'clock, curved around the lake, and traveled in a general northwesterly course. Henry went slowly at first, but when he noticed that Shif'less Sol was breathing easily and regularly, he increased the pace somewhat. "What's your opinion about the place where we'll find Tom, if we find him at all?" he asked. "Ef we find Tom Ross, it'll be mighty close to the place whar we left him. Tom never wastes any words, an' he ain't goin' to waste any steps, either. Are you shore we come along this way, Henry? I wuz runnin' so pow'ful fast I only hit the tops o' the hills ez I passed." "Yes, this is the place," said Henry, looking carefully at hills, gullies, rocks, and trees, "and it was certainly somewhere near here that Tom was forced to turn aside." "Then we'll find him close by, livin' or dead," said Shif'less Sol succinctly. "But how to do it?" said Henry. "Yes, how?" said Sol. They began a careful search, radiating continually in a wider circle, but the night that hid them from the warriors also hid all signs of Tom Ross. "Tom's the kind o' feller who wouldn't make the least bit o' noise," said Shif'less Sol, "an' I'm thinkin' we've got to make a noise ourselves, an' let him hear it." "What kind of a noise?" "We might try our old signal, the call that we've so often made to one another." "Yes," said Henry, "that is what we must do." CHAPTER XVII PICKING UP THE STRANDS Henry sat down in the underbrush, and Shif'less Sol sat down close to him. Their figures were hidden by the darkness and the bushes. "Do your best, Henry," said the shiftless one. Henry opened his mouth and emitted a long, mournful cry, so like that of the owl that Shif'less Sol, at a little distance, could not have told the difference. After a silence of a few seconds he repeated the cry, to show that they were two. "Don't see why you can't let a tired and sick man sleep, 'specially when he needs it so bad," said a voice so near them that both started up in astonishment. It was the voice of Tom Ross, as they knew when the very first words were uttered, and they saw him standing erect in a little clump of trees and looking reproachfully at them. It was night, and Tom was fifty yards away, but they would have known his figure and attitude anywhere. They rushed to him, each seized a hand and shook it. "Don't shake too hard," said Tom. "Jest gittin' well uv a pow'ful bad headache." They saw that a rude bandage encircled his head, and was tied tightly. "Injun bullet hit my skull," said Tom briefly. "Couldn't git in, so it went 'round an' come out on the other side. Made my head ache most a week. Been campin' here till you'd come." "Where have you been camping?" asked Henry. "Over thar in the bushes," replied Tom, and he led the way to a very thick clump at the side of a huge, up-thrust root of an oak. Sheltered partly by the bushes and partly by the big root had been the lair of some wild animal that Tom had dispossessed. But he had relined it first with dry leaves and little boughs, turning it into a man's nest. "Found it the night I dropped out," said Tom. "Couldn't be partickler then. Had to lay down somewhar. Remember, after I'd been here an hour or two, some big yeller animal with yellerish-green eyes come starin' in at me through the bushes, angry and reproachful-like. Said to me plain as day: 'You've took my house. Git out.' Felt like a robber, I did, slippin' into another man's bed while he wuz away, an' takin' up all the room. But I jest had to hold on, me feelin' pow'ful bad. I p'inted my rifle at him, looked down the sights and said: 'Git.' He must have knowed what a rifle meant, 'cause git he did, an' he ain't ever come back to claim his mansion. Then, jest havin' strength enough left to bind up my head, I fell over into a sleep, an' I reckon I slep' 'bout three days an' three nights, 'cause I ain't got any idea how much time hez passed sence I left you that night, Henry. "But I felt better after my long sleep, though still weak an' wobbly. I'd hev made myself some herb tea, but I wuz beginnin' to git tre-men-jeous-ly hungry. Managed to watch at a spring not far from here until a deer came down to drink one night, an' I shot him. Been livin' on deer meat since then, an' waitin' fur my headache to go away. Expected you an' Sol or one uv you would come fur me." Tom stopped abruptly and took a mighty breath. He did not make so long a speech more than once a year, and he felt mentally exhausted. "Well, we've found you, Tom," said Henry joyfully. "Ef you hadn't come, I'd have started myself in a day or two to find _you_," said Ross. "I don't wonder that Injun bullet turned aside, when it run ag'in Tom Ross' skull," said the shiftless one. "That shorely wuz a smart bullet. It knowed it wuzn't worth while to beat its head ag'in a rock." "Don't be impydent, Sol," said Tom with a quiet chuckle. "Now that we three are together ag'in, I s'pose the next thing fur us to do is to track Jim Hart to his hidin' place." "That comes next," said Henry. It did not occur to any of the three that Long Jim might have been slain. Their belief in their own skill, endurance, and good fortune, was so great that they did not reckon on anything more than a wound, fever, and exhaustion. "I believe we'd better stop here to-night," said Shif'less Sol. "Tom can widen his den, and all three of us kin sleep in it." Henry and Tom agreed. Silent Tom, although he said little, was greatly rejoiced over the coming of his comrades, and he brought from the fork of a tree his store of deer meat, of which they ate. Then, in accord with the shiftless one's suggestion, they widened the den, and the three slept there, turns being taken at the watch. Henry had the last turn, and it was about two o'clock in the morning when he was awakened for it. Shif'less Sol, who had awakened him, instantly fell asleep, and Henry sat at the edge of the lair, his rifle across his knees, and his eyes turned up to the great stars, which were twinkling in a magnificent blue sky. Henry had imbibed much of the Indian lore and belief. It was inevitable where human beings were so few, and the skies and the forest were so immense, that he should feel the greatness of nature and draw his symbols from it. He wondered in a vague sort of way on which of the bright stars Manitou dwelt, and if on all of them there were hunting grounds like those in which he and his comrades roved. He watched with his ears, that is, he listened for the sound of anything that might be moving in the forest, but he kept his eyes on the high heavens. His thoughts were solemn, but not at all sad. He could see much in the Indian belief of the happy hunting grounds in which strong, brave warriors would roam forever. It appealed to him as a very wise and wholesome belief, and he asked no better hereafter than to roam such forests himself through eternity with those who were dear to him. Some clouds gathered in the southwest, and a faint, far rumble came to his ears. "Baimwana (thunder)," he murmured, speaking almost unconsciously in Iroquois, a little of which he had learned long ago. He was sorry. Rain would not be pleasant, particularly for the two who were not yet fully recovered from their wounds. But the thunder did not come again, the clouds passed, and he knew there would be no rain. A wind, gentle and musical, began to blow. "Wabun (the East Wind)," he murmured. He personified the winds, because it was in his nature to do so, and because the Indians with whom he had dwelt did it. It was this gift of his, based on a powerful imagination, that now made him hear the human voice once more in the wind. It was a low voice, but penetrating, thrilling him in every nerve, and its note was hope. He had heard it before at crises of his life, and its prophecy had not failed to come true. Nor did he believe that it would do so now. The wind shifted. "Kabibanokka (the North Wind)," he murmured. But the note was unchanged. It was still a voice that brought courage. They would find Jim and Paul, and the fleet and the fort alike would triumph. He heard, soon, light sounds in the bush, but they were not the footsteps of enemies. He knew it because he had heard them all before. A tawny beast came down through the grass, but halted at a respectful distance. Henry caught a glimpse of one yellow eye, and he felt a sort of amused sorrow for the panther. The rightful owner of this house had been driven out, as Tom Ross confessed, and he was there not far away looking reproachfully at the robbers. Well, he should have his house back on the next night, and perhaps he could then keep it all the rest of his life. The yellow eye disappeared. The sorrowful and reproachful panther had gone away. The wind shifted, and its odor was fresh with the dawn, which would soon be whitening the east. A troop of deer, led by a splendid stag, passed so close that Henry could see their forms in the dusk. The wind was taking the odor of himself and his comrades away from them, and he watched the dusky file as it passed. Even had the country been clear of Indians, he would not have taken a shot at them, because he had no desire to slay merely for the sake of slaying. The deer passed. Light sprang up in the east. The white turned to red, the red to gold, and the gold at last became blue. An eagle, in an early search for food, sailed far above Henry's head, outlined--wing, beak and talon--against the blue. The whole world, grass and leaves wet with dew, basked in the morning light, wonderfully fresh and beautiful. Henry awoke his comrades, who instantly sat up, every trained faculty thoroughly alive. "All been quiet, Henry?" asked Shif'less Sol. "Nothing happened," replied the boy, "except that the owner of this house looked in once, called Tom Ross here an infamous robber, and then went away, saying he would have revenge if he had to live a hundred years to get it." "Ef he's ez dang'rous ez that," said Shif'less Sol, lightly, "I say let's move on right now, an' give him back his gor-gee-yous mansion." The sense of humor and joy of life had fully returned to the shiftless one. Another night's rest had added wonderfully to his strength, and the coming of Henry and the finding of Tom contributed so much to the uplift of his spirits that he considered himself as good, physically, as ever. "I'm ready for anything now, from a fight to a foot-race," he said, "but ef choosin' is to be mine, I'd rather hev breakfast. Tom, bring out that deer meat o' yourn." They quickly disposed of their food and resumed the reverse journey in the path of their former flight. They passed through woods and tiny prairies, crossed little brooks, and kept a sharp watch for landmarks. Henry said at last that they had come to the place where Jim Hart had been forced to turn aside. "Do you reckon that Jim wuz hit hard?" asked Shif'less Sol. "I hope not," replied Henry earnestly, "and the chances are all in his favor. Stray bullets in the dark don't often kill." "I figger," said Tom Ross, "that he waded up this little creek that comes down here, and turns off to the south. It would be the thing that any man would naterally do to hide his trail." "We'll jest go along it," said Shif'less Sol, "rememberin' that Jim is pow'ful long legged an' ef he took a notion would step out o' the water an' up a cliff ten feet high." They followed the creek nearly a mile, but did not see any place at which a man would be likely to emerge. It was a swift stream coming down from a mass of high hills, the blue outline of which they saw three or four miles ahead of them. "It's my belief," said Henry, pointing to the blue hills, "that Jim's in there." "It's pow'ful likely," said Shif'less Sol. "Injuns tryin' to take a fort an' a fleet ain't likely to bother about a pile o' hills layin' out o' their path. They go fur what they want." "Best place fur him," said Tom Ross. They now left the bed of the stream and advanced swiftly toward the hills, which turned from blue to green as they came nearer. They were high and stony, but clothed densely in dark forest. The shiftless one had truly said that Indians on the war path, seeking the greatest prizes that had ever come within their reach, would not bother about a patch of such isolated and difficult country. It was a long walk through the forest, but the day was come, and the air made for briskness and elasticity. They searched occasionally by the side of the brook for a footstep preserved in mud, or any other sign that Long Jim had passed, but they found nothing. Nevertheless, they still felt sure of their original opinion. Jim would have lain in the bush through the night, and to make for the hills when he saw them in the morning was the most natural thing to do. When they came finally to the hills, they found them exceedingly steep, jagged masses, thrown together in the wildest fashion. "Ef we don't find Long Jim in here," said Shif'less Sol, "then I'm a mighty bad guesser." They sought everywhere for a trail but found none, and at last, crossing a sharp crest of rock, they saw before them a little valley completely hidden by cliff and forest from any but the closest observer. They began the descent of the slope, passing among trees and thick bushes, and Henry, who was in the lead, suddenly stopped and, smiling broadly, pointed straight ahead. "If that isn't the stamp and seal of Long Jim, then I'm blind," he said. They saw a small snare for rabbits, made by bending over a stout bush, to which was attached a cord of strong deerskin, cut perhaps from Long Jim's clothing. This cord was fastened around a little circle of sticks set in the ground. A little wooden trigger in the center of the circle was baited with the leaves which rabbits love. When Mr. Foolish Rabbit reached over for his favorite food, he sprang the trigger, the noose slipped, caught him around the neck, the released bush flew back with a jerk, and he was quickly choked to death. "That's Long Jim all over," said Shif'less Sol admiringly. "I kin see him in that buckskin cord, them sticks, an' that noose. Too weak to go huntin', he sets a trap. Oh, he's smart, he is! An' he's been ketchin' somethin', too. See this bit o' rabbit fur." "Trust Long Jim to get something to eat," said Henry, "and to cook it the best way that ever could be found. We must be coming pretty close to him now." "Yes, here are signs of his trail," said Tom Ross. "I'd bet my scalp that he's got a dozen uv these snares scattered around through the valley, an' that he's livin' on the fat uv the land without ever firin' a shot. Stop, do you smell that?" They stopped and sniffed the air inquiringly. A faint, delicate aroma tickled the nostrils of all three. It was soothing and pleasant, and they sniffed again. "Now, that is Long Jim an' no mistake," whispered Shif'less Sol. "It's shorely his sign." "Seems to me you're right," Henry whispered back, "but we mustn't make any mistake." They crept down the slope, among the bushes, with such care that neither could hear either of the other two moving. All the while that enchanting aroma grew stronger. Shif'less Sol, despite his caution, was obliged to raise his nose and take another sniff. "It's Long Jim! It must be Long Jim! It can't be anything else but Long Jim at work!" he murmured. After ten minutes of creeping and crawling down the slope, Henry softly pulled aside a thick bush and pointed with a long forefinger. In a little dip, almost a pit, a long-legged, long-bodied man sat before a rude oven built of stones evidently gathered from the surrounding slopes. Within the oven smoldered coals which gave out so little smoke that it was not discernible above the bushes. On the flat top of the oven strips of rabbit steak were broiling, and from them came the aroma which had been so potent a charm in the nostrils of the three. The long-legged man sat in Turkish fashion, and his eyes were intent upon his oven and steaks. One hand rested in a rude sling, but the other held a stick with which he now and then poked up the coals. It was obvious that he was interested and absorbed as no other task in the world could interest and absorb him. The soul of an artist was poured into his work. He lingered over every detail, and saw that it was right. "Now, ain't that old Long Jim through an' through?" whispered Shif'less Sol to Henry. "Did you ever see a feller love cookin' ez he does? It's his gift. He's done clean furgot all about Injuns, the fort, the fleet, us, an' everything except them thar rabbit steaks. Lemme call him back to the world, that good, old, ornery, long-legged, contrary Jim Hart, the best cook on this here roun' rollin' earth o' ours." "Go ahead," said Henry. Shif'less Sol raised his rifle and took a long, deliberate aim at Long Jim. Then he called out in a sharp voice: "Give 'em up!" Long Jim sprang to his feet in astonishment, and uttered the involuntary question: "Give up what?" "Them rabbit steaks," replied the shiftless one, emerging from the bushes, but still covering Long Jim with his rifle. "An' don't you be slow about it, either. What right hev you, Jim Hart, to tickle my nose with sech smells, an' then refuse to give to me the cause o' it? That would be cruelty to animals, it would." "Sol Hyde! and Henry Ware! and Tom Ross!" exclaimed Long Jim joyfully. "So you hev come at last! But you're late." They grasped his hand, one by one, and shook his good arm heartily. "Was that where you caught the bullet?" asked Henry, looking at the bad arm. Long Jim nodded. "Broke?" Long Jim shook his head. "Thought so at first," he replied, "but it ain't. Bruised more'n anything else, but it's been terrible sore. Gittin' better now, though. I'll hev the use uv it back all right in a week." "It seems that you haven't been faring so badly," said Henry. Long Jim looked around the little valley and grinned in appreciation. "I knowed I couldn't do anything about the fort with this bad arm," he said. "Weakened ez I wuz, I wuzn't shore I could swim the river with one arm, an' even ef I ever reached the fort I'd be more likely to be a hindrance than a help. So I found this place, an' here I've stayed, restin' an' recuperatin' an' waitin' fur you fellers to come back. I didn't want to shoot, 'cause them that I didn't want to hear might hear it, an' 'cause, too, I knowed how to set traps an' snares." "We saw one of them as we came along," said Henry. "They've worked bee-yu-tiful," said Long Jim, an ecstatic look coming over his face. "I've caught rabbits an' a 'possum. Then I set to work and built this oven, an' I've learned a new way to broil rabbit steaks on the hot stones. It's shorely somethin' wonderful. It keeps all the juice in 'em, an' they're so tender they jest melt in your mouth, an' they're so light you could eat a hundred without ever knowin' that you had 'em." "That's what I'm thinkin'," said Shif'less Sol, reaching for his rifle. "Gimme about twenty o' them steaks quicker'n you kin wink an eye, Jim Hart, or I'll let you hev it." Long Jim, the soul of an artist still aflame within him, willingly produced the steaks, and all ate, finding that they were what he had claimed them to be. But he waited eagerly for the verdict, his head bent forward and his eyes expectant. "Best I ever tasted," said Henry. Long Jim's eyes flashed. "Finer than silk," said Shif'less Sol. Sparks leaped from Long Jim's eyes. "Could eat 'em forever without stoppin'," said Tom Ross. Long Jim's eyes blazed. "I couldn't 'a' stood it ef you fellers hadn't liked my finest 'chievement," he said. "Shows you've got more sense than I thought you had." "Jim feels like Columbus did that time he discovered Ameriky," said Shif'less Sol. "Knowed it wuz thar all the time, but wanted other people to know that he knowed it wuz thar." "It's a snug place, Jim, this little valley, or rather pit, of yours," said Henry, "but we must leave it at once and find Paul." "That's shorely so," said Long Jim, casting a regretful look at his oven, "but I wish we could come back here an' stay a while after we found him. That thar oven don't look much, but it works pow'ful. I b'lieve I could make some more uv them Columbus dis-kiv-er-ies with it." "I don't think we will be back this way for a long time," said Henry, "but your oven will keep. Sol is compelled to bear a similar sorrow. He has the snuggest nest in the side of a cliff that ever you did see, but he has left it just as it is, and he hopes to see it again some day." "That bein' the case," said Long Jim, "I think I kin stand it, since Sol here is my brother in sorrow." They left the deep little valley, although Jim Hart cast more than one longing glance behind, and began the search for Paul, who had been the first to fall by the way. The four were a unit in believing that this would be the most difficult task of all. Paul, although he had learned much, was not a natural woodsman in the sense that the others were. Henry had reckoned all the time upon certain laws of the forest which Sol, Tom, and Jim would obey. He was with them like the skilled boxer meeting the skilled opponent, but Paul might at any time strike a blow contrary to science, and therefore unexpected. Although Paul had not been wounded, Henry felt more apprehension about him than he had ever felt about any one of the others, because of this very uncertainty. They returned upon the back trail, and with four minds and four pairs of eyes working, they had no great difficulty in locating the point at which Paul had left them. Like most of the country it was heavily wooded, and one could easily find a hiding place so long as the dark lasted. They located their own line of flight, not because any visible signs of it were left, but because they remembered the region through which they had run. "Here is whar Paul turned away an' jumped into the bushes," said Shif'less Sol, "an' he shorely didn't go fur, 'cause he wuz pow'ful tired. I reckon Paul wuz tired enough to last him fur a month." They turned to the eastward, and about a half mile further on, after long search, they found a place in the densest bushes that showed signs of crushing. Some twigs were broken, and several of the smaller bushes, bent to one side by a heavy body, had not returned to their normal position. "Here is where Paul laid down to rest," said Henry. "An' he wuz so tired he fell asleep an' slep' all night," said Shif'less Sol. "He shorely did," said Tom Ross, "'cause these bushes wuz bent so long they ain't had time to straighten out ag'in." "An' him with nothin' to eat the next mornin', poor feller," said Long Jim sympathetically. They were able to follow Paul's trail a rod or so by the bent bushes, but then they lost it, and they stood conferring. Henry's eye fell upon a mass of wild flowers on a distant hill slope, red, blue, and delicate pink. He admired them at first, and then his eyes brightened with sudden comprehension. "Paul has always loved beautiful things," he said to his comrades. "He does not forget to see them even in moments of danger, and he would naturally go toward that slope over there covered with wild flowers." Shif'less Sol slapped his knee in approval. "You do reason fine, Henry," he said. "Paul would shorely make fur them flowers, jest 'cause he couldn't help it." They invaded the flower field, and, as all of them confidently expected, they saw signs that Paul had been there. Some of the flowers were broken down, but not many--Paul would take care not to injure them in such a way. But Henry's shrewd eye noticed where several had been cut from the stem. Paul had done this with his hunting knife, and probably he had thrust one or more of the flowers into his buckskin hunting coat. When they crossed the flower field the trail was lost again. "Now," said Long Jim, "how are you goin' to tell what Paul wuz thinkin' when he wuz comin' 'long here?" Henry and Shif'less Sol wrinkled their brows in thought. "Paul was not wounded," he replied. "After his night's sleep--and probably he did not wake up until long after daylight had come--he was thoroughly rested and as strong as ever. After making sure of his direction from the hill top here, he would go toward the river, thinking it his duty yet to reach the fort if he could." "An' naterally," said Shif'less Sol, "he'd go whar the walkin' wuz easiest, but whar thar wuz kiver so he couldn't be seen by warriors. So he'd choose the easy slope under them big trees thar, an' go south toward that valley." "Reckon you're right," said Long Jim in a convinced tone. "That's just about what Paul would do." They descended the slope, an easy one, for a quarter of a mile, and came to a valley thickset with bushes and blackberry vines containing sharp briars. "Paul wouldn't go crashin' into a briar patch," said Long Jim. "He wouldn't, an' fur that reason he'd take this path," said Tom Ross, pointing to a narrow opening in the bushes and briars. It was evidently a trail made by animals, trodden in the course of time in order to avoid a long circuit about the thicket, but they followed it, believing that Paul had gone that way. When nearly through, Henry saw something lying in the path. He stooped and held up the stem of a rose with one or two faded petals left upon it. "It fell out o' his coat, an' he never noticed it," said Shif'less Sol. "Right, uv course," said Tom Ross. Not far beyond the thicket was a brook of uncommon beauty, a clear little stream bordered by wild flowers. "Paul would stop here to drink an' look at all these here bee-yu-ti-ful scenes," said Shif'less Sol. "He would," said Henry, "and, being terribly hungry, he would then climb that wild plum tree there beyond the oaks." "Might throw up a stick an' knock 'em down," said Long Jim. "There is no fallen wood here," said Henry, "and, being so ragingly hungry, Paul would not hunt for a stick. He'd shin up that tree at once." "Tree itself will show," said Tom Ross. "And it certainly does show," said Henry as they looked. Little pieces of the bark on the trunk were broken off, evidently by a heavy body as it had struggled upward. Shif'less Sol also found two plum skins on the ground not far from the tree. The shiftless one held them up for the others to see. "Now, ain't that Paul all over?" Tom Ross said. "Knows all about how the Carthygenians fit the French, an' how the English licked the Persians, but here he goes droppin' plum skins on the groun' fur any wanderin' warrior to see." "Don't you go to attackin' Paul," said Shif'less Sol, "'cause Paul is a scholar like me. I ain't had the opportunities fur learnin', but I take naterally to it, 'specially history. So I kin understand why Paul, thinkin' all the time about Hannibal an' Belisarry an' all them great battles a long time ago, should throw his plum skins 'roun' loose, knowin' thar ain't no Carthygenians an' Persians about these days to see 'em." "Paul is shorely a good boy," said Tom Ross, "an' ef he wants to throw plum skins, he kin. Now, we've got to figger on what he'll do next." "Let's go to the top of that hill over there," said Henry, "and take a look at the country." The survey showed a tangled mass of forest and low hills, which seemed to be monotonously alike in every direction. They could not see the Ohio from their summit. "I think it likely," said Henry, "that Paul has got lost. Maybe he has been wandering about in a circle. I heard my Indians say that one lost on the Great Plains often did that." "Might be a good guess," said Shif'less Sol. "Let's go back to the plum tree and try to take up his trail." Paul's trail from the plum tree led in a northeasterly direction, and they were sure now that he was lost, as the river lay to the south. But the trail could not be followed more than twenty yards, and then they held another council. "Bein' lost," said Tom Ross, "it ain't likely that he's ever got more'n two or three miles from here. Been spendin' his time goin' up an' down an' back an' forth. Ef we'd fire a rifle he might hear it." Henry shook his head. "I wouldn't," he said. "We would be just as likely to draw the Indians upon us, and we can find him, anyhow." "Guess you're right," said Tom. "S'pose we spread out in a long line an' go huntin' through the thickets, follerin' the general direction that his little piece of trail showed." The suggestion was approved, and in ten minutes a whistle from Tom Ross drew them to a central point. "Paul killed a wild turkey here," said Tom. "These woods seem to be full uv 'em, an' he lighted a fire with his flint and steel. Had a hard time doin' it, too. Knelt down here so long tryin' to knock out a blaze that the prints uv his knees haven't gone away yet." "But he did get it to goin' at last," said Shif'less Sol, "an' he cooked his turkey an' et it, too. Here's the wishbone, all white an' shinin', jest ez he throwed it down." "And down here is the spring where he picked the turkey after he heated it on the fire, and where he washed it," said Henry. "Paul was so hungry he never thought about hiding the feathers, and a lot of 'em are left, caught in the grass and bushes." "I don't blame Paul," said Long Jim, his gastronomic soul afire. "Ef I wuz hungry ez he must have been, I'd hev et it ef all the warriors uv all the tribes on this continent wuz standin' lookin' on." "Paul felt a pow'ful sight better after eatin'," said Shif'less Sol, "an' he took the rest uv the turkey with him. Seems likely to me that Paul would follow the brook, thinkin' it would flow into the Ohio." "That's almost a certainty," said Henry. They went with the stream, but it was one of those brooks common throughout the West--it came out of the ground, and into the ground it went again, not more than half a mile from the point at which they took up its course. The stream disappeared under a natural stone arch in the side of the hill. "Paul was greatly disappointed," said Henry, "and of course he went to the top of the hill to see if he could get a reckoning." But the new hill merely revealed the same character of country. "Seein' that he wuzn't gittin' anywhar, Paul, o' course, changed his direction," said Shif'less Sol. "Naturally," said Henry. "Now which way do you figger that he would go?" said Tom Ross. "Down through that big grove there," replied Henry. "Having killed one turkey, he'd be on the look-out for another, and he knows that they roost in tall trees." "Looks to me like a kind o' mind readin'," said Shif'less Sol, "but I think it's right. Lead on, Henry. Whar A-killus Ware will go, the dauntless soul o' Hector Hyde ain't afeard to foller." They searched for some time among the trees, and then Henry pointed to a great elm. A section of bark nearly a foot square had been cut from it. The bark was lying on the ground, but the inner lining had been clipped from it and was gone. "I jedge that this wuz done about a day ago," said Shif'less Sol. "Now, what in thunder did Paul do it fur?" "Suppose you ask him," said Henry, who had gone on ahead, but who had now turned back and rejoined his comrades. Astonished, they looked at him. "He's sitting in a little valley over there, hard at work," said Henry. "Come and see, but don't make any noise. It would be a pity to disturb him." Henry endeavored to speak lightly, but he felt an immense relief. They followed him silently and looked cautiously into a pleasant little glade. There they beheld Paul, alive, and to all appearances strong and well. But Paul was absorbed in some great task. He sat upon the ground. His rifle lay on the grass beside him. A sheet of white was supported upon his knees, and his face was bent over it, while he drew lines there with the point of his hunting knife. So intensely interested was he, and so deeply concentrated was his mind, that he did not look up at all. "It's the inner bark of the elm tree, and he's drawing something on it," said Henry. Jim Hart stirred. His knee struck a little stick that broke with a snap. Paul heard it, and instantly he threw down the bark, snatched up his rifle, and began to investigate. "He'll come up here spyin'," whispered Shif'less Sol. "While he's lookin', let's steal his bark away from him an' see what's on it." "We'll do it," said Henry, and while Paul, rifle in hand, ascended the slope to see what had caused the noise, they deftly slipped away, descending to the other side of the glade. When Paul entered the bushes, Shif'less Sol ran out, picked up the roll of bark, and returned silently with it to his comrades, who lay in a dense thicket. Filled with curiosity, all looked at it promptly. "It's a map," whispered Henry, "and he's trying to locate himself in that way. See, this long line is the Ohio, here is the route of our own flight, this place is where he thinks he left us, and this line, I suppose, shows his own course after he dropped out. This deep mark here indicates where he now is. It's pretty good, but he's got everything turned around. South is where east ought to be, and north has taken the place of west." "But what good is a map ef it don't take you anywhar?" asked Jim Hart. "That's a plum' foolish question fur you to ask, Jim Hart," said Shif'less Sol disdainfully. "Great scholars like me an' Paul always draw maps. What does it matter ef you don't git anywhar? Thar's your map, anyhow." "Sh!" whispered Tom Ross. "He's comin' back, havin' diskivered that thar's nothin' in the bushes. Now what'll he do?" Paul, his mind relieved, returned to the glade, put back his rifle on the grass, and looked for the precious map that was costing him so much time and thought. It was not there, and great was the boy's amazement. He had certainly laid it down at that very spot, and he had not been gone a minute. He looked all around, and even up into the air, and the four in the brush were forced to smile at his puzzled face. Paul stood staring at the place where his precious map had lain, but where it lay no more, and his amazement deepened. They admired Paul and had a deep affection for him, but they thought that their little joke might keep him nearer to the earth when he was in a dangerous Indian country. "Mebbe he thinks Alfred the Great an' his Mogul Tartars hev come an' took it away," whispered Shif'less Sol. Then Paul held up his hand. "Feelin' o' the wind," said Shif'less Sol. "He hez now come to the conclusion that the wind took his map away, and so he thinks ef he kin find out which way it's blowin' he kin find out which way the map hez blowed, too." Paul concluded that the light wind was blowing toward the east, and going in that direction he began to search for his map among the bushes that enclosed the glade. The moment his figure was hidden Henry whispered to the others: "Come on!" They came silently from the thicket, ran to the center of the glade, where Henry, kneeling down, spread out the map on the ground and began to examine it with the greatest attention. The others knelt beside him, and they also became absorbed in a study of the map. The four heads almost touched over the sheet of bark. Paul, failing to find his map in the bushes, turned back to the glade. Then he stood transfixed with astonishment. He saw four figures, the backs of two, and the heads and shoulders of two more. Heads, backs, and shoulders were familiar. Could it really be they? He winked his eyes rapidly to clear away any motes. Yes, it was they, the four faithful comrades with whom he had roved and hunted and fought so long. He uttered a shout of joy and rushed toward them. Paul's hands were shaken so often and so hard that his fingers were numbed. A little moisture gathered on the eyelids of the sensitive boy when he saw how glad they were to see him. "You've found me," he said, "and it's so good to see you again that I enjoy with you the little trick you've played on me." "Pow'ful fine map, this o' yours, Paul," said Shif'less Sol, holding up the sheet of bark. "'Pears to me you kin find everything on it, 'cept whar you are." "That was just the trouble with it, Sol," said Paul frankly. "It looked fine to me, but I couldn't make it work." "Well," said Henry, "here we are, together again, all five of us, ready for anything. Isn't that so, boys, and isn't it fine?" "Shorely," said Shif'less Sol, speaking for them all. "Now, Paul," said Henry, "what were you trying to do?" "I had an idea that I could reach the river," said Paul. "If I did so, then I might be able to swim across it in the night, and take a warning to Fort Prescott, if it wasn't too late." "Got anything to eat left?" asked Tom Ross. "I've had wild fruit," replied Paul, "and I shot a turkey, the last of which went this morning, but I was hoping for more luck of that kind." "Well," said Tom, "we, too, hev about et up all that we had. So we'll hev to take a little hunt together. 'Twon't take long. Country's full uv game." They shot a deer within an hour, feasted abundantly and retained enough more to last them several days. "Wish we had Jim Hart's oven here," said Shif'less Sol as they ate. "While Jim wuz waitin', Paul, he made more improvements in the art o' cookin'." Long Jim grinned with appreciation. It was a compliment that he liked. "Now," said Henry, "the next thing for us to do is to find the fleet. Mr. Boone told me that it was being held up in a narrow part of the river by the Indian sharpshooters. I suppose that Adam Colfax doesn't want to lose any more men for fear that he will grow short-handed before he reaches Pittsburgh." "But he's got to get through, an' he's got to help the fort, too," said Shif'less Sol. "That's so," said Henry, "and we must find him just as soon as we can." Rising, they sped toward the southwest. CHAPTER XVIII THE HALTING OF THE FLEET Adam Colfax had been making slow progress up the Ohio, far slower than he had hoped, and his brave soul was worn by hardships and troubled by apprehensions. A great hurricane had caused him serious alarm for his smaller boats. They had been saved from sinking with the greatest difficulty, and the precious stores had to be kept well and guarded well. He was grieved and troubled, too, over the disappearance of the five, the valiant five who had continually been doing him such great service from the very moment of the start at New Orleans. He liked them all, and he mourned them for their own sakes as well. He also realized quickly that he had lost more than the five themselves. His fleet seemed to have come into a very nest of dangers. Men who went ashore to hunt never returned. At narrow points in the river they were fired upon from the dense forest on the bank, and if they sent a strong force ashore, they found nothing. If they camped at night, bullets drew blood or scattered the coals at their feet. Invisible but none the less terrible foes hung upon them continually, and weakened their spirits. The men in the fleet were willing and eager to fight a foe whom they could see, but to be stung to death by invisible hornets was the worst of fates. Adam Colfax missed the "eyes of the fleet" more and more every day. If Henry Ware and Shif'less Sol and their comrades had been there, they could have discovered these unseen foes, and they could have told him what to do. At night he often saw signal fires, blazing on either side of the Ohio and, although he did not know what they meant, he felt sure that they were lighted by his enemies, who were talking to one another. Two or three of his men who had been originally woodsmen of the great valley told him that the allied tribes had come to destroy him. They had seen certain signs in the forest that could not be mistaken. The woods were full of warriors. They had heard, too, that further on was a fort on the river bank which the Indians had probably taken by this time, and which they would certainly use against the fleet. Adam Colfax wished once more for the five, who were more familiar than anybody else with the country, and who were such magnificent scouts. Never had he felt their absence more. He came at last to the narrowest place in the river that he had yet seen, enclosed on either bank by jutting hills. As the fleet approached this watery pass a tremendous fire was opened upon it from either shore. The bullets not only came from the level of the water, but from the tops of the hills, and the sides of the boat offered no protection against the latter. The men of the fleet returned the fire, but their lead was sent into the forest and the undergrowth, and they did not know whether it hit anything except inoffensive wood and earth. Adam Colfax drew back. He felt that he might have forced the pass, but the loss in men and stores would be too great. It was not his chief object to fight battles even if every battle should prove a victory. When he withdrew, the forest relapsed into silence, but when he attempted the passage again the next day he was attacked by a similar, though greater, fire. He was now in a terrible quandary. He did not wish another such desperate battle as that which he had been forced to fight on the Lower Mississippi. He might win it, but there would be a great expenditure of men and ammunition, and at this vast distance from New Orleans neither could be replaced. He drew back to a wider part of the river and decided to wait a day or two, that is, to take counsel of delay. Adam Colfax was proud of his fleet and the great amount of precious stores that it carried. The reinforcements after the Battle of the Bayou had raised it to more than its original strength and value. All the men had recovered from their wounds, and everybody was in splendid health. He had made up his mind that fleet and cargo should be delivered intact at Pittsburgh, otherwise he could never consider his voyage wholly a success. The night after he fell back from the watery pass he held a council of his captains and guides on his own flat boat, which had been named the _Independence_. He had with him Adolphe Drouillard, a brave and devoted French Creole from New Orleans; James Tilden, a Virginian; Henry Eckford, a south Carolinian; Charles Turner, a New Yorker, and William Truesdale, and Eben Barber, New Englanders, and besides these, Nat Thrale and Ned Lyon, the best of the scouts and guides since the disappearance of the five, were present. The fleet was anchored in the middle of the river, out of rifle shot for the present, but Adam Colfax knew very well that the enemy was in the dense wood lining either bank. He had sent skirmishers ashore in the afternoon, and they did not go many yards from the stream before they were compelled to exchange shots with the foe. Thrale and Lyon, who were on the southern bank, reported that the Indians were still thick in the forest. "They see us here on the river," said Thrale, "an' ef we don't keep well in the middle uv it they kin reach us with thar bullets. But we won't be able to see the least speck or sign uv them." Adam Colfax had sighed when he heard these words, and now, as his little council gathered, it seemed that all predictions of evil were about to be fulfilled. A smoky red sun had set behind the hills, and the night, true to the promise of the sun, had come on dark and cloudy. It was not exactly the cloudiness of rain; it was rather that of heat and oppressiveness, and it had in it a certain boding quality that weighed heavily upon the spirits of Adam Colfax. The boats were anchored in a double row in the exact center of the stream, swaying just a little with the gentle current. All those carrying sails had taken them down. Adam Colfax's boat was outside the two lines, slightly nearer to the southern shore, but still beyond rifle shot. While the leader sat in the stern of his boat waiting for the two scouts who were last to come, he surveyed the fleet with the anxious eyes of one who carries a great responsibility. In the darkness the boats were not much more than dark lines on the darker river. Now and then they were lighted up by flares of heat lightning, but the eyes of Adam Colfax turned away from them to the banks, those high banks thick with forest and undergrowth, which contained so many dangers, real dangers, not those of the imaginary kind, as he had ample proof. Now and then a shot, apparently as a taunt, was fired from either shore, and two or three times he heard the long, whining yell which is the most ominous of human cries. This, too, he knew, was a taunt, but in every case, cunning, ferocity and power lay behind the taunt, which was another truth that he knew. They were all soon gathered on the deck of the little _Independence_, and the faces of the two scouts who came last were very grave. "What do you think of it, Lyon?" said Adam Colfax. Lyon gave his head one brief shake. "We're right in the middle of the biggest hornet's nest the country ever saw," he replied. "Looks ez ef we couldn't git past without another terrible fight." "And you, Drouillard?" Adam Colfax asked of the Creole. "Eet ees hard to go on," replied Drouillard in his broken English, "but we cannot go back at all. So eet ees true that we must go on. Eet ees is the only thing we can do." "But how?" said Adam Colfax. "We cannot use up all the ammunition that we have in these battles. If we were to reach Pittsburgh in that condition we'd be a burden instead of a help." "But as Mr. Drouillard says, we can't go back," said Truesdale. They sat dumbly a minute or two, no one knowing what to propose, and all looking toward the southern bank, where they believed the chief danger to lie. The dark green forest made a high black line there in the night, a solid black until it was broken by a pink dot, which they knew to be the flash of a rifle. "They are jeering at us again," said Adam Colfax. "'Tain't no jeer, either," said Thrale, as five or six pink dots appeared where the one had been, and faint sounds came to their ears. Lyon confirmed the opinion of his brother scout. "So many wouldn't let off their guns at once jest fur fun," he said. "I wonder what in tarnation it means!" The spray of pink dots did not reappear, and they turned their minds once more to their great problem, which seemed as insoluble as ever. The flowing of the current, gentle but deep and strong, swung the _Independence_ a little further from the two lines of boats, but those on board, in their absorption, did not notice it. Three or four minutes passed, and there was the report of a rifle shot from the southern bank, followed an instant later by another. Two bullets splashed in the water near the _Independence_. "We'd better pull back a leetle," said Drouillard. "We are drifting within range of ze warriors." "So we are," said Lyon, laying his hand on a sweep. "Now, what under the moon is that?" He pointed to a dark object, a mere black dot on the dusky surface of the river. But it was not a stationary dot, and in its movement it came toward the _Independence_. "Shorely they don't mean to come swimmin' to attack us," said the other guide, Thrale. "That's a human head on top uv the water an' thar's a body belongin' to it under the water. An' see, thar's another head behind it, an' behind that another, an' likely thar's more." "Eet ees certainlee the warriors trying to reach us on the water," said Adolphe Drouillard, and, raising his rifle, he took aim at the first swimming head. "Hold a little," said Adam Colfax, pushing down the barrel of the weapon. "Look, as they come closer now, you can see a fourth and a fifth head and then no more. Five swimming heads on the water must mean something, I hope; yet I'm afraid I hope too much." The foremost of the swimming figures raised a hand out of the water, and held it high in token of amity. Instantly the four behind did the same thing. "Most amazing," said Adolphe Drouillard. "Ees eet possible that they are friends?" "I think it not only possible, but probable," said Adam Colfax with a rising tone of joy in his voice. "They are near now, and that first head looks familiar to me. I devoutly hope that I'm not mistaken." The leader's head, propelled by the powerful strokes of the arms below, came within a yard or two of the _Independence_, and some stray rays of the moon, falling upon it, brought it from dusk into light. It was the face of a young river god, strong features cut cleanly, a massive projecting chin, and long yellow hair from which the water flowed in streams. The head was raised from the water, the hands grasped the edge of the boat, and the figure sprang lightly on board, standing perfectly erect for a moment, while the water ran from his fringed hunting shirt, his moccasins, the knife and tomahawk at his belt, and flowed away over the boards. "Henry Ware alive!" exclaimed Adam Colfax, springing forward and seizing the hand which dripped water from the tip of every finger. "An' don't furgit me," said Shif'less Sol, as he leaped aboard and stood beside Henry, a tiny cataract pouring from every seam of his clothing. "Nor me," said Tom Ross briefly, taking his place with his comrades. "An' I'm here, too," said Jim Hart, uprearing his thin six feet four. "So am I," said Paul, as he drew himself over the rail of the _Independence_. "All of you alive and well!" exclaimed Adam Colfax, departing for once from his New Hampshire calm. "All returned from the dead together! I feel as if an army had come to our relief!" "We ain't been dead," said Shif'less Sol. "An' we ain't been havin' sech a hard time, either. It's true three o' us hev been troubled by Injun bullets, but Jim Hart thar spent his time inventin' a new way o' cookin' rabbits, which will keep him happy for the next five years." "And he could not spend his spare time in a better way," said Adolphe Drouillard. "Ze man who invents a new wholesome dish ees a blessing to hees country." "Shake, friend," said Long Jim, holding out a huge hand still dripping with portions of the Ohio, and Adolphe Drouillard, without hesitation, shook. "Them two shots that hit in the water close to us wuz fired at you, wuzn't they?" asked Thrale. "Yes, they were aimed at us," replied Henry, "and so was the little volley on the bank, which you must have heard. As you probably know, there's a fort and settlement not many miles on called Fort Prescott. We've warned it, and the garrison has also beaten off all attacks. But all the allied tribes of the north are here, and they expect to catch you, the fort, and everything else, in their net. They are led by all their great chiefs, but Timmendiquas, the White Lightning of the Wyandots, is the soul of the attack. We have seen his vigilance in our effort to reach the river. We were discovered, fired upon by a party, although their bullets missed us in the dark, and then we had to swim for it." "You must have dry clothing at once," said Adam Colfax. "We won't mind changin'," said Shif'less Sol, "an' we'd like to dry our rifles an' have 'em reloaded ez soon ez you kin." "We'll have that done for you," said Adam Colfax, looking at them with admiration. They resigned their weapons to his men, although they had succeeded in keeping their powder dry in tightly closed horns. Adam Colfax then led the way to his cabin, where dry clothing was brought them, and food and drink were given. Then Henry told to the little, but deeply interested, company the tale of their wanderings and adventures. "It certainly seems as if Providence were watching over you," said the devout New Englander. "We have sometimes thought so ourselves," said Paul with the utmost sincerity. "This Timmendiquas, as you describe him, is a most formidable chief," said Adam Colfax, pondering, "and the renegade, Girty, too, is a very dangerous man. As I see that we shall have to fight them, I would spare this fleet further loss if I could." "We will have to fight," said Drouillard, "eef not to-night, then to-morrow, and eef not to-morrow, then next week." "I think he tells a fact, sir," said Henry to Adam Colfax. "But we can rely upon the fort making a powerful defense. Major Braithwaite is a brave and active man, and we must not forget, sir, that Daniel Boone and Simon Kenton are somewhere near in the woods. If they have gathered their forces, we can gather ours, too." "That is so," said Adam Colfax, as the council and the five returned to the deck of the _Independence_. The council might have been depressed, but the five were not. Warm food and warm clothing restored them physically, and here they were with the fleet once more, meanwhile having done many things well. "Ain't it fine fur a lazy man like me to be back on a boat," said Shif'less Sol in a low voice to Paul. "Nuthin' to do but set still an' talk, nuthin' to do but eat an' drink what's brought to you, nuthin' to do but sleep when you're sleepy, no Injuns shootin' at you, no havin' to run on your legs 'till you drop. Everything done fur you. It's a life fur me, but I don't git much av it." Paul laughed at Shif'less Sol's tone of deep satisfaction. "Yes, it's good, Sol," he rejoined, "but it won't last. We won't have more than a day of it." The face of the shiftless one took on a look of deep disgust. "Nuthin' good never lasts more'n a day," he said, "an' ef it does last more'n a day you gen'ally git tired o' it." Adam Colfax resumed his watch of the shores. Like Major Braithwaite, he had a pair of powerful glasses, and he sought with their aid to detach something from the black wall of the southern shore. "I can make out nothing," he said in disappointing tones, after a long look, "except a bright spot which must be a fire a little distance back in the woods. You have keen eyes, Henry, my boy, see what you can see." Henry also saw the "bright spot," and he was quite sure that it was a fire. Then he took a look at the heavens, now a solid expanse of cloud behind which the stars twinkled unseen. A slight wind was blowing up the river, and its touch was damp on his face. When the lightning flared, as it still did now and then, he saw that it was not mere heat lightning but the token of something graver. "I have a suggestion to make to you, sir," he said to Adam Colfax. "Unless I am mistaken, a storm is coming. Is it not so, Tom, and you, Sol?" "It is," they replied together. "All the signs are sayin' so out loud." "In an hour it will be here," resumed Henry. "The wind is blowing up river, and I don't think it will change. That favors us. In the darkness and tumult of the storm we ought to force the pass. It is our best chance, sir." He spoke very earnestly, and the rest of the five nodded their assent. Adam Colfax was impressed, but he wished to have the endorsement of his lieutenants. "What do you say, gentlemen?" he asked, turning to them. "We make zee passage, and we make eet queek to-night, as zee boy says," replied the brave and impulsive Drouillard. Adam Colfax turned to the Virginian and the Northerners. All nodded in affirmation. Then he turned to the two scouts, Thrale and Lyon. "It's now or never," they said, looking up at the dark skies. "Then it shall be done," said Adam Colfax firmly. "We can't afford to delay here any longer, nor can we permit this fort to fall. Our need to hold Kentucky is scarcely less great than our need to help our hard-pressed brethren in the east." Then he turned to the five, in whose valor, skill and fidelity he had the utmost confidence. "Do you wish to remain on the _Independence_," he said, "or would you prefer another place in the fleet?" Shif'less Sol, the talkative and resourceful, looked at Henry. Tom Ross, the man of few words but resourceful, also looked at Henry. The gaze of Long Jim was turned in the same direction, and that of Paul followed. It was an unconscious revelation of the fact that all always looked upon Henry Ware as their leader, despite his youth. "If you don't mind, sir," said Henry Ware to Adam Colfax, "give us a boat to ourselves, a small one that we can row, and we will advance somewhere near the head of the fleet." "The boat will be ready for you in five minutes," said Adam Colfax. "Whatever you ask we will always give to you, if we can. Meanwhile, I will get the fleet ready, for I see that the time cometh fast." He spoke in almost Biblical words. In fact, there was much in Adam Colfax that made for his resemblance to the heroes of the Old Testament, his rigid piety, his absolute integrity, his willingness to fight in what he thought a just cause, his stern joy when the battle was joined, and his belief--perhaps not avowed--in the doctrine of an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. He quickly summoned a small boat, and the five, refreshed and armed, dropped into it. Then he sent the word throughout the fleet, the _Independence_ moved up near the head of the column, and they prepared to force the watery pass. CHAPTER XIX THE WATERY PASS Henry was at the tiller of their boat, and the others pulled on the oars. Their strong arms soon sent it to a point near the head of the fleet. On the way they passed the _Independence_ and Adam Colfax. Adolphe Drouillard and the others waved their hands to them. Paul, as he rested one hand from his oar, waved in reply, and then put both hands to the oar again. All signs were being fulfilled. The darkness was increasing, and it was more than that of the night. Heavy clouds were moving up toward the zenith and joining in one until they covered all the heavens. Save when the lightning flashed, both shores were hidden in the darkness. The voyagers saw only the turbid current of the Ohio, raised into waves now by the wind which was coming stronger and stronger. "Rough night, but good fur us," said Tom Ross. "And it will be rougher, also better," said Henry. The lightning increased, blazing across the skies with dazzling intensity, and heavy thunder rolled all around the half circle of the horizon. The darkness turned into a bluish gray, ghostly and full of threat. Adam Colfax went through his fleet, warning everybody to cover up the stores and to beware of wind and wave. The men wrapped themselves in their cloaks and protected beneath the same cloaks their rifles and ammunition. But, despite every order, a hum ran through the fleet, and rowers, riflemen, and guides talked in whispers. They recalled the great double battle on the Lower Mississippi, that of the bank and that of the bayou. The crisis now was equally as great, and the surroundings were more ominous. They advanced in the darkness with thunder and lightning about them, and they felt that they were about to face the bravest of all the Indian tribes, led by the greatest of their leaders. The heat was succeeded by a rushing cold wind, the lightning flared brighter than ever, and the thunder became a slow, monotonous, unbroken roll. Paul, despite his work at the oar, shivered a little. "She'll be here in a minute," said Tom Ross. "Be shore you fellers keep your powder dry." It was about midnight, and they were advancing rapidly toward the pass. They saw by the flashes of lightning that the cliffs were rising and the river narrowing. "The hills on both sides here are jest covered with warriors," said Jim Hart. "Thar may be a million uv 'em," said Shif'less Sol, "but in the rain an' a black night they can't shoot straight." The wind began to whistle and its coldness increased. Great cold drops struck the five in the face. "Here she is!" said Tom Ross. Then the rain swept down, not in a wild gush but steady, persistent, and full of chill. Lightning and thunder alike ceased. Every boat saw only the outline of the one before it and the rolling current of the Ohio beneath it. Noise had ceased on the fleet at the stern command of Adam Colfax and his lieutenants. The men talked only in whispers, there was no flapping of sail, only the swash of the oars in the water, drowned by the wind. Since the lightning had ceased, both shores were lost permanently in the darkness, and the five, who now knew this part of the river thoroughly, moved up to the head of the line, leading the way. After them came the _Independence_ and then the fleet in the same double line formation that it had used before. "Do you see anything on either side, Henry?" asked Tom Ross, raising his back from the oar. "Nothing, Tom," replied Henry, "and it seems strange to me. So great a chief as Timmendiquas would foresee such an attempt as this of ours, at such a time." "We ain't goin' to git through without a fight, rain or no rain, night or no night," said Shif'less Sol in a tone of finality, and Henry silently, but in his heart, agreed with him. They were going so slowly now, to prevent collision or noise, that only Tom Ross and Long Jim rowed. Henry and Shif'less Sol, near the front of the boat, leaned forward and tried to pierce the darkness with their eyes. The rain was beating heavily upon their backs, and they were wet through and through, but at such a time they did not notice it. Their rifles and their powder were dry under their buckskin hunting shirts, and that was sufficient. Henry and Shif'less Sol near the prow bent forward, and, shielding their eyes from the rain with their hands, never moved. The blackest darkness even can be pierced in time by a persistent gaze, and, as the channel of the river narrowed still further, Henry thought he saw something blacker upon the black waters. He turned his head a little and met the eyes of Shif'less Sol. "Do you see it?" he whispered. "I see it," replied the shiftless one, "an' I take it to be an Indian canoe." "So do I," rejoined Henry, "and I think I can see another to the right and another to the left." "Indian sentinels watchin' fur us. The White Lightnin' o' the Wyandots is ez great a chief ez you said he wuz. He ain't asleep." "I can see three more canoes now," said Henry as they proceeded further. "They must have a line of them across the river. Look, they see us, too!" They saw an Indian in the canoe nearest them rise suddenly to his knees, fire a rifle in the air, and utter a long warning whoop, which rose high above the rush of the rain. All the Indian canoes disappeared almost instantly, as if they had been swallowed up in the black water. But Henry and his comrades knew very well that they had merely been propelled by swift paddles toward the shore. "It's the signal," exclaimed Henry. "We are not to pass without a fight." The five stopped their boat, the _Independence_ also stopped, and the whole fleet stopped with them. The sound of a rifle shot from the right bank rose above the sweep of the wind and the rain, and then from the left bank came a similar report. The five knew at once that these were signals, although they could not yet surmise what they portended. But the fact was soon disclosed. A sudden blaze of light appeared on the high south bank, and then, as if in answer to it, another blaze sprang up on the equally high north bank. Both leaped high, and the roar of the flames could be heard mingling with that of the wind and rain. The effect of this sudden emergence of light from dark was startling. The hills clothed in forest, dripping with water, leaped out, the water turned from black to gray, and the fleet in its two stationary lines could now be seen distinctly. "What a transformation!" exclaimed Paul. The faces of his comrades were lurid in the light from the two great bonfires, taking on an almost unearthly tinge. But Henry Ware said: "It is Timmendiquas! It is his master-stroke! He has built these great bonfires which rain cannot put out in order to place us in the light! On, boys, the faster we go now the better!" Adam Colfax also understood, and, as he gave the signal, the huge sweeps made the _Independence_ leap forward. Behind her the whole fleet advanced rapidly. It was well that they had protected the sides of their boats as much as they could with planks and bales of goods, as a great rifle fire was immediately opened upon them from either bank. Hundreds of bullets splashed the water, buried themselves in the bales or wood, and some struck the rowers. But the fleet did not stop. It went straight on as fast as the men could send it, and few shots were fired in reply. Yet they could see the forms of warriors outlined in black tracery against the fires. Two other fires, equally large, and opposite each other, leaped up further on. Henry had not underrated the greatness of Timmendiquas as a forest general. Even with all the elements against him, he would devise plans for keeping his enemy from forcing the watery pass. Paul was appalled. He had been through scenes of terror, but never such another as this. The Indians had begun to shout, as if to encourage one another and to frighten the foe, and the sweep of the wind and the rain mingling with their yelling gave it an effect tremendously weird and terrifying. Nature also helped man. It began to thunder again, and sudden flashes of lightning blazed across the stream. "Don't fire unless you see something that you can hit," was the order passed down the lines by Adam Colfax, and the fleet pulled steadily on, while the hail of bullets from either shore beat upon it. Many men were wounded, and a few were killed, but the fleet never stopped, going on like a great buffalo with wolves tearing at its flanks, but still strong and dangerous. The smallness of their boat and the fact that it lay so low in the water made for the safety of the five. The glare of the fires threw the bigger vessels into relief, but it was not likely that many of the warriors would notice their own little craft. There was a blaze of lightning so vivid that it made all of them blink, and with a mighty crash a thunderbolt struck among the trees on the south bank. Paul had a vision of a blasted trunk and rending boughs, and his heart missed a few beats, before he could realize that he himself had not been struck down. The whole fleet paused an instant as if hurt and terrified, but in another instant it went on again. Then the bullets began to sing and whistle over their heads in increased volume, and Henry looked attentively at the southern shore. "I think that warriors in canoes are hovering along the bank there and firing upon us. What do you say, Sol?" "I say you're right," replied the shiftless one. "Then we'll let the _Independence_ take the lead for a while," said Henry, "and burn their faces a little for their impudence." The boat turned and slid gently away toward the southern shore. The light cast from the fires was brightest in the middle of the stream, and they were soon in half shadow. "Can you make 'em out clearly, Sol?" asked Henry. "If I ain't mistook, an' I know I ain't," replied the shiftless one, "thar's a little bunch o' canoes right thar at the overhangin' ledge." "Sol is shorely right," added Tom Ross, "an' I kin reach the fust canoe with a bullet." "Then let 'em have it," said Henry. Silent Tom raised his rifle, and with instant aim fired. An Indian uttered a cry and fell from his canoe into the water. Henry and the shiftless one fired with deadly aim, and Long Jim and Paul followed. There was terror and confusion among the canoes, and the survivors, abandoning them, dashed up the bank and into the darkness. They reloaded their rifles, scattered some canoes further up, and then swung back to the fleet, which was still going forward at the same steady, even pace under a ceaseless shower of bullets. It was here that Adam Colfax best showed his courage, tenacity, and judgment. Although his men were being slain or wounded, he would not yet let them return the fire, because there was no certainty that they could do any damage among the warriors in the forest. He might have fired the brass twelve pounders, and they would have made a great noise, but it would have been a waste of powder and ball badly needed in the east. He had run more than one blockade, but this awed even his iron soul. The note of the Indian yell was more like the scream of a savage wild beast than the sound of a human voice, and the mingling of the thunder and lightning with all this noise of battle shook his nerves. But his will made them quiet again, and from the deck of the _Independence_ he continually passed back the word: "Push on! push on! But don't reply to their fire." The two scouts, Thrale and Lyon, with several of the best riflemen, also dropped into a small boat and began to pick off the skirmishers near the water's edge. Two other boats were filled with sharpshooters for the same purpose, and their daring and skill were a great help to the harassed fleet. The pass was several miles in length, and at such a time the fleet was compelled to move slowly. The boats must not crash into and destroy one another. Above all, it was necessary to preserve the straight and necessary formation of the fleet, as confusion and delay, in all likelihood, would prove fatal. Adam Colfax calculated that he had passed less than one-third of the length of the narrows, as they had been described to him, and his heart became very heavy. The fire of the Indian hordes was increasing in volume. The great bonfires blazed higher and higher, and every minute the fleet was becoming a more distinct target for the savage sharpshooters. The souls of more good men were taking flight. "We have not gone more than a third of the distance," he said to Adolphe Drouillard. "At this rate can we last all the way?" The brave Creole replied: "We have to do it." But his face looked doubtful. He saw, and Adam Colfax saw, signs of distress in the fleet. Under the persistent and terrible fire of the warriors the two lines of boats were beginning to sag apart. There were some collisions, and, although no boat had yet been sunk, there was danger of it. The apprehensions of Adam Colfax and his lieutenants were many and great, and they were fully justified. The boat of the five came alongside the _Independence_, and Adam Colfax looked down at it. "We want to come on board," called out Henry. The _Independence_ slowed just a little, and Henry and Shif'less Sol sprang upon her. The other three remained in the boat. Bullets struck near them as they boarded the _Independence_, but none touched them. It was still raining hard, with the vivid accompaniment of wind, thunder, and lightning. Another thunderbolt had struck close by, but fortunately nobody had been hurt. "We've a plan to suggest, if you should think good of it, sir," shouted Henry in Adam Colfax's ear--he was compelled to shout just then because of the thunder. "What is it?" Adam Colfax shouted back. "How far away would you say that bonfire is?" asked Henry, pointing to one of the great fires on the southern shore. "Not more than four hundred yards." "Then, sir, we can put it out." "Put it out?" exclaimed Adam Colfax in amazement. "I would not dare to land men for such a purpose!" "It is not necessary. We must shoot it out. You've got good gunners, and the cannon can then do it. They might put a lot of the warriors there out of the fight at the same time." One of the brass twelve pounders was mounted on the _Independence_, and Adam Colfax was taken at once with the idea. "I should have thought of that before," he said. "I hate to lose any of our cannon balls, but we must spare a few. Uncover the gun and aim at the nearest fire, hitting it at the base if you can." This to the gunners, who obeyed eagerly. They had been chafing throughout the running of the gantlet as they stood beside their beloved but idle piece. The tompion was drawn from the gun, the polished brass of which gleamed through the night and the rain. It was a splendid piece, and the chief gunner, as well as Adam Colfax, looked at it with pride. "You are to shoot that fire out, and at the same time shoot out as much else with it as you can," the leader said to the gunner. "I can do it," replied the gunner with pride and confidence. "I shall load with grape shot, triple charge." Adam Colfax nodded. The triple charge of grape was rammed into the mouth of the brass piece. The muzzle was raised, and the gunner took long aim at the base of the blazing pyramid. Henry and the shiftless one stood by, watching eagerly, and the three in the boat at a little distance were also watching eagerly. Every one of them ran water from head to toe, but they no longer thought about rain, thunder, or lightning. "He'll do it," the shiftless one said in the ear of Henry. The gun was fired. A great blaze of flame leaped from its muzzle, and the _Independence_ shook with the concussion. But the bonfire seemed to spring into the air. It literally went up in a great shower of timber and coals, like fireworks, and when it sank darkness blotted out the space where it had been. "A hit fa'r an' squar'!" exclaimed Shif'less Sol. From the fleet came a thunder of applause, which matched the thunder from the heavens, while from the shore rose a fierce yell of rage and execration. "Well done! Well done!" shouted Adam Colfax to the gunner, who said nothing, but whose smile showed how much he was pleased at this just praise. "It's likely that some warriors went out with their fire," said Henry. "A lot of them were bound to be around it, feeding it and making it go in all this rain." "They can be well spared," said Adam Colfax. "God knows I am not a seeker of human life, but I am resolved to do my errand. Now for the opposite bonfire on the northern bank." The _Independence_ swung through the fleet, which parted to let her pass, quickly closing up again. The boat came within seventy or eighty yards of the northern shore, all those aboard her sheltering themselves by one means or another from the Indian bullets, one of which struck upon the brazen muzzle of the twelve pounder, but which did no damage. The triple load of grape was used again, and the first shot was not successful, but the second seemed to strike fairly at the base of the bonfire, and it was extinguished as the first had been. The two further up were soon put out in the same manner. The thunder of applause rose in the fleet at every successful shot, and then it swung forward with increased speed. The river at this point sank into darkness, save when the lightning flared across it, and the Indian bullets, which still came like the rain itself, were of necessity fired at random, doing, therefore, little damage. Shif'less Sol laughed in sheer delight. "It was a good trick they played on us," he said, "worthy uv a great chief, but we hev met it with another jest ez good. I s'pose it's a new way to put out fires with a cannon, but it's fine when you know how to shoot them big guns straight. A-kill-us an' Hannibal an' Homer an' all them old soldiers Paul talks about wuz never ez smart ez that." But the battle was not over, nor had they yet forced all the watery pass. The northern Indians were numerous, hardy, and wild for triumph. The great mind and spirit of Timmendiquas, the White Lightning of the Wyandots, urged them on, and they swarmed in hundreds along either shore, standing in the water among the bushes and sending in an incessant rifle fire. Others waded beyond the bushes, and still others darted out in their light canoes, from which they sent bullets at the two dark lines of boats in the middle of the river. The rain came in gusts, and mingled with it was a wind which shrieked now and then like a human being, as it swept over the forests and the water. The thunder formed a bass note to all these noises, and the lightning at times fairly danced upon the water with dazzling brilliancy. It was a confused and terrible advance, in which the boats were in imminent danger from one another. Every one was compelled to move slowly lest it be sunk by the one behind it, and half the fighting force of the fleet was forced to pay its whole attention to the oars and sweeps and steering gear. Paul was dazed a little by the tremendous confusion and mingling of sights and sounds. He saw an Indian near the southern bank aiming his rifle at their boat, and he sought to aim his own in return, but the flash of lightning that had disclosed the warrior was gone, and for the moment he looked only into blank darkness. He shut his eyes, rubbed his hands over them, and then opened them again. The darkness was still there. He did not at that time feel fear. It was too unreal, too much like a hideous nightmare, and he did not realize its full import until afterward. "Shall we ever get through?" he asked, raising his voice above the tumult. "Some o' us will! most o' us, I hope!" shouted Shif'less Sol in reply. "Jumpin' Jehoshephat, but that bullet was close! I think I got a free shave on my left cheek. Did you ever hear sech a yellin' an' shriekin' an' whizzin' o' bullets!" "They are certainly making a determined attack," said Henry. "If they had the fires to go by they'd get us yet. Look, there goes a new fire that they've lighted on the southern bank." A high flame flared among the bushes, but the brass twelve pounder was promptly turned upon it, and after the second shot it disappeared. "It ain't healthy, lightin' fires to-night," said Long Jim grimly. The boats swung forward now at a slightly increased pace. On the _Independence_, Adam Colfax, Adolphe Drouillard, Thrale, Lyon and the others half stood, half knelt, looking steadily ahead, their minds attuned as only the minds of men can be concentrated at such a crisis. In this hour of darkness and danger the souls of the New Hampshire Puritan and of the Louisiana Frenchman were the same. One prayed to his Protestant God and the other to his Catholic God with like fervor and devotion, each praying that He would lead them through this danger, not for themselves, but for their suffering country. The five in their own boat were not less devoted. They, too, felt that a Mighty Presence which was above wind, rain, and fire, alone could save them. Their hands were not on the trigger now. Instead they bent over the oars. Every one of them knew that bullets could do little the rest of the way, and it was for Providence to say whether they should reach the end of the watery pass. The river narrowed still further. They were now at the point where the high banks came closest together and the danger would be greatest. But there was no flinching. The fire from either shore increased. Thunder and lightning, wind and rain raged about them, but they merely bent a little lower over the oars and sent their boats straight toward the flaming gate. CHAPTER XX THE TRUMPET'S PEAL Major George Augustus Braithwaite, scholar of William and Mary College, man of refinement and experience, commissioned officer who had been in the assault at Ticonderoga, and who had stood victoriously with Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham, leaned upon a bastion at Fort Prescott and watched one of the wildest nights that he had ever seen. He wore his three-cornered military hat, but the rain flowed steadily in a little stream from every corner. He was wrapped in an old military coat, badge of distinguished service, but the rain, too, ran steadily from every fringe of its hem and gathered in puddles about the military boots that enclosed his feet. He thought nothing of rain, or hat, or cloak, or boots. The puddles grew without his notice. The numerous flashes of lightning disclosed his face, worn and anxious, and with lines that had deepened perceptibly in the last few days. Beside him stood the second in command at Fort Prescott, Gregory Wilmot, a middle-aged man, and the brave scout, Seth Cole. They, too, seemed unconscious of the rain, and looked only at the river that flowed beneath them, a dark and troubled stream. The storm had gone on long and it showed no signs of abating. It was the fiercest that any of them had ever seen in the Ohio Valley, and the lightning was often so brilliant and so near that they were compelled to shrink back in fear. "How long has it been since the boy Henry Ware left us?" asked Major Braithwaite. "A week to-day," replied the scout. "And the fleet has not yet come," said the Major, as much to himself as to the others. "I've always believed until to-night that it would come. That boy inspired confidence. I had to believe in him. I had no choice." "Nor I, either," said Gregory Wilmot. "I believed in him, and I do now." "It's the lack of news that troubles me so much," said the Major sadly. "The leaguer of the fort has grown closer and tighter, and it seems that nothing can get through now." "I tried to get out last night," said the scout, "but a snake would have had to grease himself to slip by. It's their great chief, Timmendiquas, who is doing it all, and he doesn't mean that we shall know a single thing about what is going on outside." "He is certainly carrying out his intentions. I give him all credit for his generalship," said Major Braithwaite. The three relapsed again into silence and stared at the river, now a dark, flowing current, and then molten metal in the dazzling glare of the lightning. The time, the place, and his troubles stirred Major Braithwaite deeply. To-night the wilderness oppressed him with its immensity and its unknown, but none the less deadly, dangers. Things that he had read, scraps of old learning at college, floated through his head. "_Magna pars fui_," he murmured, looking at the river and the black forest beyond. "What did you say, sir?" asked the scout. "I merely meant," replied the Major, "that we, too, have our part in great events. This, with distance's long view, may seem obscure and small to the great world elsewhere, but it is not obscure and small to us. Could any spectacle be more tremendous than the one we behold to-night?" "If the fleet does not come it is not likely that we shall behold any more spectacles of any kind," said Gregory Wilmot. "The red men hold their cordon, and in time our food must become exhausted." "That is so," said the Major. "Some of the women have given up already, and look upon themselves as dead." "We are not lost," said the scout. "He'll come, that boy, Henry Ware, will. He's only a boy, Major, but he's got a soul like that of the great chief, Timmendiquas. He'll come with the fleet." Major Braithwaite wished to believe, but it was hard to do it. How could anything come out of that darkness and storm and through the Indian host? A soldier, he recognized the mental grasp and energy of Timmendiquas and the thoroughness of the leaguer of both fort and river. He left the bastion presently and went into one of the log cabins where some of the wounded men lay. He made it a point to visit them and cheer them whenever he could, and he would not neglect it to-night. He spent a half hour with them and then he returned to the bastion. "What have you seen?" he asked. "Nothing but the river and the woods and much lightning," replied Gregory Wilmot. "Nor heard anything?" "Only the thunder and the wind." "I am weary of both. Surely they cannot last much longer." Neither Gregory Wilmot nor the scout replied. Both were soaked with water, but they had forgotten it, and none of the three spoke again for at least ten minutes. Then Major Braithwaite, whose eyes had roved from the river, saw the scout lean forward and press himself against the wooden crest of the bastion. It was as if a sudden quiver had run through him, but his ear was toward the river and he leaned still further forward as if he would get yet nearer to hear. It was only by a flash of lightning that the Major saw this, but it was enough to arouse his interest. "What is it? Do you hear anything?" he asked. The lightning flashed again, and the scout raised his hand. "I don't know yet whether I've heard anything but the thunder an' the wind," he replied, "but I seemed to hear somethin'. It wuz fur away, an' it growled low and threatenin' like thunder. An' it wuzn't eggzackly like thunder, either. I don't quite seem to make it out. Hark! thar she goes ag'in!" Major Braithwaite and Gregory Wilmot also leaned forward eagerly, but they could hear only the fiendish shrieking of the wind and the sullen mutter of certain thunder. "You believe you heard a sound that was neither the thunder nor the wind?" said the Major. "Yes," replied the scout, "an' I've heard it twice. Ef it wuzn't fur the second time I wouldn't be so shore. Listen, thar she goes ag'in, like thunder, but not thunder eggzackly." "Can you make out what it is?" "I wuz in the big French an' Injun War, too, when I wuz jest a mite uv a boy," replied the scout, "and when I wuz layin' in the woods one day an' one uv them battles wuz goin' on I heard a sound that's like the one I've been hearin' now." "What was it?" exclaimed the Major eagerly. "It wuz the fust time I ever heard it. I wuz layin' close in the thicket, a' it wuz at least five miles away. But I've never forgot that sound. It wuz a cur'us thing. It wuz like a voice talkin'. It kep' a-sayin' somethin' like this, 'Look out fur me! Look out fur me!' It wuz a cannon shot, Major, an' it's a cannon shot that I've been hearin' now, once, twice, an' now three times, an' it's sayin' jest ez it did years an' years ago, 'Look out fur me! Look out fur me! Look out! Look out!' an' it's a-sayin' to me at the same time that the fleet's a-comin'." "Do you really think so?" exclaimed the Major joyfully. "I shorely do, an' I do more than think, I know. The cannon that them Injuns an' renegades had hez been sunk. Thar ain't any others in all the west except them on the fleet, an' it's them that's been talkin'. Ez shore ez we live, Major, the fleet's buttin' its way through the darkness and the wind an' the thunder an' the lightnin' and the rain an' the Injuns an' the renegades, an' is comin' straight to Fort Prescott." The scout stood up, and Major Braithwaite saw by the lightning that his face was transfigured. Hope and certainty had replaced fear and uncertainty. "Thar!" he exclaimed. "The fourth time. Don't you hear it, louder than before?" A low, deep note which certainly differed from that of the thunder now came to the ears of Major Braithwaite, and his own experience of battle fields told him its nature. "It is cannon! it is surely cannon!" he exclaimed joyously. "And you are right! It is the fleet coming to our relief! The boy got through!" Major Braithwaite's face glowed, and so did that of Gregory Wilmot, who was also now sure that they had heard the sound of the white man's great guns. But they kept it to themselves for the present. There must be no false hope, no raising of the garrison into joy merely to let it fall back deeper into gloom. So they waited, and the far note of the cannon did not come again, although they pressed themselves against the wooden bastion and strained ears to hear. The heart of Major Braithwaite gradually sank again. It might have been an illusion. A heart so eager to hear might have deceived the ear into hearing. The darkness seemed to have closed in thicker and heavier than ever. The flashes of lightning, although as vivid as before, were not so frequent, but the wind rose, and its shrieking got upon the ears of the three. "I wish it would stop!" said the Major angrily. "I want to hear something else! Was it imagination about the cannon? Could we have deceived ourselves into hearing what we wanted to hear? Is such a thing possible?" The scout shook his head. "It wuzn't no deception," he said. "I shorely heard cannon. Mebbe they've quit firin' 'em, an' are comin' on now with the rifles an' the pistols. It must be that. I'm like you, Major, I believe in that boy, Henry Ware, an' he's comin' right now with the fleet to save all them women an' children behind us." "God grant that you may be right," said Major Braithwaite devoutly. The three still leaned against the crest of the wooden wall, and the rain yet drove upon them, unnoticed. They listened, with every nerve taut, for a sound that did not come, and whenever the lightning flashed they strained their eyes down the dark reaches of the river to see something that they did not see. Over an hour passed, and they scarcely moved. Then the scout straightened up. "Now I hear 'em," he said, "Listen! It's not the cannon that's talkin'. It's the rifles. I tell you that fleet, with the boy on it, is comin'. It's shoved its way right through all them nests uv hornets an' wasps. Hear that. Ef that ain't the crack uv rifles, then I'm no livin' man." Sounds, faint but with a clear distinct note, came to them, and again Major Braithwaite knew that he could not be mistaken. It was like the distant fire of the skirmishers when the Anglo-American army advanced through the woods upon Ticonderoga, and he had heard the same sound in their front when they first stood upon the Plains of Abraham. It was rifle fire, the lashing whip-like crack of the western rifles, and it was a rifle fire that was advancing. "Glory to God!" he exclaimed in immense exultation and relief. "It's the fleet! The fleet's at hand! There cannot be any doubt now! Take the men to the walls, Wilmot, because it's likely that the Indians will renew the attack upon us when they see that the fleet is coming to our relief." The face of Major George Augustus Braithwaite, scholar and soldier, was transformed. Both the scout and Gregory Wilmot saw it when the lightning flickered across the sky, but the same joy was pounding at their own hearts. Wilmot, obeying the Major's order, hurried away to see that the walls were manned by riflemen ready to repel any attack, but the scout remained. "They're comin', they're comin', shore, Major," he said, "but they've had to make a mighty fight uv it. You kin be certain that Timmendiquas did everything to keep them from gittin' by. Listen, thar go the rifles ag'in, an' they're nearer now!" Good news spreads as fast as bad, and in ten minutes it was known throughout the beleaguered houses of Fort Prescott that a great and glorious event had occurred. They would not be taken by the Indians, they would not be slaughtered or carried into captivity. Relief, many boats and canoes filled with their own warlike country-men, an irresistible force, were at hand, because Major Braithwaite and Gregory Wilmot had heard the welcome sound of their rifles and cannon. Out into the rain and darkness poured men, women, and children, and they cared for neither rain nor darkness, because the rescue from imminent death was coming, and they would see it. People gathered around Major Braithwaite and the scout and they did not order them back, because this was a time when all would wish to know, and in the night and darkness they waited patiently and hopefully to see what the fitful flashes of lightning might let them see. The sound of random shots came from the dripping forest, and the men of Gregory Wilmot at the barrier replied, but Major Braithwaite paid little attention to such a diversion as this. The Indians would not undertake now to storm the fort--they had failed already in several such attempts--and their renewed fire was merely proof that they, too, knew that the fleet had forced the watery passage. "Thar she goes ag'in!" said the scout. "Ez shore ez I'm a livin' sinner that's the crack uv Kentucky rifles, fifty uv 'em at least!" "You're right," said Major Braithwaite, "and it cannot come from anything but the fleet. Hark, there's a new sound, and it removes the last doubt!" Clear above all the other clamor of the night, the wind, the firing, and the rain, rose a long, mellow note, low but distinct, sweet and clear. It was a haunting note, full of music, light, and joy, the peal of a silver trumpet carried by the herald of Adam Colfax. Mellow and clear its echo came back, sweeping over forest and river, and its breath was life and hope. "The battle trumpet!" exclaimed Major Braithwaite. "The vanguard of the fleet! It is speaking to us! It tells us that friends are near. Here, you men, build up a bonfire! Let them know just where we are and that we are on watch!" Twenty willing hands brought dry wood, and, despite the rain, a great blaze leaped up within the palisade. It grew and grew. The flames, yellow and red, roared and sprang higher, casting a bright light over the wooden walls, the forest, the cliffs, and the river. Bullets whistled from the forest, but they passed over the heads of the people in the fort, and they let them go by unnoticed. Higher rose the fires in the face of the rain, and the great yellow light over the river deepened. When the lightning flared it was a mixture of gold and silver, and it was so intense that they could see the very crinkling of the water on its surface. Again came the mellow note of the silver trumpet, a clear, far cry that died away in little curves and undulations of sound. But it was nearer, undeniably nearer, and once more it breathed life anew into the listeners. There was a sudden blaze of lightning, more vivid than all that had gone before. The whole surface of the river leaped into the light, and upon that surface, just where the stream curved before flowing into the narrowest passage between the hills, appeared a black dot. It was more than a black dot, it was a boat, and, despite the distance, the astonishing vividness of the lightning made them see in it five figures, five human figures, clad in the deerskin of the border. "Tis the boy, Henry Ware and his comrades, ez shore ez I'm a livin' sinner," muttered the scout. He could not see the faces, but he was quite sure that the one who knelt in the prow was Henry Ware. "It is they! It must be they!" exclaimed Major Braithwaite. "And look, there are other boats behind them turning the curve--one, two, three, four, and more--and look, how their rifles flash to right and left! They beat back the red savages! Nothing can stop them! Build up the fires, my lads, that they may see!" The trumpet pealed for the third time, and it came from the prow of the _Independence_. A mighty shout rose from the fort in reply, and then from the forest and the cliffs came the long, defiant yell of the red men, who were not yet beaten. The light was now sufficient to show them swarming along the edge of the water, and even venturing far from the bank in canoes. The tide of battle swelled anew. Timmendiquas the Great, Red Eagle, Yellow Panther, and the renegades, Girty, Blackstaffe, Braxton Wyatt and the others, urged them on. But always it was Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots, who directed. Major Braithwaite watched with fascinated eyes. The heavens were growing somewhat lighter, and that fact, allied with his bonfire, was now sufficient to disclose much. He saw the fleet, despite all the attempts to hold it, moving steadily forward in two parallel lines; he heard again the mellow notes of the silver trumpet, calling alike to the men of Adam Colfax and to those in the fort. He looked, too, for the boat that he had first seen, the one that had contained the five figures, and he found it, as before, in the very front. The five were still there, and he thought he could see their rifles flashing. The good Major felt a singular throb of relief. Then, as the battle thickened, his courage and military energy leaped up. "We cannot stand here idle when so great an event, one that means so much to us, is going on," he said to Seth Cole. "If I mistake not, the savages are about to make their supreme effort, and it becomes us to help repel it." "I reckon you're right, Major," said the scout. "The next ten minutes will say how this thing is goin' to end, an' we ought to be in at the sayin'." "How many men have we on foot, and fit to fight?" "'Bout sixty, I reckon, Major." "Then we'll take thirty, leave the other thirty under Wilmot to hold the fort, and go forth to help our friends who wish to help us." Action was as prompt as decision. In five minutes the brave borderers were ready, one of the gates was thrown open, to be closed immediately behind them, and with the Major and the scout at their head, they rushed toward the bank. It was the purpose of Major Braithwaite to lead his men down the stream a little, and as soon as a position of vantage could be reached, open a covering fire that would protect the boats. They crossed the cleared space around the fort unharmed, but directly after they reached the woods beyond, bullets began to whistle about them, and the Indian war whoop rang through the dripping forest. The Major knew that he was attacked in force, and so far from helping the fleet his men must now defend themselves. But he would be an aid, nevertheless, since the attack upon his own party must draw off warriors from the leaguer of the fleet. His men fell back to the shelter of the tree trunks, and began to fire, every one like a sharpshooter choosing his target. The Major's back was now to the river, and he could hear the rattle of the rifles behind him as well as before him. Two or three minutes of this, and a shout reached his ear. It was not the shrill, high-pitched yell of the Indian, but the deep, full-throated cry of the white man, and the Major knew it. A sudden burst of firing came from a new point, and then the attack seemed to melt away before him. Meanwhile, the fleet, with the savages hanging on either flank, crept on up the river. CHAPTER XXI FORCES MEET Major George Augustus Braithwaite had judged aright. Henry Ware knelt in the prow of the first boat, as it showed beyond the curve after forcing the watery pass. The shiftless one knelt just behind him, and in the stern was Paul, kneeling, too. The rifles of all three were hot in their hands. Long Jim and Silent Tom were now at the oars. It all seemed--that last half hour--a dream to Henry and Paul. They had moved in a kind of mist, now red, now black. They had seen the black hills lowering above them, and the innumerable flashes of fire. They had heard the roar of the tempest and the unbroken crackle of hundreds of rifles, and they had fired in reply almost mechanically. Their one object was to press forward, always to press forward, and so long as their boat continued to move they knew that they must be succeeding. Now they beheld the wider water before them, and upon a high hill upon the southern shore a great fire blazed, by the light of which they saw wooden walls and roofs. "We are through!" exclaimed Henry. "We have at least come as far as the fort, whether we can land or not!" "Yes, we are through," said the shiftless one, "but I never run such a gantlet afore, an' I hope never to do it ag'in." He laid down his rifle a moment, and began to feel himself critically and carefully. "What are you doing?" asked Henry. "Me?" replied Sol. "I'm tryin' to see whether I'm all here, or whether most o' me is scattered around in the Ohio. When a million savages are shootin' at a feller, all at the same time, an' keep on doin' it, it's more'n likely that feller will soon be in pieces. No, I ain't hurt. Some o' my huntin' shirt hez been shot away, but the body o' Sol Hyde is sound an' whole, fur which I do give thanks. How are you, Henry?" "All right. I've been grazed twice but there's no damage." "An' you, Paul?" "Nicked on the wrist and scared to death, but nothing more." "An' you, Tom?" "Nigh deef, I guess, from sech a racket, but I'm still fit fur work." "An' you, you onery old Long Jim." "Mighty tired, an' hungry, too, I guess, though I don't know it, but I kin still shoot, an' I kin hit somethin' too." "Then we've come through better than we could hev hoped," said the shiftless one joyfully. "'Pears again that Paul was right when he said down thar on the Missip that Providence had chose us fur a task." "The battle is not over yet," said Henry. "If we help the fort we've got to make a landing, or the Indians can go on with the siege almost as if we were not here. And landing in face of the horde is no easy task." "Ain't it likely that the people in the fort will help us?" said Shif'less Sol. "If I know Major Braithwaite, and I think I do," replied Henry, "they will surely help. It was a good thing on their part to build that bonfire as a signal and to show us the way. See how it grows!" The fire, already great, was obviously rising higher, and its light deepened over the river. The whole fleet was now through the pass, and it swung for a few moments in the middle of the stream like a great bird hovering before it decided on its flight. The light from the bonfire fell upon it and tinged it red. Although the savage attack had not ceased, and some of the white men were still firing, most of them lay for a little while at rest to take fresh breath and strength for the landing. Henry looked back at them, and spontaneously some scene from the old Homeric battles that Paul told about came to his mind. He knew these men as they lay panting against the sides of the boats, the light from the bonfire tinting their faces to crimson hues. This gallant fellow was Hector, and that was Achilles, it was Ajax who sat in the prow there, and the wiry old fellow behind him, with the wary eyes, was even the cunning Ulysses himself. It was but a fleeting fancy, gone when Adam Colfax hailed them from the deck of the _Independence_. The eyes of the Puritan still burned with zealous fire, and those of Drouillard beside him showed the same spirit. "What do you think of the landing?" he said to the five collectively. "Can we force it now? What do you think?" "I think we can," Henry replied for them all, "if the people in the fort help--and listen to that! They are helping now!" There was a sudden spurt of firing from the undergrowth on the southern bank. Nor was it fitful. It continued rapid and heavy, and they knew that a diversion of some kind had been created. It must be due to the men from the fort, and now was the time to make the landing. Adam Colfax stood upright on the deck of the _Independence_ at the risk of sharpshooter's bullet, and looked eagerly along the Kentucky shore, seeking some low place into which his boats could push their prows. His was a practiced mariner's eye, and he saw it at last, a cove which was the ending of the ravine in the high bank, and he said a few words to his trumpeter. The silver peal rose once more, mellow, clear, and reaching far, and the tired men rose, as usual, to its call. Steady hands held the rifles, and strong arms bent the oars. The _Independence_ and the boat of the five swung in toward the cove, and the whole fleet followed hard at their heels. The savages uttered a great cry when they saw the movement, and swarmed anew for the attack, firing rapidly from the forest, while their canoes pushed boldly out from the northern shore. But Henry judged that the violence of the attack was less than when they had been in the pass, and he inferred that a considerable part of their force was drawn off by the diversion from the woods. He could mark by the rapid blaze of the rifles in the forest the place where this contest was being waged with the utmost courage and tenacity. His attentive ear noticed a sudden great increase in the firing there, and it all seemed to come from one point. "Somebody has been reinforced, and heavily, at that," he said to Shif'less Sol. "It's shorely so," said the shiftless one. A faint sound, nay, hardly more than an echo, came to their ears. But it was the echo of a deep, full-throated cry, the cry that white men give. "It's friends," murmured Henry. "I don't know who they are, but they are friends." "It's shorely so," said the shiftless one. Their boat and the _Independence_ were now not thirty feet from the land, and in a few more moments they struck upon the shelving margin. The five instantly leaped ashore, and after them came the men of the fleet in a torrent. Now they heard that full-throated cheer again, loud, clear, and near. A powerful friend was at hand, and Adam Colfax, Drouillard ever at his side, understood it. "Forward, men!" he cried in his highest voice. "Clear the red swarm from the bushes!" With four score brave riflemen he charged through the forest, sweeping away what was left, at that point of the horde, and, as the warriors vanished before them, they met in an open space two other forces, one coming from the east, and the other from the south. Adam Colfax, the brave Drouillard still at his side, stopped and stood almost face to face with a tall, middle-aged man who wore a uniform and on whose head rested a cocked hat from which the rain had long been pouring in three streams, one at each corner. The man's face bore signs of physical exhaustion, but his spirit showed triumphant. Behind him were about thirty men who leaned panting upon their rifles. The eyes of Adam Colfax shifted to the second force, the one that had come from the south, the leader of which stood very near, also almost face to face when he turned. The second leader was even more remarkable than the first. Hardly in middle age, and with a figure of uncommon litheness and power, he had a face of extraordinary sweetness and repose. Even now, fresh from the dangers and excitement of deadly conflict, it showed no excitement. The mild eyes gazed placidly at Adam Colfax, and his hands rested unmoving upon the muzzle of his rifle. He was clothed wholly in deerskin, with the usual cap of raccoon skin. By the side of him stood a young man clothed in similar fashion. But his strong face showed all the signs of passion and battle fire. His deep-set eyes fairly flashed. Behind these two were about thirty men, mostly young, every one of them brown as an Indian and in wild garb, true sons of the wilderness. Henry Ware quickly stepped forward. He alone knew them all. "Mr. Colfax," he said, nodding toward the head of the first column, "this is Major Braithwaite, the commander of Fort Prescott, and this--" He turned and paused a moment as he faced the leader of the second band, him with the peaceful eyes. He felt that he was calling the name of a great man, a fit match for any Hector or Achilles that ever lived. "This is Daniel Boone," he said to Mr. Colfax, "and this, Mr. Boone, is Adam Colfax, the commander of the fleet that has come from New Orleans on its way to Pittsburgh." "Daniel Boone!" exclaimed Adam Colfax, and stepping forward he took the hand of the great hunter, explorer, and wilderness fighter. It was an impulse which did not seem strange to him that he should leave Major Braithwaite for second place, and it seemed natural, also, to the Major, who did not know until then the name of the man who had come so opportunely with his friends to his relief. "I knew Fort Prescott was pushed hard and would be pushed harder," said Daniel Boone, smiling gently after he had shaken hands with Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite, "so me an' Simon--this is Simon Kenton--hurried south after some of our friends, hunters an' sech like, an' it 'pears that we've got back in time." "You certainly have," said Major Braithwaite with deep emphasis. "Never was help more opportune." "It was a good fight!" exclaimed Simon Kenton, the battle fire not yet dead in his eyes. Daniel Boone smiled again, that extraordinary smile of sweetness and peace. "But the one that really brought us all together at the right minute," he said, "was a boy, though he is a mighty big and strong one, and he stands here right now." He put his hand upon Henry Ware's shoulder, and Henry blushed under his tan in embarrassment. "No, no!" he cried. "It was everybody working together, and I'm just one of the crowd." He retreated hastily behind his comrades, and Daniel Boone laughed. "Don't you think that we'd better go into the fort now, Mr. Boone?" asked Adam Colfax with deference. "Yes, as soon as we can," replied Daniel Boone, "but we ought to keep a strong line down to the fleet. We can do it with a chain of men. We are not out of the woods yet. We might be, if a common man led the Indians, but Timmendiquas, Timmendiquas the Great, the White Lightning of the Wyandots, is out there, and he does not know what it is to be beat." "He surely must be a mighty chief," said Major Braithwaite--the way in which everybody spoke of Timmendiquas impressed him. "But come, we will enter the fort." He led the way, and the triple force, now united, followed close behind. Paul's eyes were chiefly for the hunters who had come with Boone and Kenton, and he read their minds--they did not regard what they were doing as an act of benevolence, one for which they could claim a great reward; they were doing, instead, what they loved to do, and they were grateful for the chance. It was the wildest looking band of white men that he had ever seen, but it was worth a regiment to the fort. The gate was thrown open again, and the three forces passed in, there to receive the welcome that is given only by those who have been saved from what looked like certain death. The scout and the others who knew him gave Henry Ware the hearty clasp of the hand that means so much, and then the five went to a cabin to eat, rest and sleep. "We'll need you to-morrow," said Adam Colfax, "but meanwhile you must refresh yourselves." "That sounds mighty good to a tired man," said Shif'less Sol in his whimsical tone. "I never worked so hard in my life before ez I hev lately, an' I think I need to rest for the next three or four years." "But we got through, Sol, we got through, don't furgit that," said Long Jim. "I'd rather cook than fight. Uv course, I'm always anxious about the vittles, but I ain't plum' skeered to death over 'em." "Reminds me I'm hungry," said Shif'less Sol. "Like you, Jim, I furgot about it when I wuz down thar on the river, fightin', but I'm beginnin' to feel it now. Wonder ef they'll give us anything." Sol's wish was fulfilled as a woman brought them abundant food, corn bread, venison, buffalo meat, and coffee. When it came they sat down in the home-made chairs of the cabin, and all of them uttered great sighs of relief, drawn up from the bottom of their hearts. "I'm goin' to eat fur two or three hours," said the shiftless one, fastening an eager eye upon a splendid buffalo steak, "an' then I'm goin' to sleep on them robes over thar. Ef anybody wakes me up before the last uv next week he'll hev a mighty good man to whip, I kin tell you." Eager hand followed eager eye. He lifted the steak and set to, and his four faithful comrades did the same. They ate, also, of the venison and the corn bread with the appetite that only immense exertions give, and they drank with tin cups from a bucket of clear cold water. There was silence for a quarter of an hour, and then Shif'less Sol was the first to break it. "I didn't think I could ever be so happy ag'in," he said in tones of great content. "Nor me, either," said Jim Hart, uttering a long, happy sigh. "I declar' to goodness, I'm a new man, plum' made over from the top uv my head to the heels an' toes uv my feet." "And that's a good deal of a man, six feet four, at least," said Paul. "It's true," repeated Long Jim. "I'm like one uv them thar Greek demigods Paul tells about. Now an' then I change myself into a new figger, each more bee-yu-ti-ful than the last. Ain't that so, Sol? You know it's the truth." "You could become more bee-yu-ti-ful a heap o' times an' then be nothin' to brag about," retorted the shiftless one. "Now let's all go to sleep," said Henry. "It must be past midnight, and you may be sure that there will be plenty of work for us to do to-morrow." "'Nough said," said Tom Ross. He threw himself upon one of the couches of skins and in three minutes was fast asleep. Sol, Jim, and Paul quickly followed him, and the long, peaceful breathing of the four was the only sound in the room. Henry looked down at his comrades, and his heart was full of gladness. It seemed wonderful that they had all come with their lives through so many dangers, and silently he returned thanks to the white man's God and the red man's Manitou, who were the same to him. There was a single window to the cabin, without glass, but closed, when necessary, with a wooden shutter. The shutter was propped back a foot or more now in order to admit air, and Henry looked out. The lightning had ceased to flash, save for a feeble quiver now and then on the far horizon, and it had grown somewhat lighter. But the rain still fell, though gently, with a steady, soft, insistent drip, drip that was musical and conducive to sleep. Henry saw the dusky outline of buildings and several figures passing back and forth, guns on shoulders. These were riflemen, and he knew that more were at the wooden walls keeping vigilant guard. Once again he was filled with wonder that he and his comrades should have come so far and through so much, and yet be safe and whole. There was no sound save an occasional light footstep or the clank of a rifle barrel against metal to break the musical beat of the rain. All the firing had ceased, and the wind moaned no longer. Henry let the fresh air play for a while on his face, and then he, too, turned back to a couch of skins. Sleep, heavy, but not dreamless, came soon. Henry's dream was not a bad one. On the contrary, it was full of cheer and good omen. He lay in the forest, the forest, dry, warm, green, and beautiful, and an unknown voice over his head sang a splendid song in his ears that, note by note, penetrated every fiber of his being and filled him with the most glorious visions. It told him to go on, that all things could be conquered by those who do not fear to try. It was the same song among the leaves that he had heard in his waking hours, but now it was louder and fuller, and it spoke with a clearer voice. The boy turned on his buffalo robe. There was no light in the cabin now, but his face in the darkness was like that of one inspired. He awoke presently. The voice was gone, but he could still hear it, like a far sweet echo, and, although he knew it to be a dream, he considered it to be fact, nevertheless. Something had spoken to him while he slept, and, confident of the future, he fell into another sleep, this time without dreams. When Henry awoke the next morning Daniel Boone sat by his couch. His comrades awakened, too, one after another, and as they sat up, Boone, out of the great goodness of his soul, smiled upon them. "You are woodsmen, fine woodsmen, all of you," he said, "an' I want to talk with you. Do you think the great chief, Timmendiquas, will draw off?" "Not he!" exclaimed Henry. "He is far from beaten." "An' that's what I say, too," repeated Boone in his gentle voice. "Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite think that he has had enough, but I'm warnin' them to be careful. If the warriors could crush the fleet an' the fort together they'd strike a terrible blow against the settlements." "There is no doubt of it," said Henry. "Timmendiquas, so long as he has a powerful army of the tribes, will never give up such a chance." "Mr. Colfax thinks they've suffered so much," continued Boone, "that they will retreat into the far north. I know better. Simon Kenton knows better, and we want you and one or two of your comrades to go out with us and prove that the warriors are still in a circle about the fort an' the fleet alike." "I'm your man for one," said Henry. All the others promptly volunteered, also, but it was arranged that Paul and Long Jim should stay behind to help the garrison, while Henry, Shif'less Sol, and Tom Ross should go with Boone and Kenton. But it was agreed, also, that they should not go forth until night, when the darkness would favor their forest inquiries. The five had slept very late, and it was past ten o'clock when they went out into the large, open space that lay between the houses and the palisade. All signs of the storm were gone. The forest might give proof of its passage, but here it was as if it had never been. A gentle wind blew, and the boughs moved softly and peacefully before it. The sky, a deep blue, showed not a single cloud, and the river flowed a stream of quivering molten gold. The fleet was drawn up in a long line along the southern bank, and it, too, was at rest. No sweep or paddle stirred, and the men slept or lounged on the decks. Nowhere was an enemy visible. All the storm and strife of the night before had vanished. It seemed, in the face of this peaceful wind and golden sun, that such things could not be. Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite might well cling to their belief that the warriors, beaten and disheartened, had gone. The women and children shared in this conviction, and the afternoon was a joyous one in Fort Prescott, but when the night had fully come, Boone and Kenton, with Henry, Tom Ross and the shiftless one, went forth to prove a thing that they did not wish to prove, that is, that the Indians were still at hand. They went first in a southwesterly direction, and they saw many signs of the savages, that is, that they had been there, but these signs also indicated that now they were gone. They curved about toward the northwest, and the result was the same, and then, for the sake of certainty, they came back again toward the southwest. Assured now that the southern woods contained no Indians anywhere near the fort, they stopped in the bushes near the bank of the river and held a little council. "It 'pears to me that it's turned out just about as all of us thought it would," said Daniel Boone. "It's so," said Simon Kenton, "but we had to look first an' be sure." "That is, we all believe that the Indians have gathered on the northern bank," said Henry, "and under the lead of Timmendiquas are planning a grand attack upon us." "It's so," said Shif'less Sol. Tom Ross nodded. "That bein' so," said Daniel Boone, "we must cross an' take a look at them." All the others nodded. Everyone was anxious for the perilous task. "We can swim the river," said Henry, "and, also, we can borrow a small boat from the fleet." "I wouldn't borrow a boat," said Daniel Boone. "The fewer that know about us the better, even the fewer of our friends. It 'pears to me that if we were to stroll down stream a little we might find a canoe that somebody had left there for a time of need." Henry smiled. He felt sure that the canoe would be found. But he and the others, without another word, followed Boone for a distance until they came to a point where the banks were low. Then Boone forced his way noiselessly into a patch of bushes that grew at the very water's edge, and Simon Kenton followed him. The two reappeared in a minute, carrying a spacious canoe of birch bark. "Simon an' me took this," explained Boone, "before we went south for our friends, an' we hid it here, knowin' that we'd have a use for it some time or other. We'll crowd it, but it'll hold us all." They put the canoe upon the water, and the five got in. Boone and Kenton lifted the paddles, but Tom Ross at once reached over and took the paddle from the hand of Daniel Boone. "It shan't ever be told uv me," he said, "that I set still in a boat, while Dan'l Boone paddled me across the Ohio." "An' yet I think I can paddle pretty well," said Daniel Boone in a gentle, whimsical tone. "'Nuff said," said Tom Ross, as he gave the paddle a mighty sweep that sent the canoe shooting far out into the river. Boone smiled again in his winning way, but said nothing. Kenton, also, swung the paddle with a mighty wrist and arm, and in a few moments they were in the middle of the river. Here the light was greatest, and the two paddlers did not cease their efforts until they were well under the shelter of the northern bank, where the darkness lay thick and heavy again. Here they stopped and examined river, forest, and shores. The fleet at the southern margin blended with the darkness, but they could dimly see, high upon the cliff, the walls of the fort, and also a few lights that twinkled in the blockhouse or the upper stories of cabins. "They're at peace and happy there now," said Daniel Boone. "It's a pity they can't stay so." He spoke with so much kindly sympathy that Henry once more regarded this extraordinary man with uncommon interest. Explorer, wilderness fighter, man of a myriad perils, he was yet as gentle in voice and manner as a woman. But Henry understood him. He knew that like nature itself he was at once serene and strong. He, too, had felt the spell. "They won't be troubled there to-night," continued Boone. "The Indians will not be ready for a new attack, unless it's merely skirmishing, an' Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite will keep a good guard against them. Now which way, Simon, do you think the camp of the Indians will be?" Kenton pointed toward the northeast, a silent but significant gesture. "There's a little prairie over there about two miles back from the river," he said. "It's sheltered, but safe from ambush, an' it's just the place that Timmendiquas would naturally choose." "Then," said Boone, "that's the place we'll go to. Now, boys, we'll hide our canoe here among the bushes, 'cause we're likely to need it again. We may come back mighty fast, an' it might be the very thing that we wanted most at that partickler time." He laughed, and the others laughed, too. The canoe was well hidden among the bushes, and then the five borderers disappeared in the forest. CHAPTER XXII THE SPEECH OF TIMMENDIQUAS A score of Indian chiefs sat in the center of a little, almost circular, prairie, about a half mile across. All these chiefs were men of distinction in their wild forest way, tall, lean, deep-chested, and with black eyes full of courage and pride. They wore deerskin dress, supplemented with blankets of bright blue or red, but deerskin and blankets alike were of finer quality than those worn by the warriors, many hundreds in number, who surrounded the chiefs, but at a respectful distance. However commanding the chiefs were in presence, all yielded in this particular to one, a young man of great height, magnificent figure, and a singularly bold and open countenance. He was painted much less than the others, and the natural nobility of his features showed. Unconsciously the rest had gathered about him until he was the center of the group, and the eyes of every man, Red Eagle, Yellow Panther, Captain Pipe, and all, were upon him. It was the spontaneous tribute to valor and worth. Near the group of chiefs, but just a little apart, sat four white men and one white boy, although the boy was as large as the men. They, too, looked over the heads of the others at the young chief in the center, and around both, grouped in a mighty curve, more than fifteen hundred warriors waited, with eyes fixed on the same target to see what the young chief might do or to hear what he might say. There was an extraordinary quality in this scene, something that the wilderness alone can witness. It was shown in the fierce, eager glance of every brown face, the rapt attention, and the utter silence, save for the multiplied breathing of so many. A crow, wheeling on black wings in the blue overhead, uttered a loud croak, astonished perhaps at the spectacle below, but no one paid any attention to him, and, uttering another croak, he flew away. A rash bear at the edge of the wood was almost overpowered by the human odor that reached his nostrils, but, recovering his senses, he lurched away in the other direction. It was Yellow Panther, the veteran chief, who at last broke the silence. "What does the great Timmendiquas, head chief of the Wyandots, think of the things that we have done?" he asked. Timmendiquas remained silent at least two minutes more, although all eyes were still centered upon him, and then he rose, slowly and with the utmost dignity, to his feet. A deep breath like the sighing of the wind came from the crowd, and then it was still again. Timmendiquas did not yet speak, nor did he look at any one. His gaze was that of the seer. He looked over and beyond them, and they felt awe. He walked slowly to a little mound, ascended it, and turned his gaze all around the eager and waiting circle. The look out of his eyes had changed abruptly. It was now that of the warrior and chief who would destroy his enemies. Another minute of waiting, and he began to speak in a deep, resonant voice. "You are here," he cried, "warriors and men of many tribes, Shawnee, Miami, Delaware, Illinois, Ottawa, and Wyandot. All who live in the valley north of the Ohio and east of the Mississippi are here. You are brave men. Sometimes you have fought with one another. In this strife all have won victory and all have suffered defeat. But you lived the life that Manitou made you to live, and you were happy, in your own way, in a great and fair land that is filled with game. "But a new enemy has come, and, like the buffalo on the far western plains, his numbers are past counting. When one is slain five grow in his place. When Manitou made the white man he planted in his soul the wish to possess all the earth, and he strives night and day to achieve his wish. While he lives he does not turn back, and dead, his bones claim the ground in which they lie. He may be afraid of the forest and the warrior. The growl of the bear and the scream of the panther may make him tremble, but, trembling, he yet comes." He paused and looked once more around the whole length of the circle. A deep murmur of approval broke forth, but the forest orator quieted it with a single lift of his hand. "The white man," he resumed, "respects no land but his own. If it does not belong to himself he thinks that it belongs to nobody, and that Manitou merely keeps it in waiting for him. He is here now with his women and children in the land that we and our fathers have owned since the beginning of time. Many of the white men have fallen beneath our bullets and tomahawks. We have burned their new houses and uprooted their corn, but they are more than they were last year, and next year they will be more than they are now." He paused again and looked over the circle of his auditors. His eyes were flashing, and his great figure seemed to swell and grow. Like so many men of the woods he was a born orator, and practice had increased his eloquence. A deep, angry murmur came from the crowd. The passion in their hearts responded to the passion in his voice. Even the white men, the renegades, black with treason and crime, were moved. "They will be more next year than they are now," resumed Timmendiquas, "if we do not drive them back. Our best hunting grounds are there beyond the Beautiful River, in the land that we call Kain-tuck-ee, and it is there that the smoke from their cabins lies like a threat across the sky. It is there that they continually come in their wagons across the mountains or in the boats down the river. "The men of our race are brave, they are warriors, they have not yielded humbly to the coming of the white man. We have fought him many times. Many of the white scalps are in our wigwams. Sometimes Manitou has given to us the victory, and again he has given it to this foe of ours who would eat up our whole country. We were beaten in the attack on the place they call Wareville, we were beaten again in the attack on the great wagon train, and we have failed now in our efforts against the fort and the fleet. Warriors of the allied tribes, is it not so?" He paused once more, and a deep groan burst from the great circle. He was playing with the utmost skill upon their emotions, and now every face clouded as he recalled their failures and losses to them, failures and losses that they could not afford. "He is a genius," said Simon Girty to Braxton Wyatt. "I do not like him, but I will say that he is the greatest man in the west." "Sometimes I'm afraid of him," said Braxton Wyatt. The face of Timmendiquas was most expressive. When he spoke of their defeats his eyes were sad, his features drooped, and his voice took on a wailing tone. But now he changed suddenly. The head was thrown back, the chin was thrust out fiercely and aggressively, the black eyes became coals of fire, and the voice, challenging and powerful, made every heart in the circle leap up. "But a true warrior," he said, "never yields. Manitou does not love the coward. He has given the world, its rivers, its lakes, its forests, and its game, to the brave man. Warriors of the allied tribes, are you ready to yield Kain-tuck-ee, over which your fathers have hunted from the beginning of time, to the white man who has just come?" A roar burst from the crowd, and with a single impulse fifteen hundred voices answered, "No!" Many snatched their tomahawks from their belts and waved them threateningly as if the hated white man already stood within reach of the blade. Even the old veterans, Yellow Panther and Red Eagle, were stirred in every fiber, and shouted "No!" with the others. "I knew that you would say 'No,'" continued Timmendiquas, "although there are some among you who lost courage, though only for the moment, and wanted to go home, saying that the white man was too strong. When the fleet reached the fort they believed that we had failed, but we have not failed. We are just beginning to tread our greatest war path. The forces of the white men are united; then we will destroy them all at once. Warriors, will you go home like women or stay with your chiefs and fight?" A tremendous shout burst from the crowd, and the air was filled with the gleam of metal as they waved their tomahawks. Excited men began to beat the war drums, and others began to dance the war dance. But Timmendiquas said no more. He knew when to stop. He descended slowly and with dignity from the mound, and with the other chiefs and the renegades he walked to a fire, around which they sat, resuming their council. But it was not now a question of fighting, it was merely a question of the best way in which to fight. "Besides the fleet, Daniel Boone, Simon Kenton, and thirty or forty men like them have come to the relief of the fort," said Girty. "It is so," said Timmendiquas. "It would be a great stroke," continued the renegade, "to destroy Boone and Kenton along with the fort and the fleet"--he was as anxious as Timmendiquas to continue the attack. "That, too, is so," said Timmendiquas gravely. "While it makes our task the greater, it will make our triumph the greater, also. We will watch the fleet, which I do not think will move yet, and when our warriors are rested and restored we will attack again." "Beyond a doubt you're right," said Girty. "We could never retreat now and leave them to enjoy a victory. It would encourage them too much and discourage our own people too much." Timmendiquas gave him a lightning glance when he used the phrase "our own people," and Girty for the moment quailed. He knew that the great White Lightning did not like him, and he knew why. Timmendiquas believed that a man should be loyal to his own race, and in his heart he must regard the renegade as what he was--a traitor. But Girty, with all his crimes, was not a coward, and he was cunning, too, with the cunning of both the white man and the red. He recovered his courage and continued: "The taking of this fleet in particular would be the greatest triumph that we could achieve, and it would be a triumph in a double way. It has vast quantities of powder, lead, cannon, pistols, bayonets, medicines, clothing, and other supplies for the people in the east, who are fighting our friends, the British. If we should take it we'd not only weaken the Americans, but also secure for ourselves the greatest prize ever offered in the west." The eyes of all the chiefs glistened, and Girty, shrewd and watchful, noticed it. He sought continually to build up his influence among them, and he never neglected any detail. Now he reached under his buckskin hunting shirt and drew forth a soiled piece of paper. "Braxton Wyatt here, a loyal and devoted friend of ours, has been in the south," he said. "He was at New Orleans and he knows all about this fleet. He knows how it was formed and he knows what it carries. Listen, Timmendiquas, to what awaits us if we are shrewd enough and brave enough to take it: "One thousand rifles. "Six hundred muskets. "Six hundred best French bayonets. "Four hundred cavalry sabers. "Two hundred horse pistols, single-barreled. "Two hundred horse pistols, double-barreled. "Three hundred dirks. "Six brass eighteen-pounder field pieces. "Four brass twelve-pounder field pieces. "Two brass six-pounder field pieces. "Four bronze twelve-pounder field guns. "Ten thousand rounds of ammunition for the cannon. "Two hundred barrels of best rifle powder. "Thirty thousand pounds of bar lead and more than two hundred thousand dollars worth of clothing, provisions, and medicines. "Wouldn't that make your mouth water? Did any of us ever before have a chance to help at the taking of such a treasure?" "It is not wonderful that the white men fight so well to keep what they carry," said Timmendiquas. Then the chief questioned Braxton Wyatt closely about the fleet and the men who were with it. His questions were uncommonly shrewd, and the young leader saw that he was trying to get at the character of the boy. Wyatt was compelled to give minute descriptions of Adam Colfax, Drouillard and the five, Henry Ware, Paul, Shif'less Sol, Tom Ross, and Long Jim. "We know him whom you call the Ware," said Timmendiquas with a sort of grim humor, "and we have seen his strength and speed. Although but a boy in years, he is already a great warrior. He is the one whom you hate the most, is he not?" He looked straight into Braxton Wyatt's eyes, and the young renegade had an uncomfortable feeling that the chief was having fun at his expense. "It is so," he admitted reluctantly. "I have every cause to hate him. He has done me much harm, and I would do the same to him." "The youth called the Ware fights for his own people," said Timmendiquas gravely. There was an uncomfortable silence for a minute, but the flexible Girty made the best of it. "And Braxton, who is a most promising boy, fights for his, too," he said. "He has adopted the red race, he belongs to it, and it is his, as much as if he was born to it." Timmendiquas shrugged his shoulders, and, rising, walked away. Girty followed him with a bitter and malevolent glance. "I wish I was strong enough to fight against you, my haughty red friend," was his thought, "but I'm not, and so I suppose it's policy for me to fight for you." The Indians devoted the rest of that day to recuperation. Despite their losses, perfect concord still existed among the tribes, and, inflamed by their own natural passions and the oratory of Timmendiquas, they were eager to attack again. They had entire confidence in the young Wyandot chief, and when he walked among them old and young alike followed him with looks of admiration. Hunters were sent northward after game, buffalo, deer, and wild turkeys being plentiful, and the others, after cleaning their rifles, slept on the ground. The renegades still kept to themselves in a large buffalo skin tepee, although they intended to mingle with the warriors later on. They knew, despite the dislike of Timmendiquas, that their influence was great, and that it might increase. Twilight came over the Indian camp. Many of the warriors, exhausted from the battle and their emotions, still slept, lying like logs upon the ground. Others sat before the fires that rose here and there, and ate greedily of the food that the hunters had brought in. On the outskirts near the woods the sentinels watched, walking up and down on silent feet. Simon Girty, prince of renegades, sat at the door of the great buffalo skin tepee and calmly smoked a pipe, the bowl of which contained some very good tobacco. His eyes were quiet and contemplative, and his dark features were at rest. In the softening twilight he might have seemed a good man resting at his door step, with the day's work well done. Nor was Simon Girty unhappy. The fallen, whether white or red, were nothing to him. He need not grieve over a single one of them. Despite the distrust of Timmendiquas, he saw a steady growth of his power and influence among the Indians, and it was already great. He watched the smoke from his pipe curl up above his face, and then he closed his eyes. But the picture that his fancy had drawn filled his vision. He was no obscure woods prowler. He was a great man in the way in which he wished to be great. His name was already a terror over a quarter of a million square miles. Who in the west, white or red, that had not heard of Simon Girty? When he spoke the tribes listened to him, and they listened with respect. He was no beggar among them, seeking their bounty. He brought them knowledge, wisdom, and victory. They were in his debt, not he in theirs. But this was only the beginning. He would organize them and lead them to other and greater victories. He would use this fierce chief, Timmendiquas, for his own purposes, and rise also on his achievements. The soul of Simon Girty was full of guile and cunning and great plans. He opened his eyes, but the vision did not depart. He meant to make it real. Braxton Wyatt came to the door, also, and stood there looking at the Indian horde. Girty regarded him critically, and noted once more that he was tall and strong. He knew, too, that he was bold and skillful. "Braxton," he said, and his tone was mild and persuasive, "why are you so bitter against this boy Ware and his comrades?" The young renegade frowned, but after a little hesitation he replied: "We came over the mountains together and we were at Wareville together, but I never liked him. I don't know why it was in the beginning, but I suppose it was because we were different. Since then, in all the contests between us, he and his friends have succeeded and I have failed. I have been humiliated by him, too, more than once. Are not these causes enough for hatred?" Girty drew his pipe from his mouth, and blew a ring of smoke that floated slowly above his head. "They are good enough causes," he replied, "but I've learned this, Braxton: it doesn't pay to have special hatreds, to be trying always to get revenge upon some particular person. It interferes too much with business. I don't like Timmendiquas, because he doesn't like me, doesn't approve of me, and gives me little stabs now and then. But I don't waste any time trying to injure him. I'm going to make use of him." "I can't make use of Henry Ware and the others," said Braxton Wyatt impatiently. Girty blew another ring of smoke and laughed. "No, you can't, and that's the truth," he said, "but what I wanted to tell you was not to be in too great a hurry. You've got talents, Braxton. I've been watching you, and I see that you're worth having with us. Just you stick to me, and I'll make a great man of you. I'm going to consolidate all these tribes and sweep the west clean of every white. I'm going to be a king, I tell you, a woods king, and I'll make you a prince, if you stick to me." A glow appeared in the eyes of Braxton Wyatt. "I'll stick to you fast enough," he said. "Do it," said Girty in a tone of confidence, "and you can have all the revenge you want upon the boy, Ware, his comrades, and all the rest of them. Maybe you won't have to wait long, either." "That is, if we take the fort," said Wyatt. "Yes, if we take the fort, and I'm specially anxious to take it now, because Dan'l Boone is in it. I don't hate Boone more than I do others, but he's a mighty good man to have out of our way." McKee, Eliot, Quarles, and Blackstaffe joined them, and long after the twilight had gone and the night had come they talked of their wicked plans. CHAPTER XXIII ON THE OFFENSIVE Boone, Kenton, Henry, Sol, and Ross were returning in the night through the forest. They had stolen near enough to the Indian camp to see something of what had occurred, and now and then a word of the speech of Timmendiquas had reached them. But they did not need to see everything or to hear everything. They were too familiar with all the signs to make any mistake, and they knew that the savage horde was preparing for another great attack. "I was hopin'," said Daniel Boone, "that they'd go away, but I didn't have any faith in my hope. They think they've got to hit hard to keep us back, an' they're right. I s'pose these are the finest huntin' grounds in the world, an' I wouldn't want to give them up, either." "The attack led by Timmendiquas will be most determined," said Henry. "What do you think we ought to do, Mr. Boone?" "Hit first, an' hit with all our might," said Boone with emphasis. "Mr. Colfax is takin' ammunition to the east, but he's got to use some of it here." A happy thought occurred to Henry. "They had cannon, which we sunk," he said, "and of course they've got a lot of ammunition for these guns left. What if we should capture it? It would more than make up for what he will have to expend." "And why couldn't we raise them guns?" said Shif'less Sol. "It ain't likely that the explosion tore 'em up much, jest sunk 'em, an' even ef they wuz dented about a bit they could be fixed up all right." "That is certainly worth thinkin' about," said Boone. "We must lay that notion before Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite. If the guns are raised it ought to be done to-night." They hurried toward the spot where they had left their canoe, but they did not forget caution. Their message was too important for the messengers to be caught by scouting Indian bands. They trod softly, and stopped at frequent intervals to listen, hearing now and then the hoot of owl or whine of wolf. They knew that the warriors were signaling to one another, but they felt equally sure that these signals had no reference to themselves, and they pressed steadily on until they came to the river. They found their canoe untouched, and rowed out into the middle of the stream, where they stopped at Daniel Boone's command. "You know just where them boats were when you sunk 'em?" he said to Henry. Henry pointed to a spot upon the water. "It was within three feet of that place," he replied. "I'd stake anything upon it." "Then it'll 'pear strange to me if they don't belong to us before mornin'," said Boone. "The fleet has all kinds of men, an' some of 'em will know about raisin' things out of water. What do you say, Simon?" "Why, that them cannon are just as good as ours already," replied Kenton with energy. Boone laughed softly. "Always the same Simon," he said. "You see a thing that ought to be done, an' to you it's as good as done. I don't know but that it's well for a man to feel that way. It helps him over a heap of rough places." The boat resumed the passage, and without interruption reached the further shore, where they hid it again, and then entered the woods on their way to the fort. "All of us must talk mighty strong about this attack," said Boone. "We must hit while we're all together, an' we must make Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite feel the truth of what we're sayin'. If the Indians have the biggest force that was ever gathered here, so have we, an' that mustn't be forgot." Daniel Boone spoke with great emphasis. His usually mild voice rose a little, and his words came forth sharp and strong. Henry felt that he told the truth, a truth most important, and he resolved, boy though he was, to second the famous woodsman's words, with all his power. They reached the fort without incident, noticing with pleasure that communication between fort and fleet was still sustained by a strong double line of sentinels. Daniel Boone asked at once for a conference with Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite, and it was held in the chief room of a great, double log house, the largest in the place. Besides the two commanders, the five, Drouillard, Thrale, Lyon, Cole, Wilmot, and several others of importance were present. Boone, as became his experience and fame, was the first spokesman, and he laid before the commanders and their lieutenants all that the party had seen and heard. He urged with great vigor the necessity of attack. He believed that they would have a much greater chance of victory if they struck first instead of standing on the defensive, and he spoke, also, of the cannon in the river, and the ammunition for them in the Indian camp. If they were successful, the ammunition taken from the Indians would more than fill the place of that used by the fleet in the battle. The eyes of Adam Colfax glowed appreciatively at the mention of the cannon. "It would be a great thing for us," he said, "if we could arrive at Pittsburgh with more cannon than we started with at New Orleans. We've got divers and the best of boatmen in our fleet, and I'm in favor of going out at once to salvage those guns." "An' do we attack?" asked Boone persistently. "Remember there is a great treasure in the Indian camp, the ammunition they brought for the guns, which you can take with you to Pittsburgh. The harder we strike now the better it will be for us hereafter." The stern face of Adam Colfax began to work. The battle light came into his eyes. "I'm a good member of the church," he said, "and I'm a man of peace, that is, I want to be, though it seems to me that Providence has often set my feet in other ways, and I believe that what you tell us, Mr. Boone, is true. If we don't strike hard at this chief Timmendiquas and his men, they will strike hard at us. I shall put it to the men in my fleet; if they favor it we will go. What do you say about yours, Major?" Major George Augustus Braithwaite looked at the men about him, and the battle light came into his eyes, also. "It shan't be said, Mr. Colfax, that my men stayed behind when yours were willing to go. I shall take the vote, and if they say fight--and they certainly will say it--we go with you." Messengers hurried forth and polled the two camps. An overwhelming majority were in favor of making the attack. In the fleet the men, used to danger and loving it as the breath of their nostrils, were practically unanimous. But Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite agreed to drag first for the cannon. At three in the morning a dozen boats went forth upon the river. They contained the two commanders, Boone, Kenton, Henry, and others, besides the divers and the men with grappling hooks. It was a dark night, and, in addition, Simon Kenton and a dozen good men went upon the northern shore to search the woods for a watching enemy. Henry and Seth Cole were in the boat with Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite, and the two sought to mark the exact spot upon the water at which the cannon had been sunk. This might seem a most difficult task, but the last detail of that eventful night had been photographed upon Henry's mind. It seemed to him that he could remember, within a foot, the exact spot at which the guns had gone beneath the current of the Ohio. "It is here," he said to Adam Colfax, and the scout nodded. All the boats anchored, and the divers dropped silently into the muddy stream. Henry watched eagerly, and in a minute or so they came up sputtering. Their hands had touched nothing but the bottom. Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite looked disappointed, but both Henry and the scout insisted that it was the right place. "Try again," said Adam Colfax, and the divers went down a second time. The last of them to come up looked over the side of their boat, and when he wiped the water from his eyes, triumph showed there. "They are here," he said. "I touched one of them. It is sunk in the mud, but we can raise it." They uttered a little suppressed cry of triumph, and presently the divers touched the other, also. The grappling hooks were sent down, and those in the boats watched eagerly to see if the cannon could be raised. Every big gun was precious in those early days of war, and if Adam Colfax could add two such prizes to those he already had on the fleet he would be repaid for much that they had suffered on their great voyage. The hooks at last took hold. The gun was lifted two or three feet, but it slipped from their grasp and buried itself deeper than ever in the mud. A second trial was made with a like result, but the third was more successful, and the gun was lifted from the water. It came, muzzle first, presenting a grinning mouth like some sea monster, but the suppressed little cry of triumph broke forth again as the cannon was loaded, with toil and perspiration, upon one of the larger boats. Their joy increased when they saw that it was practically unharmed, and that it would be indeed a valuable addition to their armament. Salvage was also made of the second gun, which was damaged somewhat, but not so much that the armorers of the fleet could not put it in perfect condition within a week. Fortunately they were not interrupted in their task, and when Kenton and the scouts rejoined them, and they started back to Fort Prescott, Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite shook hands in mutual congratulation. "I never expected to pick up two good guns in this manner," said Adam Colfax. "Suppose you mount them upon your own walls until we are ready to go." Henry, Ross, and Shif'less Sol, after sleeping through the morning hours, were joined by Paul and Long Jim, and spent the afternoon in scouting. They crossed the Ohio in a canoe some distance below the fort, and once more entered the deep woods, bearing back in a northeasterly direction toward the Indian camp. Here Henry and the shiftless one went forward alone, leaving the others to wait for them. They did not dare approach near enough to the camp to observe with minuteness what was going on, but they saw that a great stir was in progress. Fresh detachments of warriors from the Shawnees and Miamis had arrived, but the Wyandots, the least numerous of them all, still held the first place. The palm for courage, energy, and ability was yet conceded to them and their great chief, Timmendiquas, by all the rest. "I don't think they'll be ready to move against us again for about two days," said the shiftless one. "And we'll strike before then," said Henry. "They won't be suspecting such a movement by us, for one reason, because a river is between." "That's so," said Sol, "an' they've been doin' so much attackin' themselves that they won't think about our takin' the job from 'em." They returned with their news, and at midnight the white army started forth on its great but hazardous attempt. The night was fairly clear, with a good moon and many stars, and the departure from the fort was in silence, save for the sobbing of the women and children over those whom they might never see again. It was a formidable little army that issued from the southern gate of the fort, the one away from the river, perhaps the strongest that had yet been gathered in the west, and composed of many diverse elements, the Kentuckians who had been Kentuckians only a year or two, the wild hunters of Boone and Kenton, the rivermen, a few New Englanders, French and Spanish creoles, and men from different parts of Europe. It was a picturesque group without much semblance of military discipline, but with great skill, courage, and willingness in forest warfare. Every man carried a long-barreled rifle, and they were armed in addition with pistols, tomahawks, and knives. The cannon were left behind as too unwieldy for their purpose. Adam Colfax, Major Braithwaite, Gregory Wilmot, Thrale, Lyon, Cole, Drouillard, and the other lieutenants were at the head of the little army, and Boone, Kenton, the five, and at least fifteen more were in advance or on the flanks as scouts and skirmishers. The five, as usual, were close together. The army marched southward about a half mile, and then, turning, marched parallel with the river about two miles, in order to hide their movements from lurking Indian scouts. The fleet, meanwhile, dropped down the Ohio, clinging closely to the shadows of the western shore. The five were rather grave as they walked ahead of the army, examining every tree and bush for sign of a foe. None knew better than they the dangers to which they were about to be exposed, and none knew better than they the wilderness greatness of Timmendiquas. "A lazy man always hez the most trouble," said Shif'less Sol in a whisper to the others. "Mebbe ef he wuzn't so lazy he'd be lively 'nough to git out o' the way o' trouble. I'm always takin' good resolutions, resolvin' to mind my own business, which ain't large, an' which wouldn't take much time, an' never keepin' 'em. I might be five hundred miles from here, trappin' beaver an' peacefully takin' the lives of buffalo, without much risk to my own, but here I am, trampin' through the woods in the night an' kinder doubtful whether I'll ever see the sun rise ag'in." "Sol," said Long Jim, "I sometimes think you're the biggest liar the world hez ever produced, an' that's sayin' a heap, when you think uv all them history tales Paul hez told. You know you don't want to be off five hundred miles from here trappin' innocent beaver an' shootin' the unprincipled buffaler. You know you want to be right here with the rest uv us, trappin' the Injuns, an' shootin' the renegades ef the chance comes." "Wa'al, I reckon you're right," said the shiftless one slowly, "but I do wish it would come easier. Ef I could rest comf'table on my bed an' hev 'em driv up to me, I wouldn't mind it so much." The march down the river was attended by little noise, considering the number of men who made it, and at the appointed place they found the fleet ready to take them on board. The scouts reported that the enemy had not been seen, and they believed that the advance was still a secret. But the crossing of the river would be a critical venture, and all undertook it with anxious hearts. They had come back to one of the narrowest parts of the pass that had cost them so much, but no enemy was here now, and silently they embarked. All the five, as usual, were in one boat. It had turned somewhat darker, and they could not distinctly see the farther shore. Their eyes were able to make out there only the black loom of the forest and the cliffs. Their boat had oars, at which Tom Ross and Jim Hart were pulling, while the others watched, and, being scouts, they were well ahead of the rest of the fleet. "S'pose," said Shif'less Sol, "them woods should be full o' warriors, every one o' them waitin' to take a shot at us ez soon ez we came in range? Wouldn't that be hurryin' to meet trouble a leetle too fast?" "But I don't think the warriors are there," said Henry. "It was good tactics to come down the river before crossing, and if Indian scouts were out they must have been fooled." "I'm hopin' with every breath I draw that what you say is true," said Shif'less Sol. Henry, as he spoke, kept his eyes on the dark loom of forest and shore. He did not believe that an Indian band would be waiting for them there, but he could not know. At any time a sheet of rifle fire might burst from the woods, and the boat of the five would be the first to receive it. But he would not show this feeling to his comrade. He sat rigidly erect, his rifle across his knees, and nothing escaped his eyes, now used to the darkness. Henry looked back once and saw the great fleet following a little distance behind and in ordered column, making no noise save for the plash of oar, sweep, and paddle, and the occasional rattle of arms. Talking had been forbidden, and no one attempted to break the rule. They came closer and closer to the shore, and Henry searched the forest with straining eyes. Nothing moved there. The night was windless, and the branches did not stir. Nor did he hear any of the slight sounds which a numerous party, despite its caution, must make. "They ain't waitin' for us," said Shif'less Sol. "We've give them the slip." "You must be right, Sol," said Henry. "We're within range if they are there, and they'd have fired before this time." Ross and Jim sent the boat toward a little cove, and it struck upon the narrow beach, with the woods still silent and no enemy appearing. Henry leaped ashore, and was quickly followed by the others. Then they slipped into the woods, reconnoitered carefully for a little while, finding nothing hostile, and returned to the river. The landing of the whole force destined for the attack was made rapidly, and with but little noise. The boats, all with skeleton crews, swung back into the stream, where they anchored, ready to receive the army if it should be driven back. Then the white force, led by Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite, the scouts going on ahead, plunged with high courage and great hopes into the woods. CHAPTER XXIV THE DECISIVE BATTLE The white army was soon hidden in the forest. It was, beyond a fact, the largest force of its kind that had yet assembled in this region, but it disappeared as completely as if it had ceased to be at all. A mile from the river it stopped, and the two commanders held a short conference with Boone and Kenton. The manner and great reputation of Boone inspired the utmost confidence, and they were very anxious not only to hear what he said, but also to do what he suggested. The council was short, and it was held in the darkness with the soldiers all about. "Send Henry Ware and his comrades forward to see if the way is open," said Boone, "an' if it is, we should rush their camp with all our might. A night attack is usually risky, but it won't be long until day now, an' if we can get a start on 'em it will be worth a heap to us." Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite agreed with him, and Henry and his comrades set forth again ahead of the army. Simon Kenton went with them. The six stole forward. They were quite sure that Timmendiquas would have out sentinels, but neither he, the other chiefs, nor the renegades would anticipate so swift a counter stroke. The country was rough, but they made good progress, flitting forward in a silent file. Cry of wolf and hoot of owl came now and then to their ears, but they did not believe that they meant anything save the announcement from warrior to warrior that all was well. They managed to come without detection, within several hundred yards of the camp, where they ascended a little hill and could see the low flare of light from the fires. "I don't think we should try to get any closer," said Kenton. "We might run into a nest of 'em an' never get back. We've seen enough to know that the army can get up pretty close, an' at least attack before the savages are wholly ready. S'pose we start back." Paul rose in obedience to the suggestion, but Henry at once pulled him down again. "Somebody's coming," he whispered, and the six lay still in the bushes. They heard light footsteps, and three men, or rather two men and a boy, emerged from the shadows. The three were seeking the easiest path, and they marked where the trees and bushes were scarcest. It was with a shivering feeling of repugnance and anger that Henry recognized them, and the same feeling animated his comrades. They were Simon Girty, Blackstaffe, and Braxton Wyatt, and the three were talking, not loudly, but in tones that the hidden six could hear distinctly. "The attack will be begun again to-morrow night," Girty was saying, "an' it's going to be a success. Whatever you may say about him, Timmendiquas is a general, and I never before saw the Indians worked up to such a pitch. They were singing and dancing for hours to-day, an' I believe they'd now go through a lake of fire an' brimstone to get at that fleet." "We'll let the Wyandots lead the way," said Blackstaffe. "We certainly will," said Girty. Then the two older men looked at each other and laughed, a low horrible laugh that made the flesh of Henry and Paul creep. "Yes," said Girty, "we'll let the Wyandots lead, and then the Shawnees and Miamis and the others. We'll take our part, but I think some of these warriors can be spared more readily than we can." Braxton Wyatt laughed, too, when he understood. "That's good policy it seems to me," he said. "We plan, while the warriors do most of the fighting." "Stick to that, an' you'll be a great man," said Girty. The king of the renegades stood in a little opening, and the moonlight fell full upon his face. They could see it distorted into a malicious grin of cruelty and self-satisfaction. Slowly the rifle barrel of Shif'less Sol, in the bushes, was raised to a level, and it was pointed straight at a spot between the cruel, grinning eyes. An infallible eye looked down the sight, and a steady finger approached the trigger. Never, until his last day came, in very truth, was Simon Girty, the renegade, nearer death. But Henry put out his hand, and softly pressed down the rifle barrel. "I don't blame you, Sol," he whispered. "It would be getting rid of a monster and saving many good lives, but you can't do it now. It would break up our whole plan of attack." It was one of the greatest griefs in the life of Solomon Hyde, called the shiftless one, that he was compelled to yield to Henry's advice. He had held Simon Girty, the arch criminal, under his rifle, and he had picked out the spot where he knew he could make his bullet hit, and then he must put down his rifle and pass over the opportunity just as if it had never been. "You're right," he whispered back in reluctant words, and lowered his rifle. The three renegades continued to talk of the projected attack, but they passed on, and soon their words could be heard no longer. Then their figures became indistinct and were lost to sight. Shif'less Sol uttered a low cry, so full of bitterness that Henry was forced to laugh, knowing as he did its cause. "I never had sech a chance afore," said Shif'less Sol, "an' I'll never hev it ag'in." "Henry was right," said Simon Kenton. "'Twould never have done to have given an alarm now. We must hurry back, bring up the army, and strike before the dawn." There could be no difference of opinion on such a subject, and they rapidly retraced their footsteps. In three-quarters of an hour they rejoined the army, and told that the way was clear. The leaders heard the report with great satisfaction and promptly arranged the plan of battle. The chief thing that they sought to guard against was the confusion so often arising from darkness, when friend might fire into friend. "They mustn't get too much excited, and they must look before they shoot," said Boone. "It will be only two hours to daylight, an' if we can hold together till then we can beat 'em." The army, although kept in a body, was numbered in detachments. Adam Colfax took the lead of one, Major Braithwaite another, Boone another, while Drouillard, Thrale, and all the other prominent men also had commands. The five, Kenton, and the scouts led the advance. Once more they took up their progress through the woods, and pressed swiftly on toward the Indian camp. It was one of those darkest hours before the dawn, and so many men marching at a rapid pace, could not keep from making considerable noise. Bushes rustled, arms rattled, and dry sticks broke with a snap beneath heavy feet. "On, men! on!" cried Adam Colfax. "We can't be slow now!" A dog howled, and then another. An Indian sentinel fired his rifle, and then a second and a third did the same. The white vanguard replied, and then with a great shout the army rushed toward the Indian force. But Timmendiquas was not wholly surprised. His men, posted in a circle around the camp, gave the alarm as they fell back, firing their rifles, and uttering the long Indian yell. Hundreds of throats took it up, and the savages, seizing their weapons, sprang forth to the conflict. In a moment, the woods were filled with sparkling flames, and the bullets whistled in showers. There were shouts and cries and a rain of twigs cut off by the bullets in the darkness. The five and Kenton fell back upon the main body and then rushed on with them, keeping in the front line. "Let's keep together! Whatever happens, let's keep together!" cried Shif'less Sol, and the others in reply shouted their assent. They were compelled to shout now, because hundreds of rifles were cracking, and the roar was swelling fast. Innumerable flashes lit up the forest, and a cloud of fine gray powder rose, stinging the nostrils of the combatants, and, like an exciting narcotic, urging them on to action. The first rush of the white army bore all before it. The Indian sentinels and the others who constituted the fringe of their band were rapidly driven in on the main body, and many of the soldiers and hunters began to shout in triumph as they reached the edge of the prairie and saw their foe, huddled in dark masses beyond. But as they came into the open they met a strong core of resistance that soon hardened and spread. The great chief, Timmendiquas, although partly surprised by the swift attack of the whites, did not lose either his presence of mind or his courage. He showed on that morning all the qualities of a great general. He rallied the warriors and posted them in bands here and there. Hundreds threw themselves upon the ground, and from that less exposed position sent their bullets into the charging force. Timmendiquas himself stood near the center with the veterans, Red Eagle and Yellow Panther, on either side of him. He scorned to seek cover, but remained, at his full height, where all could see him, shouting his orders and directing the battle. Behind him were the renegades firing their rifles, but protecting themselves, with the caution upon which they had resolved. Henry and his comrades kept their place in the front of the charge, and, according to their plan, close together. The darkness was now lighted up so much by the incessant firing that the boy could see very well not only the long line of his friends, but the black masses of the enemy as well. He felt the resistance harden as they came into the prairie, and he knew that the Indians had been rallied. He thought he heard the voice of Timmendiquas calling to them, and then he believed that it was only his fancy. Because he knew that Timmendiquas would do it, his active brain made a picture of him doing it. He was suddenly seized and pulled down by the strong arms of Tom Ross. All his comrades were already stretched flat upon the earth. The next instant a great volley was fired by the Indians. The bullets from hundreds of rifles swept over their heads, and many struck true behind them. Some men fell, and others staggered back, wounded. There were cries and groans. The Indian yell, poured from many throats, arose. It was long, high-pitched, and it seemed to Henry that it had in it a triumphant note. They had stopped the white advance, and they were exulting. But the little army, rising up, rushed forward again, and then threw itself flat upon its face once more to escape the withering fire of the Indians. From their own recumbent position the white men replied, sending in the bullets fast. It was a confused and terrible scene in the intermittent light and darkness, white men and red men shouting together in their deadly struggle. The front of the conflict lengthened, and the clouds of smoke drifted all through the forest. It entered the throats and lungs of the combatants, and they coughed without knowing it. Henry lay long on the ground, pushing forward a few feet at a time, loading and firing his rifle until it grew hot to his hands. He was not conscious of the passage of time. His brain burned as if with a fever. He felt now and then a great throb of exultation, because the white army was always advancing, only a little, it was true, but still it was an advance, and never a retreat. But the throb of exultation presently became a throb of rage. The advance of a sudden ceased entirely. The Indians were gathered in such heavy masses in front that they could not be driven back. Their front was one continuous blaze of fire, and the whistling of the bullets was like the steady flowing of a stream. Timmendiquas, despite his disadvantage, had marshaled his forces well, and Henry knew it. The boy began to have a great fear that they would be driven back, that they would be defeated. Was so much blood to be shed, so much suffering to be endured for nothing? His thoughts went back a moment to Fort Prescott and the women and the children there. Theirs would be the worst fate. He put one hand to his face and felt that it was wet. He was seized with a furious desire to rise up and rush directly into the flame and smoke before him. He longed for the power to win the victory with his single arm. A lull of a few moments in the firing came presently, and the darkness instantly closed in again. A long, triumphant yell came from the Indians, and the white men replied with a shout, also triumphant. Henry was conscious then that his eyes were smarting from the smoke, and he coughed once or twice. He half rose to a sitting position, and a hand fell upon his shoulder. "Come, my boy," said a voice in his ear. "We want you and your comrades for a new movement. We've got to take 'em in the flank." Henry looked up and saw the mild face of Boone, mild even now in the midst of the battle. He sprang to his feet, and, with a sort of wonder, he saw his four comrades rise around him, unhurt, save for scratches. It did not seem possible to him that they could have come so well through all that fire. He did not think of himself. "Come," said Boone, and the five went back a little space, until they came to a clump of trees beneath which Adam Colfax, Major Braithwaite, Drouillard, Simon Kenton, and few others were talking. "I hate to risk so many good men," said Adam Colfax. "It must be done," said Major Braithwaite. "It's our only chance, and we must take it while the darkness lasts. The day will break in a half hour." "You're right," said Adam Colfax, flinging away his last fear. "Take two hundred of our best men, and may God go with you!" In five minutes the two hundred were on their way with Major Braithwaite, the five, Boone, and Kenton at their head. It was their object to curve about in the woods and then fall suddenly upon the Indian flank, relying upon weight and surprise. They trod lightly and soon passed beyond the area of smoke. Behind them the firing was renewed with great violence and energy. Adam Colfax was pressing the attack afresh. "Good!" Henry heard Major Braithwaite murmur. "They won't suspect that we are coming." Fifteen minutes of marching, and they were at another segment in the circle of the prairie. The crackle of the firing was now further away, but when they came to the edge of the open they saw the flash of the rifles and heard again the repeated whoops of the Indians. "Now!" exclaimed Daniel Boone. "This is their exposed side, and we must rush upon them!" "Come!" exclaimed Major Braithwaite, raising his cocked hat upon the point of his sword and running into the open prairie. The two hundred and fifty followed him with a wild shout, and they hurled themselves upon the Indian flank. At the same time Adam Colfax and his whole force rushed forward anew. The two divisions closed down like the clamps of a vise. The charge of the flanking force was made with such immense courage and vigor that nothing could withstand it. Major Braithwaite continually shouted and continually waved his sword. The cocked hat fell off, and was trampled out of shape by the men behind him, but he did not know it, and he never regretted it. Henry was conscious, in that wild rush, of the friendly faces about him, and of the red horde before him, but he felt little else, save an immense desire to strike quickly and hard. The red men fight best from ambush and by means of craft and surprise. Struck so suddenly and with such energy on the flank, they gave way. Superstition increased their fears. The face of Manitou was turned from them, and many of them ran for the forest. Timmendiquas raged back and forth. Now and then he struck fleeing warriors with the flat of his tomahawk and shouted to them to stay, but all of his efforts were without avail. The jaws of the vise were coming closer and closer together. The renegades, considering the battle lost, were already seeking the refuge of the woods. Yet Timmendiquas would not go. With the Wyandots and the bravest of the Shawnees and Miamis he still held the ground where a group of tepees stood, and many men fell dead or wounded before them. Adam Colfax and Major Braithwaite met in the prairie, and in their excitement and joy wrung each other's hands. "A glorious triumph!" exclaimed the Major. "Yes, but we must push it home!" said the stern Puritan, his face a red glow, as he pointed toward the tepee where Timmendiquas and the flower of the warriors still fought. Henry was near them and heard them. He saw, also, a gray light shooting down, and he knew the dawn was at hand. The Major raised his sword once more. Adam Colfax took his hat in his hand and waved it. Then the whole white force, uttering a simultaneous shout, rushed upon the group around Timmendiquas. Henry and his comrades, shouting with them, were in the front of the attack. The Indian band was swept away, and, with the battle smoke in his nostrils, Henry followed the survivors into the forest. The day was coming, but it was still dark within the shadow of the trees. Henry marked the dusky form of a tall warrior, and he followed him with every ounce of energy that he could command. The warrior ran rapidly and soon the prairie was left behind. The noise and confusion of the dying battle sank away, but Henry did not notice it. The fury of the conflict was still in his veins, and he thought of nothing but to overtake the fleeing warrior, who was not far before him. The gloom in the forest deepened. Thickets grew all about them, and the last light from the firing was shut out. Then the tall warrior turned abruptly and fired at his pursuer. The bullet whistled by Henry's ear, and he would have fired in return, but it was too late. The warrior was rushing upon him, and his own impetus carried him forward to meet the Indian. They were locked the next instant in a desperate grasp, as they writhed and struggled over the leaves and grass, each putting forth his utmost strength. It was too dark in the forest for Henry to see his opponent, but he knew that he had never before been seized by anyone so powerful. He was only a boy in years himself, but boys, in his time in the west, developed fast under a strenuous life, and few men were as tall and strong as he. Moreover, he knew some of the tricks of wrestling, and the Indians are not wrestlers. He used all his knowledge now, trying the shoulder hold and the waist hold and to trip, but every attempt failed. The immense strength and agility of the Indian always enabled him to recover himself, and then the struggle was begun anew. The beads of sweat stood out on Henry's forehead, and he believed that he could hear his sinews and those of his opponent crack as they put forth prodigious efforts. Both fell to the ground and rolled over and over. Then they were back on their feet again, without ever releasing their hold. Henry tried to reach the knife in his belt, and the Indian sought his, too. Both failed, and then, Henry, crouching a little, suddenly put his shoulder against his antagonist's chest, and pushed with all his might. At the same time he hooked his right foot around the Indian's ankle and pulled with a mighty jerk. It was a trick, the device of a wrestler, and the great Indian, losing his balance, went down heavily upon his back. Henry fell with his full weight upon him. The Indian uttered a gasp, and his grasp relaxed. Henry in an instant sprang to his feet. He snatched up his rifle that he had dropped in the bushes, and when the fallen man rose the muzzle of a loaded rifle, held by steady hands, confronted him. Henry looked down the sights straight into the face of the Indian, and beheld Timmendiquas, the great White Lightning of the Wyandots. Timmendiquas saw the flash of recognition on the boy's face and smiled faintly. "Shoot," he said. "You have won the chance." Conflicting emotions filled the soul of Henry Ware. If he spared Timmendiquas it would cost the border many lives. The Wyandot chief could never be anything but the implacable foe of those who were invading the red man's hunting grounds. But Henry remembered that this man had saved his life. He had spared him when he was compelled to run the gantlet. The boy could not shoot. "Go!" he said, lowering his rifle. "You gave me my life, and I give you yours." A sudden light glowed in the eyes of the young chief. There was something akin in the souls of these two, and perhaps Timmendiquas alone knew it. He raised one hand, gave a salute in the white man's fashion, and said four words. "I shall not forget." Then he was gone in the forest, and Henry went back to the battle field, where the firing had now wholly ceased. The white victory was complete. Many Indians had fallen. Their losses here and at the river had been so great that it would be long before they could be brought into action again. But the renegades had made good their escape. They did not find the body of a single one of them, and it was certain that they were living to do more mischief. Henry sought his friends at once, and his joy was very great when he discovered them to be without wounds save those of the slightest nature. The leaders, too, had escaped with their lives, and they were exultant because they had captured a thousand rounds of ammunition for the two cannon and four hundred good muskets from the Canadian posts, which would be taken with the other supplies to Pittsburgh. "It was worth stopping and fighting for these," said Adam Colfax. * * * * * A week later the five sat in a little glade about a mile south of the Ohio, but far beyond the mouth of the Licking. They had left the fleet that morning as it was moving peacefully up the "Beautiful River," and they meant to pass the present night in the woods. Twilight was already coming. A beautiful golden sun had just set, and there were bars of red in the west to mark where it had gone. Jim Hart was cooking by a small fire. Paul lay at ease on the grass, dreaming with eyes wide open. Tom Ross was cleaning his rifle, and he was wholly immersed in his task. Henry and Shif'less Sol sat together near the edge of the glade. "Henry," said the shiftless one, "when that battle wuz about over I thought I saw you runnin' into the woods after a big warrior who looked like a chief." "You really saw me," said Henry, "and the Indian was a chief, a great one. It was Timmendiquas, although I did not know it then." "Did you overtake him?" "I did, and we had a fight in the dark. Luck was with me, and at the end of the struggle I held him at the muzzle of my rifle." "Did you shoot?" "No, I could not. He had saved my life, and I had to pay the debt." The shiftless one reached out his hand and touched Henry's lightly. "I'm glad you didn't shoot," he said. "I'd have done the same that you did." An hour later they were all asleep but Tom Ross, who watched at the edge of the glade, and Henry, who lay on his back in the grass, gazing at the stars that flashed and danced in the blue sky. Sleep came to the boy slowly, but his eyelids drooped at last, and a wonderful peace came over him. The wind rose, and out of the forest floated a song, soothing and peaceful. It told him that success, the reward of the brave, had come, and, as his eyelids drooped lower, he slept without dreams. THE END * * * * * _The Young Trailers Series_ _Two boys, Henry Ware and Paul Cotter, and three scouts are the chief characters in these books dealing with frontier life and adventures with the Indians about the time of the Revolutionary War. Each story is complete in itself, full of excitement, and historically accurate._ The Young Trailers Two boys and their families arrive in Kentucky and build a settlement. The settlers begin to have trouble with the Indians. The Forest Runners The two boys set out to carry powder from one settlement to another. The Indians get word of it. The Eyes of the Woods The Indians at length determine to destroy the boys and their friends. In the struggle the boys call into play all their lore of the woods. The Keepers of the Trail In this book the boys and their comrades defeat a great Indian army and save Kentucky from invasion. The Free Rangers Five of the settlers journey down the Mississippi to urge the Spanish Governor-General not to join the Indians in fighting. The Riflemen of the Ohio The band of five settlers act as scouts for a great fleet coming up the Mississippi with supplies for the Revolutionists at Pittsburg. The Scouts of the Valley The two boys go into Pennsylvania to help the settlers there fight the Iroquois. They are active in several battles. The Border Watch Learning that another expedition against the settlers in Kentucky is being prepared, the boys join the famous fighters under George Rogers Clark. _The French and Indian War Series_ _In this series Mr. Altsheler has endeavored to describe the events of the French and Indian War, the period in American History from 1754 to 1763. The central characters in the story are Robert Lennox, an American boy; Tayoga, an Onondaga Indian; and David Willet, a hunter. The books are all historically correct._ The Hunters of the Hills This book begins the adventures of Robert Lennox and Tayoga, the Indian, and tells of what they do at Quebec. The Shadow of the North Robert, Tayoga and David Willet are scouting in the wilderness, when they learn that war is declared. They fearlessly push on. The Rulers of the Lakes After Braddock's defeat, the young heroes start north and finally take part in the Battle of Lake George. The Masters of the Peaks Robert and his friends spoil the plans of a spy and take part in a big battle before the massacre at Fort William Henry. The Lords of the Wild Robert is captured and witnesses the defeat of the British and Americans. He then escapes and, with his friends, starts a mighty effort for victory. The Sun of Quebec The story narrates the adventures of Robert and his friends during the Battle of Quebec. _The Civil War Series_ _In this series of stories Mr. Altsheler covers the principal battles of the Civil War. In four of the volumes Dick Mason, who fights for the North, is the leading character, and in the others, his cousin, Harry Kenton, who joins the Confederate forces, takes the principal part._ The Guns of Bull Run Harry Kenton follows the lead of his father and joins the Southern forces. His cousin, Dick Mason, the hero, fights with the North. The Guns of Shiloh Dick takes part in the battle of Mill Spring, is captured but escapes. The story gives a vivid account of the first defeat of the South. The Scouts of Stonewall Harry and some friends become aides of Stonewall Jackson. They follow him through the campaign in the Valley of Virginia. The Sword of Antietam After engaging in the Battle of Shiloh, Dick gets into three big fights. Antietam is the big battle described, with McClellan always in the foreground. The Star of Gettysburg In this book Harry and his friends take part in the battles of Fredericksburg, The Wilderness and finally Gettysburg. General Lee is a central figure. The Rock of Chickamauga This volume deals with the crisis of the Union during the siege of Vicksburg and the Battle of Chickamauga. Dick takes an active part. The Shades of the Wilderness The story opens with Lee's retreat after Gettysburg. Harry is sent to Richmond and becomes involved in a dangerous situation with a spy. The Tree of Appomattox This description of the Battle of Appomattox has been written from the account of an eyewitness. Dick plays an important part. The volume closes with the blue and the gray turning toward a new day. _The Texan Series_ _Three stories telling of the Texan struggle for independence and the events culminating in the capture of the erratic Santa Anna._ The Texan Star Ned Fulton, the hero, is a prisoner in the city of Mexico. He makes an exciting escape and sees the capture of San Antonio. The Texan Scouts Ned Fulton and his friends are right in the midst of exciting events that keep the reader continually on edge. The battle of the Alamo is the climax of the story. The Texan Triumph The duel of skill and courage between Ned and Urrea, his young Mexican enemy, furnishes pages of excitement. The battle of San Jacinto, which secured Texan Independence, and the capture of Santa Anna by five Texans is vividly described. _The World War Series_ _Mr. Altsheler, who was in Vienna the day war was declared on Servia in Munich when war was declared against Russia, and in England when the British forces were mobilizing, has given in these three volumes the impressions he gained at the places of action during the world crisis._ The Guns of Europe A young American, unable to reach home, enlists with the Allies where he sees active service from the beginning. The story closes with the fierce fighting which preceded the retreat of the Germans from Paris. The Forest of Swords The hero finds himself in Paris with Phillip Lannes, his friend, and the Germans only fifteen miles away. Finally the enemy is turned back at the Marne, a battle in which John and Phillip are actively engaged. The Hosts of the Air The pretty young sister of Phillip is seized by the enemy and carried into Austria. John resolves to get her back and his adventures make a wonderfully exciting story. THE GREAT WEST SERIES The Lost Hunters The Great Sioux Trail BOOKS NOT IN SERIES Apache Gold The Quest of the Four The Last of the Chiefs In Circling Camps The Last Rebel A Soldier of Manhattan The Sun of Saratoga A Herald of the West The Wilderness Road My Captive 
44823	----	NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY DOWN THE OHIO AND MISSISSIPPI IN 1789-90. BY MAJ. SAMUEL S. FORMAN WITH A MEMOIR AND ILLUSTRATIVE NOTES BY LYMAN C. DRAPER CINCINNATI ROBERT CLARKE & CO. 1888 COPYRIGHT. PREFATORY NOTE. I acknowledge my indebtedness to a friend of the Forman family for calling my attention to the interesting narrative of Major Samuel S. Forman's early journey down the Ohio and Mississippi, and for aiding me in securing a copy for publication. The manuscript of this monograph, as now presented, has been submitted to friends and kindred of Major Forman, who knew him long and well, and they have accorded it their warm approval. With their kind approbation, I feel encouraged to offer this little contribution to western historical literature to an enlightened public. L. C. D. Madison, Wis. MEMOIR OF MAJOR SAMUEL S. FORMAN. Every addition to our stock of information touching early western history and adventure, and of the pioneer customs and habits of a hundred years ago, deserves a kindly reception. The following narrative of a journey down the Ohio and Mississippi, in 1789-90, was not reduced to writing till 1849, after a lapse of sixty years; but an unusually fine memory enabled Major Forman to relate such incidents of his trip as left a lasting impression upon him, alike with interest and general accuracy. A sketch of the writer will give us a better insight into his trustworthiness and character. Major Forman, the third son of Samuel and Helena Denise Forman, was born at Middletown Point, Monmouth county, New Jersey, July 21, 1765. He was too young to participate in the Revolutionary war, during the stirring period of 1776 to 1780, in New Jersey; but his elder brothers, Jonathan and Denise, were prominent and active throughout the great struggle. Major Forman has recorded some incidents of the war that occurred in his region of New Jersey, and within his own knowledge, worthy of preservation as interesting scraps of Revolutionary history. At one time, a cousin of his, Tunis Forman, about seventeen years of age, met two Tory robbers, and after one had fired at him and missed, he, getting the advantage of them in the adjustment of his gun, forced them to throw down their weapons, when he marched them several miles before him, and lodged them in jail at Freehold. For this brave act, young Forman received a large reward.[1] [1] This incident, occurring in May, 1780, is related in Barber and Howe's _New Jersey Historical Collection_, 345-6. During the period while Major Henry Lee and his famous Light Dragoons were serving in New Jersey, intelligence came of the marauding operations of a band of Tory robbers, located in the extensive pine woods toward Barnegat, in Monmouth county, whose head-quarters were at a secret cave in that region. Lee dispatched a select party of fearless men, who approached the dangerous region in a farmer's wagon, concealed under a covering of straw. Fagans, the robber leader, with some followers, stopped the wagon to plunder it, when the concealed dragoons immediately put a ball through Fagans's head, and with his fall his associates fled. Fagans's body was conveyed to Barkalow's woods, the usual place of execution for such culprits, and there exposed on a gibbet till the flesh dropped from the bones. Mr. Forman mentions that his father, Samuel Forman, did not escape a visit from the Tories and British. At one time, they made a descent upon the village of Middletown Point. There was a mill at this place, which was well known and much resorted to for a great distance; and some of these Tory invaders had been employed in the erection of this mill, and were personally well known to the citizens, and it would appear that their object was, at least, to capture Samuel Forman, if not to kill him. They plundered the houses of the settlement, destroying what they could not carry off, boasting that they had aided in building the mill, and now assisted in kindling the fire in the bolting box to burn it down. They had surprised the guard placed for the protection of the place, killing several of their number, who had been their schoolmates in former years. Samuel Forman eluded their vigilance, but lost heavily by this invasion, for he owned almost all of one side of Middletown Point, and part of both sides of Main street. He never applied to Congress for any remuneration for his losses. He died in 1792, in his seventy-eighth year. In this foray, the enemy burned two store-houses of Mr. John H. Burrows, robbed his house, and took him prisoner to New York. After several months, he was exchanged, and returned home. My brother, Denise Forman, entered the service when he was about sixteen years old. He was in the battle of Germantown--in which engagement eighteen of the Forman connection took part--where the Americans were badly used, on account of the British having some light artillery in a large stone house. Our army had to retreat; when that took place, Lieutenant Schenck, under whom brother Denise served, took Denise's gun, and told him to take fast hold of his coat, and cling to it during the retreat. General David Forman conducted himself so well, that General Washington tendered his aid in securing a command in the Continental army; but General Forman declined the offer, as he believed he could be more serviceable to remain with the militia in Monmouth county, New Jersey, as they were continually harassed there by the enemy from Staten Island and New York. After this, Denise Forman engaged under a Captain Tyler, who had charge of a few gun-boats that coasted along the Jersey shore, to annoy and oppose the enemy. When the British fleet lay at anchor near Sandy Hook, Captain Tyler went, in the night, and surprised a large sloop at anchor among the men-of-war. Tyler's party boarded the sloop, secured the sailors, weighed anchor, and got her out from the fleet, and took her up Middletown creek, all without any fighting. The whole enterprise was conducted with so much judgment, that the sailor prisoners dared not speak or give the least sign of alarm. "When we first touched the sloop," said Denise Forman, "I felt for a moment a little streaked, but it was soon over, and then we worked fearlessly to get the vessel under weigh, without alarming the fleet." These gun-boats were all propelled by muffled oars, that dipped in and out of the water so as to make no noise; nor did any of the men speak above their breath. On the gunwale of the boat, a strip of heavy canvas was nailed, the inner edge having been left unfastened, under which were concealed their swords, guns, and other implements for use in a combat, and so placed that each man could, at an instant's notice, lay his hand upon his own weapon. Even in port, the men belonging to Tyler's party were not allowed to talk or speak to other people, as a matter of precaution; and the captain always spoke in an undertone, and if a man laid down an oar, it was always done as noiselessly as possible. At one time, fifteen hundred British and Tories landed on Middletown shore, and marched from six to ten miles back into the country. A beacon, placed on a conspicuous hill, was fired for the purpose of giving an alarm; and soon the militia of the country, understanding the notice, gathered, and opposed the enemy. In Pleasant Valley they checked their advance. Uncle John Schenck and brother Denise so closely cornered a British or Tory officer of this party in a barn-yard, that he jumped from his horse, took to his heels and escaped, leaving his horse behind him. Major Burrows[2] happened to be at home at that time, on a visit to his family. Some of the Americans dressed themselves in British red coats, which had been captured. The Rev. Mr. DuBois, who, like a good patriot, had turned out on this occasion, with his fowling-piece, when Major Burrows rode near by, eked out in British uniform; Mr. DuBois spoke to Captain Schenck, his brother-in-law, "Look, there is a good shot," and, suiting the action to the word, took deliberate aim. Captain Schenck, better understanding the situation, quickly knocked up the clergyman's gun, with the explanation--"Don't shoot; that's Major Burrows." Mr. DuBois supposed he was aiming at a British officer, within point blank shot, who was endeavoring to rejoin his fellows. [2] Major John Burrows was first a captain in Colonel David Forman's regiment. Forman had the nick-name of "Black David," to distinguish him from a relative of the same name, and he was always a terror to the Tories; and Captain Burrows, from his efficiency against these marauders, was called by those enemies of the country, "Black David's Devil." January 1, 1777, Captain Burrows was made a captain in Spencer's regiment on Continental establishment; and, January 22, 1779, he was promoted to the rank of major, serving in Sullivan's campaign against the hostile Six Nations, and remaining in the army till the close of the war. Several years after, he went on a journey to the interior of Georgia, in an unhealthy season, when he probably sickened and died, for he was never heard of afterward. Major Burrows left an interesting journal of Sullivan's campaign, which appears in the splendid volume on that campaign issued by the State of New York, in 1887. The original MS. journal is preserved by his grand-daughter, Mrs. Elizabeth Breese Stevens, of Sconondoa, Oneida county, New York. Denise Forman's next move was to enlist with Captain Philip Freneau, the well-known poet, who sailed from Philadelphia in a letter of marque, the _Aurora_, against British commerce on the high seas. While not long out, sailing toward the West Indies, Freneau and his adventurous vessel were captured by their enemies, sent to New York, and all incarcerated on board of the _Scorpion_, one of the prison ships floating in New York harbor and Wallabout Bay, its unhappy prisoners experiencing almost untold horrors. Captain Freneau, at least, was subsequently transferred to what he denominated "the loathesome _Hunter_." These prison ships attained an unenviable reputation for maltreating and half-starving their hapless and ill-fated victims, hundreds of whom died in consequence of their inhuman treatment. This sad experience became the subject of one of Freneau's subsequent poems, emanating from the depths of his embittered soul recollections. Brother Denise used to relate to me, after his return home, that, when on the prison ship, he had to shut his eyes whenever he ate the sea-biscuit or drank the water assigned him, so full were they of vermin! Freneau, in his poem, thus alludes to the fare with which the poor prisoners were treated: "See, captain, see! what rotten bones we pick. What kills the healthy can not cure the sick. Not dogs on _such_ by Christian men are fed; And see, good master, see that lousy bread!" "Your meat or bread," this man of flint replied, "Is not my care to manage or provide; But this, damn'd rebel dogs, I'd have you know, That better than you merit we bestow. Out of my sight!" No more he deigned to say, But whisk'd about, and, frowning, strode away. When the survivors were exchanged, after their long imprisonment, they were so weak and emaciated that they could scarcely walk--perfect living skeletons; and my brother, after his return home, was confined to his bed, and for several days nearly all hope of his recovery was abandoned; but he at length providentially recovered. Denise Forman received a captain's commission when a war was threatened with France, in 1798, and when the army was disbanded, he settled on a farm in Freehold, where he spent the remainder of his days. About 1790, Captain Freneau married my sister Eleanor. He was a prominent Anti-Federalist in his day, and edited various Democratic papers at different places, and was for a time translating clerk in the State Department. While he was able to translate the French documents, he found it cost him more than he received to get those in other foreign languages properly translated, and after a while he resigned. He had in early life been a college-mate with James Madison, at Princeton, and has been aptly called the "patriot poet" of the Revolution, his effusions having been useful to the cause of the country during its great struggle for independence. He lost his life in a violent snow-storm, in December, 1832, in his eighty-first year, near Monmouth, New Jersey. While attending grammar-school, the latter part of the Revolutionary war, at Freehold, young Forman records: The hottest part of the battle of Monmouth was about this spot, where my brother-in-law, Major Burrows, lived after he left the army, and with whom I and some fellow-students boarded. Our path to the school-house crossed a grave where a remarkably tall British officer was buried. We opened the grave; a few pieces only of blanket, which encompassed the corpse, remained. One school-mate, Barnes Smock, was a very tall person, but the thigh bones of this unfortunate officer far outmeasured his. I believe this was the only engagement when the two opposing armies had recourse to the bayonet,[3] and this was the place of that charge. The battle took place on the Sabbath. A British cannon ball went through Rev. Dr. Woodhull's church. Dr. Woodhull was now one of my teachers. The two armies lay upon their arms all night after the battle. General Washington and General La Fayette slept in their cloaks under an apple-tree in Mr. Henry Perrine's orchard. It was Washington's intention to have renewed the battle the next day, but the British, in the course of the night, stole a march as fast as they could for their fleet at Sandy Hook. [3] This is an error. Bayonet charges were resorted to by Morgan at the Cowpens, and in other engagements. In the spring of 1783, when peace was dawning, many of the old citizens of New York City, who had been exiled from their homes for some seven years, began to return to their abandoned domiciles, even before the British evacuation. Among them was Major Benjamin Ledyard, who had married my oldest sister. In September of that year, at the instance of my sister Ledyard, I went to New York as a member of her family. Every day I saw the British soldiers. Indeed, a young lieutenant boarded a short time in our family, as many families received the British officers as an act of courtesy. Even before the British evacuation, the American officers were permitted to cross over into the city, and frequently came, visiting the coffee-houses and other places of public resort. Here they would meet British officers, and some of them evinced a strong inclination to make disturbance with their late competitors, throwing out hints or casting reflections well calculated to provoke personal combats. There was a Captain Stakes, of the American Light Dragoons, a fine, large, well-built man, who had no fear about him. It was said, when he entered the coffee-house, that the British officers exercised a wholesome caution how they treated him, after some of them had made a feint in testing his powers. But it all happily passed over without harm. It was finally agreed between General Washington and Sir Guy Carleton that New York should be evacuated November 25th. In the morning of that day, the British army paraded in the Bowery. The Americans also paraded, and marched down till they came very close to each other, so that the officers of both armies held friendly parleys. The streets were crowded with people on an occasion so interesting. I hurried by the redcoats till I reached the Americans, where I knew I would be safe. So I sauntered about among the officer. Presently, an American officer seized me by the hand, when, I looking up at him, he said, encouragingly: "Don't be afraid, Sammy. I know your brother Jonathan. He is an officer in the same line with me, and my name is Cumming."[4] He continued to hold me by the hand till orders were given to advance. He advised me to keep on the sidewalk, as I might get run over in the street. [4] This was John N. Cumming, who rose from a lieutenant to be lieutenant-colonel, commanding the Third New Jersey Regiment, serving the entire war. The British steadily marched in the direction of their vessels, while the Americans advanced down Queen (since Pearl) street; the British embarking on board their fleet on East river, I believe, near Whitehall, and the Americans headed directly to Fort George, on the point where the Battery now is. Stockades were around the fort, and the large gate was opened. When the British evacuated the fort, they unreefed the halyards of the tall flag-staff, greased the pole, so that it was some time before the American flag was hoisted. At length, a young soldier[5] succeeded in climbing the pole, properly arranged the halyards, when up ran the striped and star-spangled banner, amid the deafening shouts of the multitude, that seemed to shake the city. It is easier to imagine than to describe the rejoicing, and the brilliancy of the fireworks that evening. [5] The editor, while at Saratoga Springs, in 1838, took occasion to visit the venerable Anthony Glean, who resided in the town of Saratoga, and who was reputed to be the person who climbed the greased flag-staff at the evacuation of New York, and who himself claimed to have performed that feat. He was then a well-to-do farmer, enjoying a pension for his revolutionary services, and lived two or three years later, till he had reached the age of well-nigh ninety. The newspapers of that period often referred to him as the hero of the flag-staff exploit, and no one called it in question. After the evacuation, Mr. Forman witnessed the affectionate and affecting parting of Washington and his officers, when he entered a barge at Whitehall wharf, manned by sea captains in white frocks, who rowed him to the Jersey shore, to take the stage for Philadelphia, on his way to Congress. Mr. Forman also saw General Washington while presiding over the convention of 1787, to form a Constitution for the new Republic. The general was attired in citizen's dress--blue coat, cocked hat, hair in queue, crossed and powdered. He walked alone to the State House, the place of meeting, and seemed pressed down in thought. A few moments before General Washington took his seat on the rostrum, the venerable Dr. Franklin, one of the Pennsylvania delegates, was brought in by a posse of men in his sedan, and helped into the hall, he being severely afflicted with palsy or paralysis at the time. On the adoption of the Constitution, a great celebration was held in New York to commemorate the event, which Mr. Forman also witnessed. A large procession was formed, composed of men of all avocations in life, and each represented by some insignia of his own trade or profession, marching through the streets with banners, flags, and stirring music. A full-rigged vessel, called "The Federal Ship Hamilton," was drawn in the procession, and located in Bowling Green, where it remained until it fell to pieces by age. After spending some years as a clerk in mercantile establishments in New York City, and once going as supercargo to dispose of a load of flour to Charleston, he engaged in merchandising at Middletown Point, New Jersey. Mr. Forman subsequently made the journey down the Ohio and Mississippi, in 1789-'90, as given in considerable detail in the narrative which follows. While spending the winter of 1792-'93 in Philadelphia, he witnessed the inauguration of Washington as President, at the beginning of his second term of office, and was within six feet of him when he took the oath of office. "I cast my eyes over the vast crowd," says Major Forman, "and every eye seemed riveted on the great chief. On Washington's right sat Chief-Justice Cushing, and on his left Senator Langdon, of New Hampshire. After sitting a little while in profound silence, the senator arose, and asked the President if he was ready to take the oath of office. General Washington rose up, having a paper in his left hand, when he made a very short address. Then Judge Cushing stood up, with a large open Bible before him, facing the President, who laid his hand upon the sacred volume, and very deliberately and distinctly repeated the oath of office as pronounced by the chief-justice. When Washington repeated his own name, as he did at the conclusion of the ceremony, it made my blood run cold. The whole proceedings were performed with great solemnity. General Washington was dressed in deep mourning, for, it was said, a favorite nephew who had lived at Mount Vernon during the Revolutionary war. He wore his mourning sword. Mrs. Washington was about the middling stature, and pretty fleshy." Mr. Forman now entered into the employ of the Holland Land Company, through their agents, Theophilus Cazenove and John Lincklaen, to found a settlement in the back part of the State of New York, where that company had purchased a large body of land. He accordingly headed a party, in conjunction with Mr. Lincklaen, for this purpose, conveying a load of merchandise to the point of operations, passing in batteaus up the Mohawk to old Fort Schuyler, now Utica, beyond which it was necessary to open up a road for the teams and loads of goods; lodging in the woods when necessary, living on raw pork and bread, which was better than the bill of fare at the well-known tavern in that region, kept by John Dennie, the half Indian--"no bread, no meat;" and one of Dennie's descendants indignantly resented being referred to as an Indian--"Me no Indian; only Frenchman and squaw!" At length, May 8, 1793, the party arrived on the beautiful body of water, since known as Cazenovia Lake, and founded the village of Cazenovia, where Mr. Forman engaged in felling trees, and erecting the necessary houses in which to live and do business, and in this rising settlement he engaged in merchandising for several years. He held many public positions of honor and trust; was county clerk, secretary for over thirty years of a turnpike company; served as major in a regiment of militia early organized at Cazenovia. The latter years of his life he spent in Syracuse, where he was greatly respected for his worth, his fine conversational powers, his social and generous feelings. He lived to the great age of over ninety-seven years, dying August 16, 1862. His closing years were embittered over the distracted condition of his country, embroiled in fratricidal war, and his prayer was that the proud flag which he witnessed when it was placed over the ramparts of Fort George, November 25, 1783, might again wave its ample folds over a firmly united American Confederacy. His patriotic prayer was answered, though he did not himself live to witness it. NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY DOWN THE OHIO AND MISSISSIPPI, 1789-'90. General David Forman,[6] of New Jersey, entered into a negotiation with the Spanish minister, Don Diego de Gardoque, for his brother, Ezekiel Forman, of Philadelphia, to emigrate with his family and sixty odd colored people, and settle in the Natchez country, then under Spanish authority. [6] General Forman was born near Englishtown, Monmouth Co., New Jersey. He was, during the Revolutionary war, a terror to the tories of his region, and as brigadier-general commanded the Jersey troops at the battle of Germantown. No less than eighteen of the Forman connection were in his brigade in this engagement. He was subsequently a county judge, and member of the council of state. He died about 1812. I agreed with General Forman to accompany the emigrating party; and, about the last of November, 1789, having closed up my little business at Middletown Point, New Jersey, I set out from the general's residence, in Freehold, with Captain Benajah Osmun, an old continental captain, who was at that time the faithful overseer of the general's blacks. There were sixty men, women, and children, and they were the best set of blacks I ever saw together. I knew the most of them, and all were well-behaved, except two rather ill-tempered fellows. General Forman purchased some more, who had intermarried with his own, so as not to separate families. They were all well fed and well clothed. We had, I believe, four teams of four horses each, and one two-horse wagon, all covered with tow-cloth, while Captain Osmun and I rode on horseback. After the distressing scene of taking leave--for the general's family and blacks were almost all in tears--we sat out upon our long journey. The first night we camped on the plains near Cranberry, having accomplished only about twelve or fifteen miles. The captain and I had a bed put under one of the wagons; the sides of the wagon had tenter-hooks, and curtains made to hook up to them, with loops to peg the bottom to the ground. The colored people mostly slept in their wagons. In the night a heavy rain fell, when the captain and I fared badly. The ground was level, and the water, unable to run off, gave us a good soaking. I had on a new pair of handsome buckskin small clothes; the rain spoiled their beauty, and the wetting and subsequent shrinkage rendered them very uncomfortable to wear. The next morning we commenced our journey as early as possible. We drove to Princeton, where we tarried awhile, and all were made comfortable. We crossed the Delaware five miles above Trenton. On arriving at Lancaster, in Pennsylvania, the authorities stopped us, as we somewhat expected they would do. General Forman had furnished me with all the necessary papers relating to the transportation of slaves through New Jersey and Pennsylvania. While Judge Hubley was examining the papers, the servant women informed me that the females of the city came out of their houses and inquired of them whether they could spin, knit, sew, and do housework, and whether they were willing to go to the South; so, if the authorities stopped us, they could all soon have new homes. But our colored women laughed at the Lancaster ladies, who seemed mortified when they learned that we could not be detained. In Westmoreland county we had a little trouble with a drunken justice of the peace and some free blacks. These free blacks, as we learned from a faithful old colored woman, furnished the two ill-tempered blacks of our party with old swords and pistols, but nothing serious grew out of it. The weather began to grow very cold, the roads bad, and traveling tedious. We encamped one night in the woods, kindled a fire, and turned the tails of the wagons all inward, thus forming a circle around the fire. Another night we came to a vacant cabin without a floor; we made a large fire, and all who chose took their bedding and slept in the cabin, some remaining in the wagons. The captain and I had our beds spread before the fire. One Saturday evening, we were apprehensive of being obliged to encamp again in the woods. I went ahead, hoping to find night quarters. I rode up to a log house and went in; it was growing dark, and I began to ask the landlord to accommodate us for the night, addressing myself to a tall, lean man. Before I got through with my inquiry, he caught me up in his arms, as if I were merely a small child, and exclaimed: "Mighty souls! if this is not little Sammy Forman," and, hugging and kissing me, added, "Why, don't you remember Charley Morgan? Yes, you can have any thing I have, and we will do the best we can for you." This was somewhere in the Alleghany mountains, and here we remained till Monday, buying wheat, and sending it to mill, and converting a fat steer into meat, so that we were well provided for, for awhile. This Charley Morgan entered the regular service as a corporal in my brother Jonathan's company, when he was a captain, and raised his company in the vicinity of Middletown Point, New Jersey. He could ape the simpleton very well, and was sent as a spy into the British army, and returned safe with the desired information. I was surprised to meet him in this far-off mountain region. Somewhere about Fort Littleton or Fort Loudon, our funds ran out. When we left General Forman, he told me that Uncle Ezekiel Forman would leave Philadelphia with his family, and overtake us in time to supply our wants. But he did not start as soon as he expected, and on his way in the mountains the top of his carriage got broken by a leaning tree, which somewhat detained him, so that we arrived at Pittsburg two or three days before him. One morning, while in the neighborhood of Fort Littleton or Fort Loudon, I offered to sell my horse to the landlord where we took breakfast; he kept a store as well as a tavern, and was wealthy. The price of the horse I put very low, when the landlord asked why I offered him so cheap. I informed him that I was out of funds, and had expected that Ezekiel Forman, who owned the colored people, would have overtaken us before our means became exhausted. He replied: "I know your uncle, and I will lend you as much money as you need, and take your order on him, as he will stop here on his way. Now, step with me to the store." Pointing to the large piles of silver dollars on the counter in the store, he said: "Step up and help yourself to as much as you want, and give me your order." This was an unexpected favor. When uncle arrived, he satisfied the order. It had taken us near three weeks to journey from Monmouth to Pittsburg. After our arrival at this place, our first business was to find situations for our numerous family, while awaiting the rise of the Ohio, and to lay in provisions for our long river voyage. Colonel Turnbull, late of Philadelphia, and an acquaintance of uncle, politely offered him the use of a vacant house and store-room, exactly such apartments as were wanted. The colored people were all comfortably housed also. The horses and wagons were sold at a great sacrifice--uncle retaining only his handsome coach horses and carriage, which he took to Natchez on a tobacco boat, which Captain Osmun commanded, and on board of which the colored field hands were conveyed. These boats were flat-bottomed, and boarded over the top, and appeared like floating houses. Uncle's boat was a seventy feet keel-boat, decked over, with a cabin for lodging purposes, but too low to stand up erect. The beds and bedding lay on the floor, and the insides lined with plank to prevent the Indians from penetrating through with their balls, should they attack us. We had a large quantity of dry goods, and a few were opened and bartered in payment for boats and provisions. On board of the keel-boat, uncle and family found comfortable quarters. Mr. and Mrs. Forman, Augusta, Margaret, and Frances, aged about nine, eleven, and thirteen, and David Forman and Miss Betsey Church, the latter housekeeper and companion for Aunt Forman, an excellent woman, who had lived in the family several years, and occasionally took the head of the table. I and five or six others, two mechanics, and about eight or ten house servants, were also occupants of this boat. The family received much polite attention while in Pittsburg. By the time we got prepared for our departure, the Ohio river rose. We tarried there about a month. Both boats were armed with rifles, pistols, etc. It being in Indian war time, all boats descending that long river, of about eleven hundred miles, were liable to be attacked every hour by a merciless foe, oftentimes led on by renegade whites. Uncle fixed on a certain Sabbath, as was the custom in those days, to embark on ship-board. On that day, the polite and hospitable Colonel Turnbull, then a widower, gave uncle an elegant dinner, and invited several gentlemen to grace the occasion with their presence. After dinner, which was not prolonged, we embarked on board our little squadron. Colonel Wm. Wyckoff, and his brother-in-law, Kenneth Scudder, of Monmouth county, New Jersey, accompanied us on our voyage. The colonel had been, seven years previous to this, an Indian trader, and was now on his way to Nashville, Tennessee. Uncle Forman's keel-boat, Captain Osmun's flat-boat, and Colonel Wyckoff's small keel-boat constituted our little fleet. The day of our departure was remarkably pleasant. Our number altogether must have reached very nearly a hundred. The dinner party accompanied us to our boats, and the wharf was covered with citizens. The river was very high, and the current rapid. It was on the Monongahela where we embarked. Our keel-boat took the lead. These boats are guided by oars, seldom used, except the steering oar, or when passing islands, as the current goes about six or seven miles an hour. As the waters were now high, the current was perhaps eight or nine miles an hour. Before day-break next morning we made a narrow escape from destruction, from our ignorance of river navigation. We had an anchor and cable attached to our keel-boat. The cable was made fast to small posts over the forecastle, where were fenders all around the little deck. When it began to grow dark, the anchor was thrown over, in hopes of holding us fast till morning, while the other boats were to tie up to trees along the river bank. As soon as the anchor fastened itself in the river bottom, the boat gave a little lurch or side motion, when the cable tore away all the frame-work around the deck, causing a great alarm. Several little black children were on deck at the time, and as it had now become quite dark, it could not be ascertained, in the excitement of the moment, whether any of them had been thrown into the water. Fortunately none were missing. During our confusion, Captain Osmun's boat passed ours, a few minutes after the accident, and we soon passed him, he hailing us, saying that he was entangled in the top of a large tree, which had caved into the river, and requested the small row-boat to assist him. Uncle Forman immediately dispatched the two mechanics, with the small boat, to his assistance. Osmun got clear of the tree without injury, and the two mechanics rowed hard, almost all night, before they overtook him. Mrs. Forman and daughters braved out our trying situation very firmly. After we lost our anchor, Uncle Forman took a chair, and seated himself on the forecastle, like a pilot, and I took the helm. He kept watch, notifying me when to change the direction of the boat. When he cried out to me, "port your helm," it was to keep straight in the middle of the stream; if to bear to the left, he would cry out, "starboard;" if to the right, "larboard." I was not able to manage the helm alone, and had a man with me to assist in pulling as directed. Uncle Forman and I were the only ones of our party who understood sailor's terms. Ours was a perilous situation till we landed at Wheeling; it was the most distressing night I ever experienced. The next morning, all our boats landed at Wheeling, Virginia, rated at ninety-six miles from Pittsburg. Here we obtained a large steering oar for the keel-boat, as the strong current kept the rudder from acting, without the application of great strength. Having adjusted matters, we set out again. We seldom ventured to land on our journey, for fear of lurking Indians. One day, we discovered large flocks of wild turkeys flying about in the woods on shore. The blacksmith, who was a fine, active young man, asked Uncle Forman to set him on shore, and give him a chance to kill some of them. The little boat was manned, and taking his rifle and a favorite dog, he soon landed. But he had not been long on shore, before he ran back to the river's bank, and made signs for the boat to come and take him on board. When safely among his friends, he said that he came to a large fire, and, from appearances, he supposed a party of Indians was not far off. He, however, lost his fine dog, for he dared not call him. We landed and stopped at Marietta, at the mouth of the Muskingum, where was a United States garrison. Some of the officers were acquainted with the family. It was a very agreeable occurrence to meet with old acquaintances in such a dreary place. The young ladies were good singers, and entertained the officers awhile with their vocal music. This night, we felt secure in sleeping away the fatigues of the journey. Governor St. Clair had his family here. There were a few other families, also; but all protected by the troops. I believe there was no other settlement[7] until we arrived at Fort Washington, now Cincinnati, some three hundred miles below Marietta. [7] Mr. Forman forgot to mention Limestone, now Maysville, Kentucky, some sixty miles above Cincinnati, an older settlement by some four years than Marietta or Cincinnati. Perhaps it was passed in the night, and unobserved. And Columbia, too, at the mouth of the Little Miami, about six miles above Cincinnati, and a few months its senior in settlement. A few hundred yards above Fort Washington, we landed our boats, when Uncle Forman, Colonel Wyckoff, and I went on shore, and walked up to head-quarters, to pay our respects to General Harmar, the commander of our troops in the North-western Territory. The general received us with much politeness. As we were about taking leave of him, he kindly invited us to remain and take a family dinner with him, observing to Uncle, that we should have the opportunity of testing the deliciousness of what he may never have partaken before--the haunch of a fine buffalo. It being near dining hour, the invitation was, of course, accepted. As the general and lady were acquainted with Uncle and Aunt Forman in Philadelphia, they very politely extended their kindness by asking that Uncle, Aunt, and their family, together with Colonel Wyckoff and Brother-in-law Scudder and Captain Osmun, would spend the next day with them, which was accepted with great pleasure. General Harmar directed where to move our little fleet, so that all should be safe under military guard. We then returned to our boats, and conveyed them down to the appointed place. The next morning, after breakfast, and after attending to our toilets, we repaired to General Harmar's head-quarters, where we were all received most cordially. Our company consisted of Mr. and Mrs. Forman, their three daughters, and Master David Forman, Miss Church, Captain Osmun, S. S. Forman, Colonel Wyckoff, and Mr. Scudder--eleven in all. Mrs. Forman and Mrs. Harmar resembled each other as much as though they were sisters. The general invited some of his officers to share his hospitalities, also, and we had a most sumptuous dinner and tea. Before it was quite dark, we took leave of our hospitable friends. I had the honor of a seat at the table next to the general. While at dinner, the officer of the day called on General Harmar for the countersign, so as to place out the sentinels. Captain Kirby,[8] of the army, who dined with us, was directed by the general to accompany us on our return to our boats. Just before we came to the sentinel, Captain Kirby asked us to halt, until he could advance and give the countersign, which is done with much prudence. I sauntered along, and happened to hear the challenge by the guard, and the reply of the captain. The countersign was, I believe, "Forman." [8] Neither the _Dictionary of the Army_, the _MS. Harmar Papers_, nor the _Journal of Major Denny_, who was then an aide to General Harmar, make any mention of a Captain Kirby. It is probable, that William Kersey was the officer referred to. He served in New Jersey during the Revolution, rising from a private to a captaincy by brevet at the close of the war. At this period, early in 1790, he was a lieutenant. Probably, by courtesy of his rank and title in the Revolution, he was called captain. He attained that rank the following year; major, in 1794; and died, March 21, 1800. In the morning, Captain Osmun said to me, that, after paying our respects to General Harmar, he wanted me to accompany him to the quarters of the other officers, as he probably knew all of them; that they were old continental officers retained in service, and he added: "They all know your brother, Colonel Jonathan Forman,[9] of the Revolution, and will be glad to see you on his account." We, accordingly, after our interview with General Harmar, went to their quarters. They recollected Captain Osmun, and he introduced me, when they welcomed me most cordially, and made many inquiries after my brother. [9] Jonathan Forman was born October 16, 1755; was educated at Princeton College, where he was a fellow-student with James Madison, and entering the army in 1776 served as captain for five years, during which he participated in Sullivan's campaign against the hostile Six Nations; and, promoted to the rank of major in 1781, he served under La Fayette in Virginia; and early in 1783 he was made a lieutenant-colonel, and continued in the army till the end of the war. He headed a regiment against the whisky insurgents of West Pennsylvania in 1794, and two years later he removed to Cazenovia, N. Y., where he filled the position of supervisor, member of the legislature and brigadier-general in the militia. He married Miss Mary Ledyard, of New London, Conn., who "went over her shoe tops in blood," in the barn where the wounded lay, the morning after Arnold's descent on New London and Fort Griswold, on Groton Heights, where her uncle, Colonel William Ledyard, was killed in cold blood after his surrender. General Forman died at Cazenovia, May 25, 1809, in his sixty-fourth year, and his remains repose in the beautiful cemetery at that place. I think it was in the autumn of 1790 that General Harmar was defeated by the Indians, and most of these brave officers were killed. At that period officers wore three-cornered hats, and by that means nearly all of them were singled out and killed, as they could be so easily distinguished from others. Some distance above Fort Washington, the Scioto river empties into the Ohio. Near this river was a cave, which the whites had not discovered till after Harmar's defeat. Here the Indians would sally out against boats ascending the Ohio. A canoe passed us the day before we passed the Scioto, which had been fired into at that point, one man having been shot through the shoulder, another through the calf of the leg, while the third escaped unhurt. When these poor fellows arrived at Fort Washington, they waited for us. After our arrival, understanding that we were going to tarry a day, they set off. Harmar's defeat caused a French settlement near the Scioto to be broken up;[10] some of them were killed by the Indians. [10] The Gallipolis settlement was much annoyed by the Indians; some of the poor French settlers were killed, others abandoned the place, but the settlement was maintained, despite all their trials and sufferings. I must mention an anecdote about my friend, Captain Osmun. At the battle of Long Island, and capture of New York by the British, many American prisoners were taken, Captain Osmun among them. He pretended to be a little acquainted with the profession of physic, but he never studied it, and could bleed, draw teeth, etc. A German officer had a very sick child, the case baffling the skill of all the English and German physicians, and the child's recovery was given up as hopeless. At last it was suggested to call in the rebel doctor. So Osmun was sent for. He suppressed as well as he could his half-comical, half-quizzical expression, and assumed a serious look; felt of the child's pulse, and merely said he would prepare some pills and call again. He accordingly did so, giving the necessary directions, and promised to call at the proper time to learn the effect. When he called the third time the child had grown much better, and finally recovered. He said that all he did for the little sufferer was to administer a little powder-post, mixed up with rye-bread, made into little pills. He said he knew they could do no harm, if they did no good, and regarded himself as only an instrument in the hands of the Almighty in saving the child's life. The father of the child gave him almost a handful of guineas. Prior to this occurrence he had, while a prisoner, suffered for the necessaries of life, but thenceforward he was able to procure needful comforts till his exchange. The next morning, after our entertainment by General Harmar and lady, we renewed our journey, floating rapidly down the Belle Riviere. Nothing of moment occurred till our arrival at Louisville, at the Falls of the Ohio. The weather now grew so severely cold, in the latter part of January, 1790, that the river became blocked with ice. Here we laid up, disembarked, and took a house in the village, the front part of which was furnished for a store, which exactly suited us, and which was gratuitously offered to Uncle Forman by a Mr. Rhea, of Tennessee. We were remarkably fortunate in this respect, both here and at Pittsburg. Here I opened a store from our stock of goods, and took tobacco in payment, which was the object in bringing the merchandise. Louisville then contained about sixty dwelling-houses. Directly opposite was Fort Jefferson,[11] which was, I believe, only a captain's command. At the Great Miami was Judge Symmes's settlement,[12] which dragged heavily along at that time, having been allowed only a sergeant's command for its protection. [11] This is evidently an error of memory; it was known as Fort Steuben, located where Jeffersonville now is. [12] Trivial circumstances sometimes change the fate of nations, and so it would seem they do of cities also. North Bend might have become the great commercial metropolis of the Miami country, instead of Cincinnati, but for an affair of the heart, if we may credit the tradition preserved by Judge Burnet in his _Notes on the North-western Territory_. Ensign Francis Luce had been detailed, with a small force, for the protection of the North Bend settlement, and to locate a suitable site for a block-house. While the ensign was keenly but very leisurely on the lookout for a proper location, he made a discovery far more interesting to him--a beautiful black-eyed lady, the wife of one of the settlers. Luce became infatuated with her charms, and her husband, seeing the danger to which he was exposed if he remained where he was, resolved at once to remove to Cincinnati. The gallant ensign was equal to the unexpected emergency, for he now began to discover what he had not discovered before, that North Bend was not, after all, so desirable a locality for the contemplated block-house as Cincinnati, and forthwith apprised Judge Symmes of these views, who strenuously opposed the movement. But the judge's arguments were not so effective as the sparkling eyes of the fair dulcinea then at Cincinnati. And so Luce and his military force were transplanted in double-quick time to Cincinnati; and where the troops were the settlers congregated for their protection and safety. And so, the Queen City of the West followed the fortunes of this unnamed forest queen, who so completely beguiled the impressible ensign. In this case there was no ten years' war, as in the case of the beautiful Spartan dame, which ended in the destruction of Troy; but, by Luce's infatuation and removal, North Bend was as much fated as though the combined Indians of the North-west had blotted it out of existence. Soon after this portentious removal, Luce, on May 1, 1790, resigned from the army--whether on account of his fair charmer, history fails to tell us. This romantic story has been doubted by some, but Judge Burnet was an early settler of Cincinnati, and had good opportunities to get at the facts; and when I met the judge, fully forty years ago, he seemed not the man likely to indulge in romancing. That General Harmar, in forwarding Luce's resignation to the War Office, seemed particularly anxious that it should be accepted, would seem to imply that, for this intrigue, or some other cause, the general was desirous of ridding the service of him. Besides Symmes', there was no other settlement between Cincinnati and Louisville, except that of a French gentleman named Lacassangue, a few miles above Louisville, who began a vineyard on the Indian side of the river; and one day Indians visited it, killing his people, and destroying his vines.[13] Mr. Lacassangue was a polite, hospitable man, and gave elegant dinners. [13] Michael Lacassangue, a Frenchman of education, settled in Louisville as a merchant prior to March, 1789, when General Harmar addressed him as a merchant there. He located a station on the northern shore of the Ohio, three miles above Fort Steuben, now Jeffersonville, where he had purchased land in the Clark grant. In a MS. letter of Captain Joseph Ashton, commanding at Fort Steuben, addressed to General Harmar, April 3, 1790, these facts are given relative to the attack on Lacassangue's station. That on the preceding March 29th, the Indians made their attack, killing one man. There were only two men, their wives, and fourteen children in the station. Word was immediately conveyed to Captain Ashton of their situation, who detached a sergeant and fourteen men to their relief, and who arrived there, Captain Ashton states, in sixteen minutes after receiving intelligence of the attack. The Indians, three in number, had decamped, and were pursued several miles until their trail was lost on a dry ridge. The families were removed to Fort Steuben, and thus the station was, for a time, broken up. Mr. Lacassangue must have been quite a prominent trader at Louisville in his day. About the first of June, 1790, Colonel Vigo, an enterprising trader of the Illinois country, consigned to him 4,000 pounds of lead, brought by Major Doughty from Kaskaskia. Mr. Lacassangue made efforts, in after years, to give character to his new town of Cassania--a name evidently coined out of his own--hoping from its more healthful situation, and better location for the landing of vessels destined to pass the Falls, to supplant Louisville. The little place, General Collot says, had in 1796, when he saw it, "only two or three houses, and a store." The ambitious effort was a vain one, and Cassania soon became lost to the geographical nomenclature of the country. Mr. Lacassangue died in 1797. A nephew of Mrs. Washington of the name of Dandridge lived with Mr. Lacassangue. When I returned to Philadelphia, I there met him again; he resided at General Washington's. While the Dandridge family stayed at Louisville, they received much attention. It was the custom of the citizens, when any persons of note arrived there, to get up a ball in their honor. They would choose managers; circulate a subscription paper to meet the expenses of the dance. Every signer, except strangers, must provide his partner, see her safe there and home again. We had scarcely got located before a subscription paper was presented to Uncle Forman and myself. But the first ball after our arrival proved a failure, owing to the inclemency of the weather, so that no ladies could attend. General Wilkinson happened in town, and though he and Uncle Forman stayed but a little while, the young blades were disposed for a frolic. Some time before this a ball was tendered to General St. Clair, when the youngsters had a row, and destroyed the most of the breakable articles that the house afforded. But such instances of rudeness occurred only when no ladies were present. Not long after the failure on account of the weather, the scheme for a dance was renewed, and, at length, we had an elegant collection of southern fair. The ball was opened by a minuet by Uncle Forman and a southern lady--Aunt Forman did not dance. This was the last time, I believe, that I saw that elegant dance performed. Then two managers went around with numbers on paper in a hat--one going to the ladies, the other to the gentlemen. When the manager calls for lady No. 1, the lady drawing that number stands up, and is led upon the floor, awaiting for gentleman No. 1, who, when called, takes his place, and is introduced by the manager to the lady. So they proceed with the drawing of couples until the floor is full for the dance. I, in my turn, was drawn, and introduced to my dancing partner from Maryland, and we were called to the first dance. This lady happened to be acquainted with Uncle Forman's oldest son, General Thomas Marsh Forman, which circumstance rendered our casual meeting all the more agreeable. The officers of the garrison over the river generally attended, and they brought the military music along. I became well acquainted with the officers. Dr. Carmichael,[14] of the army, used often to come over and sit in my store. [14] Dr. John F. Carmichael, from New Jersey, entered the army in September, 1789, and, with the exception of a few months, retained his position till his resignation in June, 1804. It was the last of February, I believe, when Uncle Forman and his little fleet took their departure from Louisville, destined for the Natchez country. The river was now free from ice. There subsequently came a report, that when they reached what was called the low country, below the Cumberland and Tennessee rivers, they were captured by the Indians. I was in a painful suspense for a long time, and until I heard from them. While Uncle Forman and party were sojourning in Louisville, there was, it appears, a white man there, who learned the names of Ezekiel Forman and Captain Osmun, their place of destination, and all about them. This fellow was a decoyer, who lived among the Indians, and whose business it was to lure boats ashore for purposes of murder and robbery. At some point below the mouth of the Tennessee, this renegade saw the boats approaching, ran on the beach, imploring, upon his bended knees, that Mr. Forman, calling him by name, would come ashore and take him on board, as he had just escaped from the Indians. Mr. Forman began to steer for his relief, when Captain Osmun, who was a little way in the rear, hailed Uncle, warning him to keep in the middle of the stream, as he saw Indians in hiding behind trees along the bank where the wily decoyer was playing his treacherous part. Giving heed to this admonition, Uncle Forman kept clear of the dangerous shore. Then an old Indian, finding that his plot was exposed, ran down to the beach, hailing the boats: "Where you go?" It is not clear what could have been the Indian's motive in making a display of himself, and seeking the information already known to his renegade associate. But for the circumstance of Captain Osmun being in the rear, and discovering the exposed Indians screened behind trees, the whole party might have been lured on shore and massacred. It seems that, after boats entered the Mississippi, they were not molested by the Indians, as they were not at war with the Spaniards. I was left in Louisville, with a store of goods. When I had disposed of them, I was directed to join Uncle Forman at Natchez; but some considerable time was necessary to trade off my stock, and convert it into tobacco. I spent my time very pleasantly at Louisville. The southern people are remarkably friendly to strangers. One family, in particular, Mr. and Mrs. Ashby, were as kind to me as though I had been their own son. They soon called on Uncle and Aunt Forman, showing all possible attention, and soon became quite familiar. One day, Mr. Ashby called, and inquired of Aunt for "_old_ Mr. Forman." "I tell you, Mr. Ashby," Mrs. Forman laughingly replied, "you shall not call my husband _old_. Please to refer to him as Mr. Forman, and our nephew as Mr. Sam. Forman." Mr. Ashby took the suggestion in good part, and promised ready obedience. After Uncle and Aunt Forman left for the Natchez country, Mrs. Ashby would come to my store like a mother, and inquire into the condition of my lodgings, and sent bed and bedding, and had a kind old woman examine my trunk, taking out all my clothing, first airing and then nicely replacing them, and kindly did all my washing during my stay. Mr. Ashby had a farm a little way out of town, but he and his family came in very often. Mrs. Ashby never came without making me a motherly call, and looking over my clothing to see if any repairs were needed. I never parted with briefly-made acquaintances with so much regret. I became very intimate with a Mr. Smith, from New York, a young gentleman about my own age. The Virginians, as were most of the Louisville people, were very fond of dancing. Smith and I agreed to let each other know when a hop was in agitation, and they were very frequent. When notified by him of one such occasion, I apologized for not being able to go, as I had no suitable pumps. "You have purchased," said he, "a parcel of elegant moccasins for your New York ladies. You don a pair, and I will another." "Good! good!" we mutually ejaculated. So we engaged our favorite partners, and attended the ball. It was something new to appear in such an assembly decked off in such Indian gear; but they were much admired, and, at the next dance, almost all appeared in moccasins. So, it seems, we led the ton, and introduced a new fashion. There was but one tavern and one boarding-house in the place. The boarding-house was kept by a Dr. Walter, who was also the pilot to take boats over the Falls; and he was, moreover, a great hunter and fisherman. One day in April, I think, at some public festival, several of our boarders, the leader was the Commissary of the Army, proposed to have what they called _a setting_, and asked me to join them. I had often heard the commissary relate his exploits--drinking egg-nog was then all the go. I declined to share in the frolic, fearing the influence of these southern blades on such occasions. In the course of the night, I was alarmed by the rattling of stones thrown against my store-door and window-shutters. At first, I thought it might be Indians. The clatter was kept up, and the glass windows all broken. I finally concluded that it was the work of the egg-nog party. Not only were my windows completely shattered, but my store door was broken open by the pelting of large stones. These egg-nog disturbers served Captain Thomas, the landlord, in the same way as they had done me. The next morning, when we all met at the breakfast table at our boarding-house, scarcely a word was spoken during the meal. As I went out of the door, passing my friend, the commissary, I asked him if he would direct my windows glazed, and some little carpenter work done. He pretended to be astonished how they should have been broken. I made no reply, but walked back to my store, only looked at him and smiled. In the afternoon, at Captain Thomas's, the business assumed almost a tragical form--dirks were nearly drawn; however, it was amicably settled. The next morning these gentlemen asked me if I would be satisfied if my windows and door were made whole. I answered in the affirmative, and asked them whether they had not acted very imprudently, situated as we were on the frontiers in time of Indian warfare. "You know," said I, "that it was but a little time since that Captain Thomas and some others saw Indians in the night making, as they supposed, for my store, when I kept it up by Bear Grass creek; and a few people got together in the night, and followed the Indian trail out of the village without alarming me. The Indians evidently thought themselves discovered, and retired, hence I escaped. In consequence of this alarm, I immediately moved from that place to the center of the village, into the corner building opposite the tavern." It was observed one Sunday morning, soon after starting my store, that it was not opened on that day, as other establishments were; and I was asked why I kept my store closed--that Sunday had not crossed the mountains, and that I was the first person who kept his store shut on that day. I told them that I brought the Sabbath with me. It so happened that I had the honor of being the first to observe the day in Louisville. Directly opposite to me a billiard table was kept. It was customary at the south for ladies to indulge in billiards, considering it a genteel and healthful amusement. During the morning hours, a few ladies used to honor me with a call, when I would spend a little while in that pleasant recreation; but I never gambled, and ladies' company is always more agreeable than gentlemen's. Besides, if you play with gentlemen, it is apt to lead to gambling; and it was consequently better to pay for the use of the table with ladies, when one improves in manners from their refinement. One day Captain Thomas brought a little negro boy to my store, tendering me his services while I remained in Louisville; that he should be of no expense to me, but live at home, and come over regularly and do my chores, tote water, sweep my store, clean my shoes, etc. The captain explained that he had another boy of about the same age and size, and that one was better than both. I had a spruce colored barber, who was also a tailor, the pleasure of whose company I occasionally had in helping out in my labors. Sometime about the latter part of May, perhaps, four tobacco boats arrived at Louisville on their way to New Orleans, under the respective command of Captain Andrew Bayard, Captain Winters, and Captain Gano, of New York, and Captain January, of Kentucky. Captain Bayard's boat received some injury in passing over the Falls of the Ohio, and he had to unload to repair damages. I had been some time negotiating with a rich planter, Mr. Buckner, of Louisville. After I had heard of the accident to Captain Bayard's boat, Mr. Buckner came into the village. I got him in my store, locked the door, and told him that now was the time to close our long-talked-of trade, so that I could have the company of this descending fleet. After spending the night in conversation, I gave up my bed to Mr. Buckner, and threw down some blankets and coarse clothes for my own lodging. To make a long story short, we effected a trade--closing out my store of goods to him. He bought me a tobacco boat, loaded her with this product of the country, and got matters and things arranged so that I was ready to accompany the descending fleet. Of these tobacco traders, I was partially acquainted with Mr. Bayard. I had at Louisville a competitor in trade, a young Irish gentleman, but he could not succeed. My boat was loaded below the Falls, and by some means the hands suffered her to break from her fastenings, and went a mile or two down stream before they brought her to. I put my blanket on board of Mr. Bayard's boat, and got on board with him, and took my tea with him. In the evening, being moonlight, my canoe, with an old sailor, came for me. I took some blankets and wrapped them around my arms carelessly. I jumped into the canoe; and the sailor, it seems, had taken a little too much whisky, so that when he pushed off from Mr. Bayard's boat, in order to clear its bow, he leaned over so far as to make the canoe dip water; and, in recovering his position, he leaned so far the other way that the canoe filled. My arms being entangled with the blankets, I was totally helpless. Mr. Bayard's hands jumped into their small boat, came to my rescue, and saved me from a watery grave. Partly from economy, and partly from lack of time to secure another hand, I attempted to manage my tobacco boat, which was somewhat smaller than the usual size, with less than the usual supply of boatmen. This made it come hard on me, whose unskilled strength was but half that of an ordinary man. I had this old sailor with me for one watch, and an old North-western man and a Jerseyman for another. The boats would follow the current, except when passing islands, when the men must all beat their oars. I believe the old sailor, while on board, was a little deranged. After I discharged him at Natchez, he was found, I was told, in the woods, dead. Nothing of any moment occurred while descending the Ohio, until we reached Fort Massac, an old French fortification, about thirty miles above the mouth of the Ohio. It was a beautiful spot. All of the captains, and some of the hands, with a small boat, went on shore, while our tobacco boats glided gently along. When we landed, we separated in squads, and visited the old deserted ramparts, which appeared quite fresh. It was in the afternoon, just after a refreshing shower. Those first arriving at the intrenchment, espied a fresh moccasin track. We all looked at it, and then at each other, and, without uttering a word, all faced about, and ran as fast as possible for the little boat. Some hit its locality, while others struck the river too high up, and others, too low. Those of us who missed our way concluded, in our fright, that the Indians had cut us off; and no one had thought to take his rifle but me, and I feared that I should be the first to fall. After we were all safe on one of the tobacco boats, we recovered our speech, and each one told how he felt, and what he thought, during our flight to the boats. This locality of Fort Massac, we understood, was the direct way from the Ohio, in that country, to St. Louis, and probably the track we saw was that of some lonely Indian; and, judging from its freshness, the one who made it was as much frightened from our numbers as we were at our unexpected discovery. I will note a little circumstance that occurred during our passage down the Ohio. One day, I was ahead of the fleet, when one of the boats passed by suddenly, when we observed by the woods that we were standing still--evidently aground, or fast on something below the surface. I gave notice to the boats behind to come on, and take position between my boat and shore, hoping, by this means, to raise a temporary swell in the river, and, by fastening a rope to my boat, and extending along beside the others, and making the other end fast to a tree on shore, be enabled to get loose. While thus engaged, we heard a whistle, like that of a quail. Some observed that quail never kept in the woods, and we felt some fear that it might be Indians; but we continued our efforts at the rope, and the boat was soon so far moved that we discovered that we were fast upon a planter--that is, the body of a tree firmly embedded in the river bottom. At last, the men could partly stand upon it, and, with a hand-saw, so weakened it that it broke off, and we were released. Another dangerous obstruction is a tree becoming undermined and falling into the river, and the roots fastening themselves in the muddy bottom, while, by the constant action of the current, the limbs wear off, and the body keeps sawing up and down with great force, rising frequently several feet above the water, and then sinking as much below. These are called "sawyers," and often cause accidents to unsuspecting navigators. When we arrived at the mouth of the Ohio, we stopped. I fastened my boat to trees, and the other boats did likewise. We kept watch, with an ax in hand, to cut the fastenings in case of a surprise by Indians. Here were marks of buffalo having rested. Where the waters of the Mississippi and Ohio mingle, they look like putting dirty soap-suds and pure water together. So we filled all our vessels that were water-tight, for fear we might suffer for want of good water on our voyage. But we found out, afterward, that the Mississippi was very good water, when filtered. After we got all arranged, the second day after we embarked, the captains agreed that we would, in rotation, dine together, which rendered our journey more pleasant. Mr. Bayard's and my boat were frequently fastened together while descending the Ohio, but on the Mississippi, from the turbulence of the stream, it was not possible to do so. The first day that we entered the Mississippi, we discharged all our rifles and pistols, as we were then out of danger from the hostile Indians. In the afternoon, we had a strong wind ahead, which made a heavy sea, accompanied with thunder and lightning. The waves ran so high that we felt in danger of foundering. The forward boat pulled hard for shore, which we all followed. Presently, we saw an Indian canoe pulling for that boat. I asked my North-western man what that meant. He looked wild, but did not know what to make of it. I directed the men to pull away, and I would keep an eye upon the suspicious visitors, and at the same time load our rifles and pistols again. Reaching the advanced boat, the Indians were kindly received, and no fighting; and, instead of hostile demonstrations, they lent a hand in rowing. After much hard work, we at length all effected a landing in safety. We then prepared for dinner. It so happened that it was my turn to receive the captains at dinner. Having a large piece of fresh beef--enough and to spare, I invited three of our copper-faces to dine with us. Dinner over, Captain Gano set the example of _pitching the fork_ into the beef, as we used, in our school days, to pitch the fork into the ground. So the Indians, one after the other, imitated the captain, and very dextrously pitched their forks also into the beef, thinking, probably, that it was a white man's ceremony that should be observed. After dinner, at the conclusion of the pitching incident, I mixed some whisky and water in the only glass I had, and handed it to one of the captains; and then repeating it, filling the tumbler equally alike in quantity, handed it in succession to the others. When I came to the Indians, not knowing their relative rank, I happened to present the glass to the lowest in order, as I discovered by his declining it; but when I came to the leader, he took the offering, and reaching out his hand to me in a genteel and graceful manner, shook mine heartily; and then repeated the cordial shake with each of the others, not omitting his own people, and then drank our healths as politely, I imagine, as Lord Chesterfield could have done. The other Indians were similarly treated, and, in turn, as gracefully acknowledged the compliment. They all appeared much pleased with their reception. This ceremony over, our men asked leave to visit the opposite side of the river, where these Indians had a large encampment. This granted, they all went to get their rifles. The Indians seemed to understand etiquette and politeness, and objected to the men going armed. But, instead of speaking to the men, they addressed the captains of the boats, saying: "We have no objections to your men going among our people, if they don't take their rifles. We came among you as friends, bringing no arms along." We, of course, told our men to leave their rifles behind. They did so. Returning, they reported that there were a good many Indians there. By some means, some of our men must have let the Indians have _la tafia_--a cheap variety of rum distilled from molasses. At all events, they became very much intoxicated, "and we," said the visitors, "were very apprehensive of difficulty; but a squaw told us that the Indians could not fight, as she had secreted all their knives, and we were very much relieved when morning appeared, so we could bid good-by to our new acquaintances." The next day we arrived at _L'Anse a la Graisse_, which place, or adjoining it, bears the name of New Madrid, which is the American part of the little village settled under the auspices of Colonel George Morgan. Uncle Forman wrote me by all means to call at this Spanish post, as he had left my name with the genteel commandant there, who would expect to see me. In the morning, after breakfast, we all prepared our toilets preparatory to paying our respects to the officer of the place. The captains did me the honor of making me the foreman of the party, as my name would be familiar to the commandant. I regret that I have forgotten his name.[15] We made our call at as early an hour as we could, so that we might pursue our voyage without any unnecessary waste of time. [15] In July, 1789, less than a year before, Lieutenant Pierre Foucher, with four officers and thirty soldiers, had been sent from New Orleans to establish a post at this place, as stated in _Gayarre's Louisiana_, 1854, p. 268. It is generally asserted that this settlement was commenced as early as 1780; but the Spanish census of Louisiana, both in 1785 and 1788, make no mention of the place. Arrived at the gate, the guard was so anxious to trade his tame raccoon with our men that he scarcely took any notice of us. We went to head-quarters; there was but little ceremony. When we were shown into the commander's presence, I stepped toward him a little in advance of my friends, and announced my name. I was most cordially and familiarly received. Then I introduced my friends, mentioning their respective places of residence. After a little conversation, we rose to retire, when the commandant advanced near me, and politely asked me to dine with him an hour after twelve o'clock, and bring my accompanying friends with me. I turned to the gentlemen for their concurrence, which they gave, when we all returned to our boats. I then observed to my friends that the commandant would expect some present from us--such was the custom--and what should it be? Mr. Bayard, I believe, asked me to suggest some thing in our power to tender. I then remarked, that, as we had a plenty of good hams, that we fill a barrel, and send them to our host; that they might prove as acceptable as any thing. The proposition met the approval of all, and the hams were accordingly sent at once, with perhaps an accompanying note. At one hour after twelve o'clock, I well remember, we found ourselves comfortably seated at the hospitable board of the Spanish commandant, who expressed much delight at receiving our fine present. He gave us an elegant dinner in the Spanish style, and plenty of good wine and liquors, and coffee without cream. The commandant, addressing me, while we were indulging in the liquids before us, said that we must drink to the health of the ladies in our sweet liquors. "So," said he, "we will drink the health of the Misses Forman"--my worthy cousins, who had preceded us in a visit to this garrison. After dinner, the commandant invited us to take a walk in the fine prairies. He said he could drive a coach-and-four through these open woods to St. Louis. There came up a thunder-storm and sharp lightning, and he asked me what I called that in English, and I told him, when he pleasantly observed: "You learn me to talk English, and I will learn you French." Returning to head-quarters, we took tea, and then got up to take our final leave. "O, no!" said he, "I can't spare you, gentlemen. I'm all alone. Please to come to-morrow, one hour after twelve, and dine again with me." So, at the appointed time, we were on hand again. The same kind hospitality was accorded us as on the preceding day. In the evening, we thought we should surely tender the last farewell. But no; we must come again, for the third day, to enjoy his good company and delightful viands. That evening, there was a Spanish dance, all common people making up the company--French, Canadians, Spaniards, Americans. The belle of the room was Cherokee Katy, a beautiful little squaw, dressed in Spanish style, with a turban on her head, and decked off very handsomely. On these occasions, a king and queen were chosen to be sovereigns for the next meeting. The commandant was asked to honor them by taking a partner, and sharing in the mazy dance, which, of course, he declined; and we also had an invitation, but declined also. The commandant said he always went to these happy gatherings, and sat a little while, and once, he added, he played a little while on his own violin, for his own and their amusement. He expressed much regret at parting with us. He said he was so lonesome. He was a man not over thirty, I suppose, highly accomplished, and spoke pretty good English. I fear he was, in after years, swallowed up in the earthquake,[16] which destroyed many; among them, I believe, a Mr. Morris, who was a brother to Mrs. Hurd; a Mr. Lintot, from Natchez, who was a passenger with me from New Orleans to Philadelphia. [16] We learn, from Gayarre's _History of the Spanish Domination of Louisiana_, that, in July, 1789, Pierre Foucher, a lieutenant of the regiment of Louisiana, was sent, with two sergeants, two corporals, and thirty soldiers, to build a fort at New Madrid, and take the civil and military command of that district, with instructions to govern those new colonists in such a way as to make them feel that they had found among the Spaniards the state of ease and comfort of which they were in quest. Colonel John Pope, in his _Tour Through the Western and Southern States_, states, under date, March 12, 1791: "Breakfasted and dined with Signor Pedro Foucher, commandant at New Madrid. The garrison consists of about ninety men, who are well supplied with food and raiment. They have an excellent train of artillery, which appears to be their chief defense. Two regular companies of musqueteers, with charged bayonets, might take this place. Of this opinion is the commandant himself, who complains that he is not sufficiently supported. He is a Creole of French extraction, of Patagonian size, polite in his manners, and of a most noble presence." Lieutenant Foucher must have left the country long before the great earthquake of 1811-12. The Spaniards evacuated their posts on the Mississippi to the north of 31st degree in 1798; and, two years later, transferred the country to France, and, in 1803, it was purchased by the United States. On our entering the Mississippi, we had agreed that the foremost boat should fire a gun as a token for landing, if they saw a favorable spot after the middle of the afternoon. It was not possible to run in safety during the night. It so happened that every afternoon we had a thunder shower and head wind. Nothing special occurred, I believe, till our arrival at Natchez. There was no settlement from _L'Anse a la Graisse_ to _Bayou Pierre_, something like sixty miles above Natchez. At Bayou Pierre lived Colonel Bruin,[17] of the Virginia Continental line, who, after the war, took letters from General Washington to the governor of that country while it belonged to Spain, and secured a fine land grant. I once visited Colonel Bruin, with a gentleman from Natchez. That section of country is remarkably handsome, and the soil rich. The colonel's dwelling-house was on the top of a large mound, and his barn on another, near by. These mounds are common in the Ohio and Mississippi countries, and no tradition gives their origin. [17] Colonel Peter Bryan Bruin, son of an Irish gentleman, who had become implicated in the Irish Rebellion of 1756, and confiscation and exile were his penalty. He brought with him to America his only son, who was reared a merchant. In the War of the Revolution, he entered Morgan's famous riflemen as a lieutenant, shared in the assault on Quebec, where he was made a prisoner, and confined in a prison ship, infected with small-pox, for six months. He was finally exchanged, and at length promoted to the rank of major, serving to the end of the war. Soon after settling near the mouth of Bayou Pierre, he was appointed alcalde, or magistrate, under the Spanish Government; and when the Mississippi Territory was organized, in 1798, he was appointed one of the three territorial judges, remaining in office until he resigned, in 1810. He lived till a good old age, was a devoted patriot, and a man of high moral character. While in Louisville, I bought a young cub bear, and kept him chained in the back room of my store. He was about a month or two old when I got him; and when I went down the river, I took him along to Natchez. When twelve or fifteen months old, he became very saucy; I only could keep him in subjection. When he became too troublesome, Uncle Forman had him killed, and invited several gentlemen to join him in partaking of his bear dinner. When our little fleet of five boats first came in sight of the village of Natchez, it presented quite a formidable appearance, and caused a little alarm at the fort; the drum beat to arms, but the affright soon subsided. About this time, a report circulated that general somebody, I have forgotten his name, was in Kentucky raising troops destined against that country; but it all evaporated.[18] [18] This refers to the proposed settlement at the Walnut Hills, at the mouth of the Yazoo, under the auspices of the famous Yazoo Company, composed mostly of prominent South Carolina and Georgia gentlemen. Dr. John O'Fallon, who subsequently married a sister of General George Rogers Clark, located at Louisville, Ky., as the agent and active partner in that region and endeavored to enlist General Clark as the military leader of the enterprise; but it would appear that the general declined the command, and Colonel John Holder, a noted Kentucky pioneer and Indian fighter, was chosen in his place. But nothing was accomplished. The original grant was obtained by bribery, fraud, and corruption, from the Georgia Legislature; and a subsequent legislature repudiated the transaction, and ordered all the documents and records connected with it to be burned in the public square. Natchez was then a small place, with houses generally of a mean structure, built mostly on the low bank of the river, and on the hillside. The fort was on a handsome, commanding spot, on the elevated ground, from which was a most extensive view up the river, and over the surrounding country. The governor's house was not far from the garrison. Uncle Forman had at first hired a large house, about half-way up the hill from the landing, where he lived until he bought a plantation of five hundred acres on the bank of St. Catherine's creek, about four miles from Natchez. This he regarded as only a temporary abode, until he could become better acquainted with the country. The place had a small clearing and a log house on it, and he put up another log house to correspond with it, about fourteen feet apart, connecting them with boards, with a piazza in front of the whole. The usual term applied to such a structure was that it was "two pens and a passage." This connecting passage made a fine hall, and altogether gave it a good and comfortable appearance. Boards were scarce, and I do not remember of seeing any saw or grist-mills in the country. Uncle Forman had a horse-mill, something like a cider-mill, to grind corn for family use. In range with his dwelling he built a number of negro houses, some distance off, on the bank of St. Catherine's creek. It made quite a pretty street. The little creek was extremely convenient. The negroes the first year cleared a large field for tobacco, for the cultivation of that article was the object of Mr. Forman's migration to that country. After my arrival, and while sojourning at Natchez, Uncle Forman asked me if I intended to apply to the government for lands. I replied that I did not want any. He said he was glad of it, unless I remained in the country. He hinted something to the effect that one of the Spanish officers, who talked of leaving the country, had an elegant plantation, with negroes for its cultivation, and he thought of buying it, if I would stay and take it; that if I took land of government, and sold out, it might give umbrage to the governor, and I, being a relation, he suffer by it. I told him my father was loath to let me come away, and I promised that I would return if my life was spared me. After this, Surveyor-General Dunbar,[19] much to my surprise, called on me, and said that he brought the survey and map of my land, and presented a bill of sixty dollars for his services. I told him that I had not asked for land, nor had Governor Gayoso ever said any thing to me about land, nor did I want any. General Dunbar replied that the governor directed him to survey for Don Samuel S. Forman eight hundred acres of land, and that it was the best and most valuable tract that he knew of in the district, including a beautiful stream of water, with a gravelly bottom--rare in that country; that it was well located, near a Mr. Ellis, at the White Cliffs, and advised me by all means to take it. Uncle Forman happened to be absent, and I was in doubt what to do. At last I paid the bill and took the papers. The largest quantity that the Spanish Government gave to a young man who settled in that country was two hundred and forty acres, so the governor showed much friendship by complimenting me with so large a grant. [19] Sir William Dunbar, son of Sir Archibald Dunbar, was born at Elgin, Scotland, and received a superior education in Glasgow and London. On account of failing health, he obtained a stock of goods for the Indian trade; and, landing in Philadelphia in April, 1771, took his goods to Fort Pitt, and about 1773 he went to West Florida to form a plantation. He suffered much during the period of the Revolution, and in 1772 settled near Natchez, became chief surveyor under the Spanish Government, and in 1798 he was appointed astronomical commissioner on the part of Spain in establishing the boundary. He was shortly after appointed by Governor Sargeant, on the organization of Mississippi Territory, under the United States Government, chief judge of the Court of Quarter Sessions. He corresponded with the most distinguished scientific men of his time, and contributed to the Transactions of the American Philosophical Society. He died in 1810, leaving many descendants. I must go back a little, and state that my good traveling companions, Messrs. Bayard, Gano, Winters, and January, parted from me, and continued their journey down the river. Uncle Forman had been acquainted with Mr. Bayard, in Philadelphia, and their meeting in a distant and foreign country was very gratifying. The interview was very brief, for Mr. Bayard and associates were anxious to pursue their voyage. At Natchez we made many agreeable acquaintances. Governor Gayoso, a bachelor, was very affable and pleasant, and had an English education. The fort-major, Stephen Minor,[20] was a Jerseyman from Princeton, and Mr. Hutchins,[21] a wealthy planter, was a brother to Thomas Hutchins, the geographer-general of the United States. His wife was a Conover, from near Freehold village, and knew more about Freehold than I did. Also a Mr. Moore, a wealthy planter, Mr. Bernard Lintot, who moved from Vermont before the war, and Mr. Ellis, a wealthy planter--all having large families, sons and daughters, very genteel and accomplished. These all lived from eight to fourteen miles from us. [20] Stephen Minor was a native of Pennsylvania, well-educated, and early made his way West; first to St. Louis, and then to New Orleans, and was soon appointed to official station by the Spanish Government, rising eventually to the governorship at Natchez, and so continuing till the evacuation of the country. He then became a citizen of the United States, and was useful to the country. He died in after years at Concord, Mississippi. [21] Colonel Anthony Hutchins was a native of New Jersey; early migrated to North Carolina, and in 1772 explored the Natchez country, settling permanently at the White Apple village, twelve miles from Natchez, the following year, and survived the troubles of the Revolution, and died when past eighty years of age. In the village of Natchez resided Monsieur and Madam Mansanteo--Spanish Jews, I think--who were the most kind and hospitable of people. These families, in town and country, formed our principal associates. Governor Gayoso told us, after we moved out to St. Catherine, that there would always be a plate for us at his table. The year 1790 was a very sickly one for unacclimated persons in the Natchez country. All our family adults had more or less fever, and fever and ague. Uncle Forman was severely afflicted with gout--a lump almost as big as a small hen's egg swelled out at one of his elbows, with something of the appearance of chalk. Poor Betsey Church was taken with a fever, and died in a few days; a great loss to the family, having been a valuable and much respected member of it for many years. I was the only adult of the family who was not confined to the house with sickness. Stephen Minor, the fort-major, married the eldest daughter of the planter, Mr. Ellis. Our family was much visited by the Spanish officers, who were very genteel men; and Major Minor was very intimate, and seemed to take much interest in us. When the time was fixed for my departure, by the way of New Orleans, and thence by sea to Philadelphia, Uncle Forman said: "Well, you must direct Moses, the coachman, to get up the carriage, take two of your cousins with you, and take leave of all your good friends." The carriage, which had its top broken off crossing the mountains in Pennsylvania, had been fitted up in Natchez, with neat bannister work around the top of the body, which rendered it more convenient for the country. We sometimes took the family in it, and went out strawberrying over the prairies. Cousins Augusta and Margaret accompanied me on my farewell tour. Ours was the first four-wheeled carriage that ever passed over those grounds--I can't say roads, for the highway was only what was called a bridle-path--all traveling at that day was on horseback. When we visited one place, some of our friends from another locality meeting us there would ascertain the day we designed visiting their house, that they might have the cane-brakes along the trail cleared away sufficient to permit the comfortable passage of the carriage; and we must, moreover, be on time, or some small gust of wind might again obstruct the passage. Our visits were all very pleasant save the unhappy part of the final bidding each other farewell. During this excursion, Governor Gayoso had given permission for a Baptist clergyman to preach one Sunday, which was the first time a protestant minister had been allowed to hold religious services. The meeting was held at Colonel Hutchins'. We went from the residence of some friends in that vicinity. After service we were invited to stay and dine at Colonel Hutchins'. When we were ready to depart, all came out of the house to see us off, and I asked the ladies in a jocose way to join us in the ride, when they began to climb over the wheels as though they might endanger the safety of the carriage; but this frolicsome banter over, we took our departure. We spent several days in performing this friendly round of visits--by-gone days of happiness never to return. When I was about leaving the country, Governor Gayoso asked me what I intended to do with my land. I replied, that if I did not return in a year or two, that his excellency could do what he pleased with it. Some years after, when I lived in Cazenovia, I contemplated going back, and went to my large chest, which had traveled with me from Pittsburg to New Orleans, and thence in all my tramps and changes, where I supposed all my Spanish papers were safe in a little drawer; but, to my surprise, they were missing, and I never could tell what became of them, as I kept the chest locked, and retained the key. So vanished my eight hundred acres of valuable land in the promising Mississippi country. On the arrival of Colonel Wyckoff, with his brother-in-law, Scudder, from Tennessee, preparations were made for our departure. Uncle Forman went down to New Orleans with us. It was in June, 1791, I believe, that we left Natchez. The parting with my kindred was most trying and affecting, having traveled and hazarded our lives together for so many hundred miles, and never expecting to meet again in this life. Many of the poor colored people, too, came and took leave of me, with tears streaming down their cheeks. Take them altogether, they were the finest lot of servants I ever saw. They were sensible that they were all well cared for--well fed, well clothed, well housed, each family living separately, and they were treated with kindness. Captain Osmun,[22] their overseer, was a kind-hearted man, and used them well. They had ocular proof of their happy situation when compared with their neighbor's servants. It was the custom of the country to exchange work at times; and, one day, one of our men came to me, and said: "I don't think it is right to exchange work with these planters; for I can, with ease, do more work than any two of their men;" and added, "their men pound their corn over night for their next day's supply, and they are too weak to work." Poor fellows, corn was all they had to eat. [22] Benajah Osmun served, as Mr. Forman has previously stated, at the defeat of General Washington's troops on Long Island, in August, 1776, when he was made a prisoner; he was then, apparently, a soldier in the ranks. On January 1, 1777, he was appointed a second lieutenant and quartermaster in Colonel Shreve's Second New Jersey regiment, which he subsequently resigned. In September, 1778, he again entered the army as an ensign in the second regiment; was a prisoner of war on April 25, 1780; made a lieutenant January 1, 1781, retiring at the close of the war with the brevet rank of captain. In 1802, he was made lieutenant-colonel of the Adams county militia; and when Colonel Burr visited the country, in 1807, on his mysterious mission, he was the guest of Colonel Osmun, who was one of his two bondsmen for his appearance at court, for they were fellow officers in the Revolution. Colonel Osmun settled a plantation at the foot of Half Way hill, near Natchez, became wealthy, and there died, a bachelor, at a good old age. Uncle Forman and I stopped the first night with Mr. Ellis, at the White Cliffs, and next day embarked on board of a boat for New Orleans. On our way down we sometimes went on shore and took a bowl of chocolate for breakfast with some rich planter, a very common custom of the country. The night before our arrival at New Orleans we put up with a Catholic priest; some gentlemen of our company were well acquainted between Natchez and New Orleans, and had learned the desirable stopping places. The good priest received us kindly, gave us an excellent supper, plenty of wine, and was himself very lively. We took breakfast with him the next morning; and before our departure the priest came up to me with a silver plate in his hand, on which were two fine looking pears, which he tendered me. He looked at first very serious; but, remembering his good humor the previous evening, I suspected his fun had not yet all run out. I eyed him pretty close, and while thanking him, I rather hesitated, when he urged me to take them. I knew no pears grew in that country. I finally took one, weighed it in my hand, and looked at him, till he bursted out into a loud laugh. They were ingeniously wrought out of stone or marble, and looked exactly like pears. I brought them home and gave them to a friend. Arriving in New Orleans, we took lodgings, and our first business was to wait on his excellency Governor Miro. Mr. Forman settling within his government with so large a number of people, under an arrangement with the Spanish ambassador at New York, Don Diego de Gardoque, gave him a high standing. Uncle Forman was in person a fine-looking man, very neat, prepossessing, and of genteel deportment, so that he was always much noticed. As there was then no vessel in port destined for the United States, I had to delay a couple of weeks for one. At length the brig Navarre, Captain McFadden, made its appearance, and soon loaded for Philadelphia. There were a number of Americans in waiting, who engaged their passage with me, on this vessel. Uncle Forman did not leave the city until after the Navarre had taken its departure. He suggested that I should take a formal leave of Governor Miro and his secretary, Don Andre. The secretary was a large, fine-looking man. I politely asked him if he had any commands for the cape--Cape Francois, a fine town in the northern part of St. Domingo, usually dignified with the designation of the _The Cape_--for which port, I believe, the vessel cleared. "I know not," said the secretary, "to what cape you are going--only take good care of yourself." After all were on board, the brig dropped down two or three miles, where the passengers went ashore, and laid in provisions enough, the captain said, to have carried us to London after our arrival in Philadelphia. I may mention something about distances as computed in those days. From Natchez to New Orleans was called three hundred miles by water, and only one hundred and fifty by land. From New Orleans to the Balize, at the mouth of the Mississippi, was reckoned one hundred and five miles. It was said that such was the immense volume of the Mississippi river that it kept its course and muddy appearance for a league out at sea. There were no ladies among the passengers. We entered into an arrangement that each passenger should, in rotation, act as caterer for the party for each day. It fell to my lot to lead off in this friendly service. We got along very nicely, and with a good deal of mirthful pleasure, for a couple of weeks, enjoying our viands and wine as comfortably as if at a regular boarding house. The captain's wife, however, was something of a drawback to our enjoyment. She was a vinegary looking creature, and as cross and saucy as her looks betokened, was low-bred, ill-tempered, and succeeded in making herself particularly disagreeable. During the pleasant weather portion of our voyage, she managed, without cause, to raise a quarrel with every passenger; and what added to her naturally embittered feeling, was that we only laughed at her folly. When we arrived in sight of Cuba, the wind arose, and blew almost a hurricane, causing a heavy sea. We were in such danger of being cast away on the Florida reefs that the captain summoned all hands on deck for counsel. But, providentially, we escaped. For near two weeks no cooking could be done, and each one was thankful to take whatever he could obtain in one hand, and hold fast to something with the other, such was the rolling and pitching of our frail vessel. Most of the passengers were sea-sick; I was among the few who escaped from that sickening nausea. One night the rain was so heavy, the lightning so vivid, and thunder so tremendous, that the vessel trembled at every clap; when I went to my friend Wyckoff, as well as others who were asleep, informing them that it was a moment of no little danger and excitement. Captain McFadden was a most profane man. But during the hours of our distress and danger he became very mild and humble, but it lasted no longer than the storm. The vinegary Mrs. McFadden, too, was very sensibly affected during this trying period; for, standing in the companion-way, leading to the cabin, she very humbly and demurely said that she would go below and make her peace. We all thought she could not be too quick about it. She was a veritable Katharine, but he was not a Petruchio. Before we arrived at the capes of the Delaware, an American sailor, who had made his escape from a British man-of-war at the mouth of the Mississippi, sickened and died on board our craft. When we got into the Delaware, the sailors took his remains on shore and gave them a decent sepulture. At length we reached Philadelphia in safety. GENERAL INDEX. Prefatory note, 3 Memoir of Major S. S. Forman, 5 Forman's narrative, 5 Tunis Forman captures two Tories, 6 Major Lee's strategy, 6 British foray at Middletown Point, 6, 7 Major Burrows's loss and captivity, 7 Denise Forman's services, 7 General David Forman, 7 German town battle, 7 Capture of a British sloop, 8 A British and Tory scout, 9 Services of Major Burrows, 9 Major Burrows's narrow escape, 9, 10 Denise Forman and Philip Freneau, 10 Sufferings in British prison ships, 10, 11 Captain Freneau's after-life, 11, 12 Monmouth battle, 12 Fugitives return to New York, 12 British evacuate New York, 13-15 Lieutenant-Colonel J. N. Cumming, 14 Anthony Glean noticed, 14 Washington parting with his officers, 15 Washington and Franklin in Federal Convention, 15 Washington's second inauguration, 16 Major Forman settles at Cazenovia, N. Y., 17 His subsequent career, 17, 18 His narrative--departure for the Ohio, 19 Detention at Lancaster, 20 Meeting Charley Morgan, 22 Scant of funds for traveling, 22 Arrival at Pittsburg, 23 Flat-bottomed boats for the journey, 23 Colonel Turnbull's entertainment, 24 Departure down the river, 25 Difficulties of navigation, 25, 26 Arrival at Wheeling, 26 Flocks of wild turkeys, 26 Arrival at Marietta, 27 Limestone and Columbia, 27 Arrival at Cincinnati, 27 General Harmar's hospitality, 27, 28 Captain Kirby _vs._ Captain Kersey, 28, 29 General Jonathan Forman noticed, 29 General Harmar's defeat, 30 Indian rendezvous at Scioto, 30 Gallipolis settlement, 30, 31 Anecdote of Captain Osmun, 31 Arrival at Louisville, 32 Fort Jefferson; Fort Steuben, 32 Ensign Luce and North Bend, 32, 33 Lacassangue and his station, 33, 34 Early dancing parties at Louisville, 35, 36 Generals Wilkinson and St. Clair, 35 Dr. John F. Carmichael, 36 Ezekiel Forman starts for Natchez, 36 Effort to lure ashore and destroy Forman's party, 37 Louisville incidents; Ashby and family; Mr. Smith; moccasins at balls, 38, 39 An egg-nog frolic, 39, 40 The Sabbath kept by S. S. Forman, 40 A billiard-table at Louisville, 40, 41 A fleet of tobacco boats, 41 Mr. Buckner purchases Mr. Forman's goods, 42 Mr. Forman's mishap, 42 Departure from Louisville, 42, 43 Incident at Fort Massac, 43 Planters and sawyers, 44 Mouth of the Ohio, 44, 45 An Indian alarm, 45 Indian visit; dinner, 46 Visit Indian village, 46, 47 Arrival at _L'Anse a la Graisse_, 47 Lieutenant Foucher's hospitality, 48-50 Lieutenant Foucher noticed, 47, 48-50 Colonel Pope's tour cited, 50 Colonel P. B. Bruin noticed, 51, 52 A cub bear, 52 Arrival at Natchez, 52 Walnut Hills settlement project, 52, 53 Dr. O'Fallon; General Clark; Colonel Holder, 52, 53 Natchez and surroundings, 53 Sir Wm. Dunbar noticed, 54 S. S. Forman's land grant, 55, 58, 59 Fine society at Natchez, 56 Mons. and Madam Mansanteo, 56 Major Stephen Minor noticed, 56, 57 Colonel Anthony Hutchins noticed, 56 Sickly at Natchez in 1790, 56, 57 A round of visits, 57, 58 Bad treatment of servants, 59 Colonel Osmun noticed, 59, 60 Departure for New Orleans, 60 A genial priest, 60, 61 Voyage and incidents to Philadelphia, 61-63 ROBERT CLARKE & CO., CINCINNATI, O. HAVE JUST PUBLISHED Major Forman's Narrative. Narrative of a Journey down the Ohio and Mississippi in 1789-90. By Major Samuel S. Forman, of New Jersey. With a Memoir and Illustrative Notes. By Lyman C. Draper, LL.D. of Wisconsin. 12mo. Paper, 50 cents; cloth, 75 cents. General David Forman of New Jersey in 1789, entered into a negotiation with the Spanish minister Don Diego de Gardoque, for his brother Ezekiel Forman of Philadelphia, to emigrate with his family, and about sixty colored people, men, women and children, and settle in the Natchez country, then under Spanish authority. Major Samuel S. Forman accompanied this emigrating party, and in this narrative gives a minute account of their trip, the places they passed through and at which they stopped, prominent people they met, with many curious particulars. This book has not been stereotyped, and the edition is a limited one. _Sent by mail, prepaid, on receipt of the price._ ROBERT CLARKE & CO., _Publishers_, Cincinnati, O. Transcriber's Note Archaic spelling is preserved as printed. Inconsistency in the use of apostrophes in date ranges is preserved as printed. Minor punctuation errors have been repaired. There were some instances of a single inconsistent spelling of a proper noun where it appears more than once. These, along with apparent typographic errors, have been repaired as follows: Page 19--Foreman amended to Forman--General David Forman, ... Page 37--beech amended to beach--... ran on the beach, imploring ... Page 37--Osmnn amended to Osmun--But for the circumstance of Captain Osmun ... Page 51--à amended to a--... from _L'Anse a la Graisse_ to _Bayou Pierre_, ... Page 57--afflcted amended to afflicted--Uncle Forman was severely afflicted ... Page 58--Pittsburgh amended to Pittsburg--... which had traveled with me from Pittsburg ... Page 60--ta amended to at--... of the country to exchange work at times; ... Page 63--Wickoff amended to Wyckoff--... when I went to my friend Wyckoff, ... Page 66--mocassins amended to moccasins--... Mr. Smith; moccasins at balls, ... Page 67--Madame Mansant amended to Madam Mansanteo--Mons. and Madam Mansanteo, 56 
46794	----	[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.] THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO [Illustration] OR: CLEARING THE WILDERNESS THE YOUNG PIONEER SERIES BY HARRISON ADAMS ILLUSTRATED [Illustration] =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO=, Or: Clearing the Wilderness $1.25 =THE PIONEER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES=, Or: On the Trail of the Iroquois 1.25 =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI=, Or: The Homestead in the Wilderness 1.25 =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSOURI=, Or: In the Country of the Sioux 1.25 =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE YELLOWSTONE=, Or: Lost in the Land of Wonders 1.25 =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE COLUMBIA=, Or: In the Wilderness of the Great Northwest 1.25 [Illustration] THE PAGE COMPANY 53 Beacon Street Boston, Mass. [Illustration: "'HERE WE ARE AT THE SPOT I PICKED OUT FOR YOUR SETTLEMENT.'" (_See page 119._)] The Young Pioneer Series THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO OR: CLEARING THE WILDERNESS By HARRISON ADAMS Author of "The Pioneer Boys on the Great Lakes," etc. [Illustration] Illustrated and Decorated by CHARLES LIVINGSTON BULL BOSTON [Illustration] THE PAGE COMPANY [Illustration] PUBLISHERS [Illustration] _Copyright, 1912, by_ THE PAGE COMPANY _All rights reserved_ First Impression, July, 1912 Second Impression, October, 1913 Third Impression, May, 1916 THE COLONIAL PRESS C. H. SIMONDS & CO. BOSTON, U. S. A. PREFACE MY DEAR BOYS:--As doubtless you well know, the early pioneer days were times that tried men's souls. And boys, hardly in their teens, were taught, in the bitter school of experience, that they must always live up to the old Puritan motto, "Trust in the Lord; but _keep your powder dry_." These same lads early learned to be self-dependent, and to fight their own battles. Steeped in this atmosphere, the names of many heroic early settlers have come down to us through the pages of history. We all delight to read of their bold achievements, for they were men of whom the country must ever be proud. But those stirring times before the Revolution also gave birth to many a valiant soul whose daring and sacrifices have never been recorded on the scroll of Fame. Some of these heroes were mere striplings in point of years, yet capable, in times of great stress, of proving themselves "chips of the old block." It is to record the intensely interesting adventures of several of these young pioneers, whose axes helped to blaze the way of civilization in the then unknown region beyond the Alleghanies, that I have started to write this series of books. I sincerely trust that if you enjoy reading the present and first volume, you will welcome the story to follow, to be called: "The Pioneer Boys on the Great Lakes; or, On the Trail of the Iroquois." Cordially yours, HARRISON ADAMS. _May 20th, 1912._ [Illustration] [Illustration] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE PREFACE v I. AFTER FRESH VENISON 1 II. THE CABIN IN THE CLEARING 13 III. CAUGHT IN THE SNOW-STORM 25 IV. THE WOLF PACK 36 V. WHEN KATE CAME HOME 47 VI. THE DIE IS CAST 59 VII. INTO THE UNKNOWN LAND 68 VIII. THE PERILS OF THE WILDERNESS 77 IX. ALONG THE BUFFALO TRAIL 88 X. ATTACKED BY INDIANS 97 XI. ON THE BANK OF THE OHIO 106 XII. BOONE, THE CAPTAIN OF PIONEERS 118 XIII. BLUE JACKET 129 XIV. A NEW HOME IN THE WILDERNESS 141 XV. THE SUDDEN PERIL 152 XVI. CHASED BY THE FLAMES 167 XVII. A STRANGE PRISON 178 XVIII. AFTER THE FOREST FIRE 189 XIX. CAPTURED BY THE SHAWANEES 200 XX. THE COUNCIL FIRE 211 XXI. TIT FOR TAT 223 XXII. THE ESCAPE 235 XXIII. A CANOE TRIP IN THE STARLIGHT 245 XXIV. THE FEATHERED MESSAGE 255 XXV. AFLOAT ON THE FLOOD 266 XXVI. THE SINKING CRAFT 277 XXVII. BOB 286 XXVIII. A RESCUE 295 XXIX. WONDERFUL TIDINGS 306 XXX. CONCLUSION 315 NOTES 327 [Illustration] [Illustration] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "'HERE WE ARE AT THE SPOT I PICKED OUR FOR YOUR SETTLEMENT'" (_see page_ 119) _Frontispiece_ "DISCOVERED A HALF CIRCLE OF GLEAMING YELLOW EYES WATCHING HIM" 35 "KICKING FURIOUSLY AT A LEAN BLACK BEAR, JUST BELOW HIM" 49 "SLIPPING ADROITLY AROUND THE BEECH AS FAST AS THE BUFFALO COULD CHASE AFTER HIM" 89 "THE FIRE WAS . . COMING ON AT HEADLONG SPEED" 170 "A PAIR OF MUSCULAR BRONZED ARMS SUDDENLY CLOSED ABOUT THE BOY" 202 [Illustration] The Pioneer Boys of the Ohio CHAPTER I AFTER FRESH VENISON "SHALL we give it up for to-day, Sandy?" "But the afternoon is only half spent, Bob, and we have had such poor luck hunting." "Just so; but it might have been worse. Two hickory-fed squirrels and a plump 'possum make a fair bag after such a hard winter." "Not so very much where there are five mouths to fill. Oh! Bob, if only we _could_ get the deer that made these tracks! I'm tired of jerked venison." (Note 1.)[A] Robert Armstrong, sixteen years of age, looked down upon the ground where the trail of the deer was well defined, and evidently he, too, felt some of the eagerness that possessed his more impulsive brother. It was the days previous to the Revolution. Around the two youths stretched the great primeval Virginia wilderness, sparsely settled, and hedged in by the chain of Alleghany Mountains, beyond which only a few venturesome spirits had ever dared journey; and some of these bold pioneers had never come back to tell the tale of their discoveries and exploits. The two boys had started from their cabin home, just outside a small Virginia town, determined to secure fresh food for the family, at that time facing unusual privation. Alexander, or Sandy, as he was always called, the impetuous one, seldom looked any distance ahead, so that it was Robert who many times found himself compelled to pull his younger brother out of serious difficulties. Still, both lads, having been born and reared on the Virginia frontier, were really older through experience than their years would indicate. In those strenuous days of pioneering, boys had to learn how to take care of themselves very soon after they began to walk. Their daily life brought them in touch with the perils of the wilderness. They were taught how to handle a gun at five years of age, and the tracks made by all wild animals soon became as plain to them as the pages of a printed book to a scholar. Sandy, seeing his more cautious brother hesitate, renewed his pleading. "We need this deer very much, Bob," he went on, eagerly. "Since father lost his place with old Jason Diggett, things have gone hard with us at home. Mother tries to smile and cheer us up, but every door has been shut against poor father since that tobacco barn burned down, and he was accused of setting fire to it." "Yes," said the other, a frown crossing his young face as though painful memories had been stirred up by his brother's words, "but they were not able to prove anything against father, and we know that he could never have done such a thing." "But the deer," continued Sandy, persistently; "why not try for it? Perhaps it may be feeding close by, in some glade where the trees have sheltered the grass, or where there are tender twigs to be nipped off. Say yes, Bob, and let us start right away." The older boy cast a quick look upward, and his gaze rested longest in the quarter where the forest wall was broken, allowing a view of the gray sky. "The air is raw, and I'm sure a storm is coming, late though the season is," he remarked, slowly. "Well, what of that?" declared Sandy, impatiently. "We are neither sugar nor salt, to be washed away by rain or snow. Just think how mother would smile if she saw us carrying home a nice fat buck, or even a doe? Bob, say yes! This chance is too good to be lost." Apparently his argument carried the day. That last stroke swept the more cautious Robert quite off his feet, for he loved his dear little mother above all things on earth, and the thought of pleasing her made him ignore his inner warnings. "All right, then, Sandy; let's call it a go. Just to be able to carry home a store of fresh meat we'll take chances. And now to follow the tracks." With that he bent his keen gaze upon the ground, and immediately started along the trail left by the deer, Sandy following close at his heels. Both lads carried the old-time flint-lock muskets, such as were in general use during those early days. They served their purpose fairly well, especially when in the steady hands of those who knew life often depended on accuracy of aim. Many woodrangers and trappers, however, had guns with longer barrels, which they called rifles, and capable of sending a patched bullet with unerring skill a great distance. In and out among the trees the two boys moved along. Not a single word passed between them until at least a mile had been covered. Then Sandy could restrain his impatience no longer. It was always a difficult thing to keep him "bottled up" when speech was concerned, and his brother Bob often declared he would make a good lawyer, or a parson, he liked to hear himself talk so much. "Are we getting closer, Bob? Is the trail any fresher than before? Oh! I thought I saw something move just then!" he whispered in the other's ear. "Where?" demanded Bob, instantly, as he turned his head around, a look of concern on his face; for, while the Indians of Virginia gave little trouble to the settlers at that day, they were not always to be trusted. "Never mind," returned Sandy, with a little chuckle; "for I see now it was only a poor, scared rabbit bounding away. But how about the deer, brother?" "We must be near him," said Bob, gravely; "and I believe he will turn out to be a five-prong buck, to judge from the size of his hoofs. Silence, now, and we will go on. Remember to keep a close watch ahead, and, if you get a good sight, send your lead back of his foreleg sure." "You can depend on me, Bob," replied the younger lad; and it was not boastfulness that made him say this, for he had long since developed into a remarkably clever marksman. In the fall, when the first snows drifted down through the valleys of Virginia, the settlers always held shooting matches, where the best shots of the country competed for prizes, usually some wild turkeys that had been trapped alive. And more than a few times Sandy had held his own with the celebrated sharpshooters among the buckskin-clad hunters from the trails. No eye was quicker than his to glance along the shiny barrel of a musket; and when he pulled the trigger his lead usually found its mark, even though the target were but the ever moving head of a turkey, whose body was hidden in the ground, fully an hundred yards distant from the marksman. Once more the two boys pushed on. Before five minutes passed Bob noticed something that gave him a little concern. He had caught sight of the first snowflake that came scurrying along on the wings of the rising wind. A little thing in itself, but which might mean a tremendous lot to these boys, miles away from home, and surrounded by a trackless forest. In another five minutes, just as he had feared, the snow was beginning to descend heavily, so that his task of following the trail of the deer promised to come to a speedy end, as the ground began to be covered with a white mantle. There was only one thing that could be done now, if they meant to pursue the hunt any further. Bob of late had been noting the general direction taken by the deer; and they could keep pushing on, each pair of eyes on the alert for signs of the expected quarry. Now it became necessary to bring to the fore all the knowledge of woodcraft the boys possessed. They must judge at a glance just how a deer would proceed while pushing through the forest, avoiding such dense thickets as promised to entangle his antlers, and at the same time seeking shelter from possible enemies. Suddenly Bob came to a stop, and whispered: "Look ahead to where that pawpaw jungle ends! Something moved there; and blest if I don't think it must be our game!" Even as he finished speaking, out of the screening hedge leaped a gallant buck, his head thrown back, and every muscle in his frame answering to his fear of human kind. It was a pretty sight, and one calculated to make the blood bound more quickly through the veins of a hunter; but neither of the boys delayed even one second in order to admire the scene. Their one thought was of the possibility of their eagerly anticipated supply of meat making off on its own rapidly flying hoofs. Sandy was a bit the quicker in firing, for, being nervous by nature, he knew how to aim more by instinct than by going through a set habit. Still, the two discharges seemed to roll into one; and, with their hearts in their mouths, the young marksmen looked to ascertain what the result of the shots might be. "Huzza! he is down!" almost shrieked Sandy, as the big buck made a tremendous bound into the air, and came crashing upon the snow-covered earth, where he tried in vain to regain his feet. "Stop! Remember what old Reuben told you always to do!" cautioned Bob, as he thrust himself in front of Sandy, already in the act of leaping forward. "I forgot," murmured the other, as with trembling hand he started to reload his gun, some of the powder from his horn slipping out of his shaking fingers as he attempted to pour it into the muzzle of the barrel. Then came a greased bullet in a patch of linen, being pushed down after the powder had been rammed good and hard. To prime the flint-lock gun was no great difficulty, though constant vigilance was needed in order to make sure that the priming, so essential to a discharge, be not shaken from the pan by accident. "Now let us go up," said Sandy, after both had reloaded. "He's kicking his last," remarked his brother, quietly, "and there is no fear of our losing him. I wonder now if I missed. You were, as usual, ahead of me in firing, Sandy. And I saw him quiver even before I pulled trigger, so I know you hit him." When they bent over the now motionless quarry it was found that there were _two_ bullet-holes in the deer. (Note 2.) "Yours is the one behind the shoulder, Sandy, and that killed him instantly. He could have run a mile or more with the wound through the body that I gave him. But never mind, we have had great luck, and mother will be pleased when we carry this meat home." Bob lost no time in bleeding the game. They were so far away from the cabin that it would be impossible to "tote" the deer there intact; so it was quickly determined to cut up the venison and select the choice portions. Both boys carried hunting knives, and they set to work without delay. As they labored they became so interested in what they were doing that neither seemed to pay any particular attention to the remarkable change that had come over the weather, until after a while Sandy started to complain that it was getting so dark he could hardly see how to work. Then an exclamation from his brother caused him to raise his head. What he saw was anything but reassuring. The snow was coming down between the trees in blinding sheets, driven before a cold wind, that seemed to be growing stronger with every passing minute. "No getting back to the cabin for us to-night, Sandy," declared the older one, with a shake of his head. "This promises to be as bad a storm as we've had all winter, and even at the shortest you know we'd have a five-hour tramp back home. So we must make the best of a bad bargain and camp here in the woods." "Well," remarked Sandy, whom no danger ever daunted, "anyhow, we've got plenty to eat, and can keep warm, unless both of us forgot to bring flint and steel along, which I know is not so, for here are mine in my pouch, and some dry tinder as well." By the time they had finished the task of cutting up the deer, and secured all the choice portions in the skin, the forest was swathed in a mantle of white; and, on the wind that screeched so noisily while hurrying past, came new armies of scurrying snowflakes that beat against the faces of the lads until they fairly stung with the pain. Evidently the young pioneers were in for an experience besides which all previous encounters with snow-storms would pale into utter insignificance. FOOTNOTES: [A] The notes will be found at the end of the book. CHAPTER II THE CABIN IN THE CLEARING DAVID ARMSTRONG, the father of the two young hunters, was descended from a fine old Scotch family. At the death of his father he inherited a considerable estate, but the loss of his parent made the thought of remaining in the old home too painful to him, and he decided to leave Scotland and seek a new home. He consequently sold everything he possessed and, with his young wife and little children, sailed for the new country beyond the sea, and settled at Richmond, where he engaged in the tobacco business. For some years he prospered, but trouble finally overtook him. A relative, whom he had taken into partnership, betrayed his confidence, with the result that one day David awoke to find that he had the experience, while this cousin possessed the money that had been invested. Even in those primitive days there were courts where those who believed they had been wronged could seek redress, and David would have failed to do credit to his Scotch ancestry had he not been a fighter. He believed he had a good case against this relative who had swindled him, and he tried to press the matter. But, somewhat discouraged by the constant delays, he made up his mind at last to leave for a point further west, and begin life anew under more humble conditions. He had come westward from the region around Richmond, and settled near a small town, where he secured employment at the tobacco warehouse of a certain Jason Diggett, the richest man in that region. He did his work faithfully as the days and months went by, seldom complaining, so long as he had his dearly beloved wife, and his three children to comfort him; yet never ceasing to hope that he would hear good news from Richmond, and receive his own again from the clever relative who had tricked him. He was anxious to do all he could for his three children, Kate, Robert and Alexander; and sent them regularly to the little schoolhouse, where they learned the rudiments of reading and figuring, which among many persons in those days were considered all the education required to carry one through life. The family spent some very happy years in the little cabin that stood in a clearing. The boys knew nearly every one in the town; and as they grew older began to show themselves capable of assisting in the task of supporting the family. Often they brought in game from the forest, and in the season their traps yielded them quite a little harvest in the pelts of otter, muskrat, mink, fox, badger and wildcat. Suddenly, like a bolt out of the blue sky, trouble swooped down upon the Armstrongs. David had some difficulty with his employer, and was discharged, since he was too proud to seek a reconciliation, when he fully believed himself to be in the right. Then, one night, the tobacco barn of Jason Diggett burned to the ground, entailing quite a loss. Suspicion alighted on David, simply because it was known that between the two men ill feelings existed. So David was arrested, and held in the town blockhouse for a whole week; but, there being no actual proof against him, he was allowed to go free. That had been more than a month before, and, ever since, most of the people who had once called themselves his friends had turned their heads aside when by chance they met. The odor of guilt clung to his skirts, for, even though the law had declared it had no evidence upon which to base conviction, people _believed_ he must be guilty, since some one had surely set fire to the barn, and who besides David had any grudge against Jason Diggett? Armstrong fretted greatly over the injustice of such action, and it took all the tact of his wife, Mary, to keep him from doing some rash act. "If this keeps up much longer, wife," he would say, after a fresh exhibition of coldness and aloofness on the part of those who had once called him friend, "we must leave here for good, and go further into the wilderness. It is useless for me to look further for work, since no one wishes to employ a _barn-burner_!" His loving wife would labor to cheer him up as only a loyal woman could. Possessed of a sunny disposition, trusting by nature, and above all imbued with a strong sense of God's goodness, Mary Armstrong refused to lose heart. "It will surely come out all right, husband," she would say, as her loving hands smoothed the frown away from his forehead; "we must have patience, and do our part. To-morrow, perhaps the day after; but in His good time it will all be well." And, although David had vowed he would not again seek work in that bitter community, when another day arrived, her sweet influence over him was so great that once more he would stalk forth, moodily, but with his spirit still uncrushed. It was a momentous time in the history of the colonies. For many months there had been heard mutterings of the storm that was later to break at Lexington and Bunker Hill. Already people were taking sides, even in the more distant settlements, and were either patriots or loyalists, according to the way they looked at things. But David Armstrong gave little thought to such matters, for his own troubles were so exceedingly weighty that he could think of little else. There was much talk of daring pioneers journeying still further into that wonderful country beyond the great mountains; and again and again did he brood over the possibilities that might await the forerunners of civilization there. Those who had made the trip, and returned, gave such glowing descriptions of the amazing fertility of the black soil, and the astounding number of game animals to be had for the mere shooting, that it was small wonder the harassed borderer's mind turned westward many times, and he was only waiting for some climax to arrive ere packing up and moving toward the land of the setting sun. On the very morning that the two boys started out on their memorable hunt for fresh venison, David had taken new courage, and once more ventured to look for work. "The very last time, wife, mark you," he had solemnly declared as he kissed her good-bye, and she knew that finally he had indeed reached the parting of the ways; for, if his quest was now in vain, he would never ask a favor of these town people again. During the month when David had been idle, and the one that followed his release from the blockhouse strong-room, it can be understood that things were at low ebb in the home of the Armstrongs. At no time had they been able to accumulate any amount ahead of their constant needs; so that very soon they hardly knew where to turn for money with which to purchase the few necessities of life. Robert and Sandy sold what few skins they had collected; then they busied themselves hunting, and trying to trap more animals; but the winter had been unusually severe, and trappers reported a scarcity of pelts. Recently even little Kate, just fourteen, had hired out to a neighboring family, as the daughters of the pioneers often did, without losing any of their self-respect, or standing. Mrs. Armstrong worked at her various tasks as the day advanced. Noon came and went, and the sky clouded up with evil portents of snow, for the air was raw and had all the ominous attributes which these woods-dwellers knew presaged a storm. Frequently she would step outside the humble log cabin to look around, and see whether either the boys or her husband could be coming. Then her troubled eyes would scan the bleak heavens, and note that already the first flakes of snow, forerunners of the mighty storm to come, were drifting along on the rising wind that was moaning through the sentinel oak at the back of the cabin. She wished the boys were safe at home, though she was so confident of their ability to take care of themselves, no matter under what difficulties, that she did not as yet once allow herself to fear actual danger to them. They had all their lives been accustomed to roaming the woods, and knew how to grapple with such emergencies as hunters may expect to meet. The afternoon had begun to decline, and the snow was coming down heavily, when David arrived home. Little need for his wife to look twice to understand what his dejected manner indicated. "It's no use, wife," he said, moodily, a frown on his strong face; "everything's working against me here, and I doubt if I have a single real friend in all the community. The poison has done its work, and there is no employment here for a man suspected of being a barn-burner. I've been turned away by a man I believed would take my word as quick as my bond. And I tell you I'm done. Never again will I demean myself asking favors on my knees, just because my family may be in need." And wise Mary Armstrong, realizing that the strong man had indeed gone to the limit of his strength, knew that there must come a change. It were folly to continue to beat one's head against the wall. Better find some way of less resistance, and allow the current to carry them on. "We have each other, David," she said, sturdily, as became a pioneer wife and mother; "and as long as health remains we must not complain. See, I give in entirely to you. Let us leave here at the very first chance, and in a new country try to secure contentment, even though we may not find happiness as long as this cloud hangs over your head. Cheer up! With three fine children, and a husband whom I respect and love, I am content. The darkest cloud has a silver lining. Wait, and hope!" "Then you consent that we shall emigrate to the land beyond the mountains, to the banks of that beautiful stream they call the Ohio, of which we have heard so much?" It had been a vague dream with David for some time, and the prospect of being able to carry it into actual execution in the near future began to arouse him; so that he threw off his moody spirits, and showed rising animation. "Yes, anything that you think wise," Mary went on calmly, though her heart was sore, "I am ready to undertake. But, of course, we could not think of starting until some caravan arrives here in the spring, headed that way. You were telling of one that was expected." "Yes," said David, eagerly, "the last time Pat O'Mara, the trapper, was here, he was speaking of that famous hunter, Daniel Boone, and how he had organized an expedition in Carolina that was to pass up along this way in the spring, headed for the mountain passes and the bank of the great Ohio. We must be ready to throw our poor fortunes in with them when they reach here. I only hope and pray that new friends may be more merciful than old ones." "I wish the boys were safe at home, for it promises to be a hard storm, from the looks of things," said the fond mother, anxiously. David's eyes sparkled with a look of pride in his offspring. "Fear nothing for those two lads. To Robert the secrets of the woods are as an open book; and I would trust them to even go over the great mountain trail alone. They have their guns, and will know how to protect themselves from the storm. In due time we shall see them again, Heaven willing." It was his turn now to comfort, a new role for David Armstrong; but he knew, better than did his wife, how those half-grown boys had become familiar with the perils of the wilderness, and understood how to meet them almost as well as the oldest and most experienced forest ranger. The day gradually came to a close, and when evening had drawn near, so that the kettle was singing over the flames, and supper cooking, Mary Armstrong went often to the door to peer out into the howling storm, as if still hoping that her brave boys would show up, like white ghosts, to join them at the humble and scanty repast. But presently the time came when she and her husband had to sit down to the board alone, for no cheery hail came out of the gloomy night; but even then the mother would not let David see how worried she felt. She insisted upon talking about the Promised Land beyond the mountain chain, and asked him scores of questions concerning it, so that he could not dream how her mother heart felt cold with new-born fears, and how her ears were ever attuned to the wild music of the raging storm, in which, _somewhere_, far away, she realized her two boys must be caught. Later grew the hour. David had brought in a goodly supply of firewood, for so long as they could wield an axe there was always a bountiful amount of this at their very door, to be had for the cutting. Then they prepared to retire for the night, the settler in a better humor than he had been exhibiting for weeks; for at last he began to see a way out of the terrible difficulty that had so long been confronting them. And while he slept, and dreamed of that wonderful land of plenty along the border of the Ohio River, Mary lay awake, her gentle heart filled with unspoken prayers concerning the safety of their boys. CHAPTER III CAUGHT IN THE SNOW-STORM "WHAT makes it so dark, Bob?" asked the younger brother, as they finished tying up the best part of the venison in the skin which had been removed from the deer. "Night is coming on ahead of time, and I reckon it will be one we'll not forget in a hurry, either," replied the other, calmly; for Robert seldom gave way to excitement, leaving that to Sandy. "Then the sooner we find some place for a camp the better," remarked the latter. "The wind keeps growing colder all the while, and it bites like a knife when it drives the hail against your face. Do you know, I think I heard a wolf howl a little while ago?" "That would hardly be surprising," was Bob's reply as he shouldered the meat wrapped up in the deerskin, leaving to his brother the two muskets and the small game. "It was only a few days ago that Amiel Teene had an adventure with the pests not ten miles away from his cabin." "Yes, and he said he had never seen them so savage," declared Sandy, glancing around at the snowy forest, as if in imagination he could already see a host of gaunt gray forms leaping toward them. "The winter has been unusually long and hard, and, as we happen to know, Sandy, game has been scarce. Perhaps it was so up in the mountains, and the animals have been pushed to venture nearer the settlements than at most times. This storm will make them even worse." "Then, if we should meet a pack to-night, the scent of this fresh meat would make them crazy to get at us," said Sandy, reflectively, as he fell in alongside his brother. "Yes, I can easily believe it," grunted the larger youth, who had quite a load on his back, and could afford just then to expend little of his wind in conversation. "And perhaps we might have to take to a tree, just as I did two years ago, waiting for dawn to drive the critters away; eh, Bob?" "Not on such a night as this, brother," remarked the one addressed. "You forget that it was not bitter cold weather when you met with your little experience. To-night, if we climbed into a tree, we might freeze to death before morning." "Then what can we do? I am sure I heard a far-off howl again just then; and perhaps those sharp-nosed rascals have already scented a dinner," and Sandy pushed a little closer to his companion, deeply stirred. It was no imaginary peril that hung over their heads. A single wolf might play the part of a coward, and shrink from mankind; but when gathered in a pack the beasts became an object of dread to every settler on the border. More than one man, in the history of Virginia, had been dragged down by starving wolves; and of all times of the year the end of a hard winter was the worst. "I had thought of that, Sandy," the elder brother went on; "and remembered that, just before we sighted the deer, I had seen a place that offered us a refuge. It is toward that point I am now trying to lead the way. Keep your eyes open for a fallen tree. I think we must be near the spot right now." "And there it is," announced Sandy, joyfully, as he pointed ahead. They were in fact right upon it, though the sifting, driving snow had, up to that moment, hidden from their eager eyes all signs of the wished-for goal. And when Sandy saw what a fortress was afforded them by the hole in the ground, where the roots of the tree had once grown, he was ready to throw up his cap and shout with satisfaction. At some time in the remote past a great wind storm had evidently uprooted this forest monarch; but, in falling, it had not quite lain flat, so that, twenty feet from the roots, one might even walk underneath the trunk. A great cavity had been torn in the earth, and, as it happened that the upturned roots and the trunk were toward the storm, the barrier would afford a fine shelter against its biting force. There, in the opening left by the uprooting of the great tree, they could make themselves fairly comfortable. Sandy even saw possibilities for fortifying themselves within the hole, so that they might defy an attack on the part of the fiercest pack of wolves that ever roamed through those woods. The boys immediately set to work with a vim. They had travelled many miles during the progress of the hunt, and it might reasonably be expected that both would be tired; but one would never dream of such a thing, judging from the vigor with which they hewed firewood, and proceeded to arrange their novel camp. Accustomed to roughing it from early childhood, Bob and his brother asked but little in order to find a reasonable degree of comfort. Given a fire and a warm bite to eat, they envied not a king his crown. And, if the bite were lacking, why, the fire was not to be sneezed at. In those early days boys knew nothing of luxuries. While Sandy labored with the heavy camp hatchet, the elder brother began to get the fire underway, for long practice had made him an expert with flint and steel. Some small sticks were heaped up in a loose manner, and a bit of dry tinder shoved under it; then, with several deft strokes of the steel, sparks were sent into its inflammable heart, and a tiny blaze sprang up, which was fostered until it had seized upon the larger wood. Things began to look much more comfortable to the young pioneers after that fire shed its ruddy glow upon their camp. And when Bob had sliced several fair portions of the fresh venison, and had thrust them near the fire on the ends of long splinters of wood, the odor that presently began to arise made Sandy sniff the air, and try to restrain his voracious appetite. They had nothing to drink with the meal. Tea was worth too much at that time for boys to carry any of the precious stuff off on their tramps; and as for coffee, it was an almost unknown beverage with the colonists. After all, as the famous Daniel Boone was often heard to declare, it was astonishing what few actual necessities primitive man must have in order to keep him in fighting trim. And Boone patterned his life after the redmen of that country beyond the mountain chain, of whom he probably knew more than any living border man of the day. "This is fine," observed Sandy, a little later. They were sitting close to the fire and devouring their roast venison with infinite gusto. No doubt the pampered boy of to-day might hardly have relished the rude fare; but these pioneer lads were made of different stuff, and thankful for exceedingly small things. "Yes," replied Bob quietly; "but we must get to work quickly, and add to the pile of firewood, as well as barricade the open side of the hole." "Did you hear it, too?" demanded his brother, instantly. "Yes, and more than one wolf answered the long howl. They are sending signals across the forest. I think we will have visitors before the night is over." Sandy hurried through the remainder of his primitive supper, almost bolting the last few morsels. Then he once more started to make good use of the sharp hatchet. While he worked after this fashion his brother began to search for objects with which to fill up the gap to leeward as much as possible. "Good!" Sandy presently heard him exclaim from the midst of the blinding snow close by. "Here lie several old logs. This way, and give me a hand. They will make a grand fort." It required considerable effort to drag the half-rotted logs into position; but where there is a will there is nearly always a way, and in the end the object of their desires was accomplished. "Could hardly be much better, I take it," was Sandy's enthusiastic comment, as he stood back and surveyed the result of their labors. "No, and I wager it would be a pretty rash wolf that would dare try to leap that barrier," remarked his brother, now taking a turn with the hatchet, as the size of the pile of fuel did not altogether please him, with a long night ahead and that bitter wind rushing through the woods. Finally both were too wearied to attempt anything more, so they sat down alongside the cheery blaze, to rest ere trying to sleep. One might think it rather a hazardous thing to lose themselves in slumber without any covering; but they knew many of the tricks of the pioneers of the day, and that, if they kept their feet warm, all would be well. Besides, both boys had been warmly clad when starting forth on their search for game, for they had an industrious mother, whose spinning-wheel seldom knew a day's rest. (Note 3.) It was decided that a watch must be kept, since they were surrounded by so many perils. If the fire went out they might have a foot or hand frozen, and the absence of the blaze must encourage the forest howlers to make an attack, eager to secure a share of that fresh venison. Bob had placed the meat, again wrapped up in the skin, as far back as possible under the matted roots of the fallen monarch of the forest. Both boys were grimly determined that they would fight desperately to retain possession of their prize, since that store of food meant much to the dear ones back at the humble cabin home. "What are you thinking about, Bob?" asked Sandy, as he watched the play of the fire across his brother's resolute face, and noted the expression, almost wistful, that came upon it at times. "It was about father," he replied, speaking the word tenderly, for David Armstrong had ever been a kind and affectionate parent, and was fairly worshipped by his little flock. "Yes, I knew that was it," said Sandy, quickly. "Oh! I do hope he has been successful in finding work to-day, for he declared it would be the last time he would try. What do you suppose we can do if he fails, Bob?" "There is only one thing," came the reply, with compressed lips; "we must leave here, and go further west. I know father is thinking seriously about it. The last time that jolly trapper, Pat O'Mara, was here, father questioned him often about the stories he had heard Colonel Boone tell of that wonderful country beyond the mountains, and the beautiful Ohio River." [Illustration: "DISCOVERED A HALF CIRCLE OF GLEAMING YELLOW EYES WATCHING HIM."] "I think I should like that," observed the impetuous Sandy, always eager to see new sights, and filled with the enthusiasm of a light-hearted boy. "If half they say about that country be true, it must be glorious. And the hunting and trapping we could do, Bob! Yes, I hope father decides to join fortunes with the first company of people passing through here." Bob said no more. He knew that the little mother would be sorry to break many ties; but also that she would utter no word to dissuade her husband, when the time came. And perhaps the more thoughtful Bob could also foresee better than Sandy what new perils might await the daring pilgrims who ventured into the hunting-grounds of the warlike Shawanee Indians. Presently he made Sandy lie down to snatch an hour's sleep, when he promised to awaken him so that he in turn might watch. This rule was carried out, and each of them had managed to secure quite a little sleep by the time the night was two-thirds passed. It was Sandy's turn on guard. The fire was burning briskly, the storm seemed to be slackening up somewhat, and everything looked so promising that the boy grew a trifle careless. He allowed himself to doze beside the fire, his musket between his knees. This was, after all, hardly to be wondered at, as any one knows who, being desperately in need of sleep, tries to withstand the soothing heat of a warm blaze. Perhaps Sandy may have been dreaming of boyish troubles with some of the young fellows of the town, once their warm friends, but just now commencing to ape their parents in turning the cold shoulder toward the Armstrong family. Be that as it may, Sandy awoke with a start. He found the fire had gone down so that only now and then a tongue of flame shot upward from the log that had been burning so fiercely the last thing he remembered. And, as some grinding sound caught his ear, he glanced up and discovered a half circle of gleaming yellow eyes watching him from over the top of the barricade! CHAPTER IV THE WOLF PACK "BOB! Wake up! The wolves!" The shout rang out above the noise of the still whining wind. Aroused from a sound sleep by the startling cry, Bob struggled to a sitting position. Fortunately, he was a boy not easily rattled. The sight of those gleaming eyes told him what had happened, and it was perhaps more through instinct than anything else that he immediately pushed his musket forward and let fly at the nearest pair. Sandy was not far behind, and the double report made a crash that seemed to produce a temporary panic among the gaunt callers. They hastily withdrew, though with many snarls and long-drawn howls. Both boys were now on their feet, ready to swing their guns by the barrels if necessary, and use them as a further means of defence. Seeing that their enemies had beaten a temporary retreat, Bob sprang to the fire, and, kicking the partly burned log with his foot, stirred the flame into new life. "Throw on some small wood, Sandy!" he called, as he bent over the barricade to ascertain whether their lead had been wasted, or found its mark. "Did we get anything?" demanded the younger boy, understanding the object of Robert's survey, and being possessed of the frontier hunter's instinct, which looked upon the loss of a charge of powder and shot as next door to a sin. "One is lying here, and from the snarling over yonder I take it they are tearing the wounded fellow to pieces," replied the older boy, as he proceeded to reload his musket. "Well, I want that skin the worst way," ventured Sandy; "and if we leave the beggar outside the fort they will spoil it. So keep a watch while I climb over and drag the wolf inside." "Be careful," warned Bob, who knew his brother's rash inclinations only too well. He stood ready, with both guns within reach, so that, if at any time Sandy seemed to be in peril, he could pour in a hot fire that must frighten the four-footed enemy away again. But Sandy, himself, knew better than to take too much risk. No sooner had he seized hold of the dead animal than he started to move backward toward the logs that had been piled up to form a rampart. "Hurry!" cried the voice of the one on guard. "They are coming with a rush, and from three quarters! Leave the hide to them, and save yourself, brother!" But Sandy was an obstinate lad. He had made up his mind to possess the skin of the dead wolf, and did not want to relinquish it to the tender mercies of the pack. Having dragged it close to the logs, he exerted himself to the utmost to give the weighty animal a toss that would accomplish his purpose. Nevertheless, but for the prompt assistance of Bob, who clutched the beast and dragged it over, Sandy must have failed in his endeavor. "Quick! Climb up! They are here!" he heard shrilled in his ear. In his hurry his foot slipped and he fell backward to the ground. Just above him there burst out a flash, and a heavy report instantly followed. Sandy knew what it meant, and that his faithful brother was firing at the advancing pack in order to stop their rush. He struggled to his feet, and commenced once more to clamber up the rude fortification, at the same time shouting at the top of his voice. This was done with a purpose, for he understood full well that, like most cowardly animals, wolves greatly fear the voice of man. Bob, too, was exerting himself to the utmost. Again came that tremendous crash, as the second musket was discharged close to Sandy's ear. Then an eager hand laid hold of him, and he felt himself dragged over the topmost log! Both boys were panting for breath, but, thrusting one gun into Sandy's hands, Bob started to hastily reload the other. They could hear their enemies not ten feet away, snarling and snapping terribly. It needed no explanation to tell Sandy what was going on out there in the snow; for he knew that wolves are cannibals if pressed with hunger. "It was a pretty close shave, Bob!" he exclaimed, after he had rammed a bullet home in his gun, and fixed the priming in the pan. "And a foolhardy act," returned the other, gravely. "If you had missed your footing a second time you would have been pulled down in spite of all I could do, and that would have been the end of us." Sandy felt abashed. He knew perfectly well that he had been guilty of a reckless feat that might have cost both of them their lives; for without doubt Bob would have leaped over the barrier to his assistance, and shared his sad fate. Perhaps thoughts of the dear ones at home, who would have mourned them so grievously, may have caused the boy to resolve upon a wiser course the next time he found himself tempted to take hazardous chances. They stood on guard, and waited to see what their enemies would do when they had finished their meal. "I hope they will go away, and leave us alone," said Sandy, uneasily. "That would be almost too good to be true," remarked Bob, who knew more about the habits of animals than his brother. "Instead, I fear that the taste of food they have had will only make them more savage." "Look! they are beginning to creep closer again!" exclaimed Sandy, a minute later, with a feeling of renewed uneasiness. "Then we had better begin to shoot again, and make every bullet count. Let me start the ball rolling, boy," said Bob, as he picked out a dark form advancing slowly over the white snow. Resting his musket across the upper log, he took a careful aim and fired. With the report a series of howls burst forth, and many forms were seen dashing this way and that. Some fled, only to come back again when they scented a new feast, and in another minute the wolf that had fallen before the gun of the young pioneer was affording his mates an additional scrap of dinner. "Now, wait until I have reloaded, and then you do as well," remarked the calm Bob, who had learned many valuable lessons from older hunters; and he knew how dangerous it would be for them to be caught with empty guns, should their foes attempt to rush the shelter in a body. Sandy, nothing loth, picked out his victim, and when his brother gave the word he pressed the trigger with more or less delight. "That is one the less, I reckon," he remarked, as he quickly dropped the butt of the musket on the frozen ground, and commenced to handle his powder horn, to measure out sufficient of the precious black grains for another charge. "But I fear that for every beast we drop two new ones come out of the woods," said Bob, believing that they should understand the worst, and not deceive themselves with false hopes. Sandy was for keeping up the fusillade, but his wiser brother had already recognized the folly of wasting their scanty ammunition so hastily. "How many more bullets have you in your pouch?" he asked, quietly. "Just three," replied the other, his enthusiasm checked. "And I have only four," Bob went on; "so you see at the most we can only account for seven of the beasts. After that it would be hand to hand. We must hold off as long as we can, reserving our ammunition for a desperate extremity." "How long will it be before dawn comes?" asked Sandy, anxiously. Of watches or clocks the pioneers had none; but most boys knew how to tell time from the stars, or from mere instinct; just as one accustomed to arousing at a certain hour realizes that the time has come, although all may be darkness about him. Bob scanned the dull heavens through the branches of the trees. And as it happened there came a little break in the clouds just then, through which he caught a glimpse of the moon. "I think that it will only be an hour now before daylight comes," he said with a sense of satisfaction in his voice; "and, besides, the storm is at an end, for there the moon shows through the clouds." "But the wolves are creeping closer all the time," declared Sandy, as he looked over the barrier. "Just see, there must be an awful heap of the critters, Bob. Do you think they will try to climb over here?" "It may be," replied the other, "but so long as we can wield our guns they shall not get a footing inside our fort. Shoot only as a last resort. And if the very worst comes--" "Yes, what then, Bob?" "Try to climb up to the topmost root above. Perhaps we might manage to hold out until daylight frightens them away. But here they come, Sandy!" In another minute the two boys were striking at the heads of such daring animals as ventured to show above the top of the low rampart. The heavy muskets were fair weapons of offence for such work; though more than once Bob warned his impulsive brother to be careful, lest he strike a log and break his gun, which would be a serious catastrophe, indeed. Their quarters were so confined that it was only with considerable difficulty they managed to strike fairly. But many a venturesome wolf was knocked back when those rising and falling muskets came in contact with his hairy head, and, amidst the savage howls that arose without the barricade, snarls of pain might have been distinguished. At times the work slackened somewhat, allowing the panting boys a chance to catch their breath, but only to go at it again with renewed energy. How the long minutes dragged by, with all this tremendous excitement stirring their blood to fever heat! Sandy cast many a despairing look up at the moon, now plainly seen in the clearing heavens, as though he fancied that it must be remaining stationary, and the night becoming interminable. Would morning never come? Must they carry on this bitter struggle only to be overwhelmed by superior numbers in the end? Three times now one of them had found it necessary to fire, when things seemed to have reached a state approaching desperation. "Courage!" shouted Bob, as he brought his gunstock down on the head of a hungry wolf. "Look to the east, boy! The dawn has come at last!" It was even so, and, thrilled with renewed hope, Sandy was enabled to keep up the good fight until by degrees the wolves began to sneak away, until finally the last of the savage horde had gone. Would they ever forget that stirring night? Sandy believed nothing could exceed the excitement through which they had just passed; but, perhaps, if they migrated to that mysterious country beyond the great chain of mountains, there amid new scenes he might find an opportunity to change his mind. Over the fire they cooked another meal of the fine venison which they had saved from the half-starved wolves. "And now to head for home!" cried Sandy, as he took up the pack to show that he wished to do his share of the burden-carrying. Forgotten were the aches of the night in the thought of once more rejoining those so dear to them about the family hearth, where the fire blazed in the wide-throated chimney, and the brass kettle bubbled on the hob. They had been tramping for half an hour, steadily onward, when Bob called a halt, declaring that it was high time Sandy turned the bundle of meat over to him. This the other was really not at all loth to do, for he had been staggering of late through the deep snow, as his burden began to tell on him. Still, not for worlds would the proud boy have confessed that he was actually tired. Bob fashioned the hitch a little better, so that it would rest easier across his shoulder. He had just leaned forward, intending to give the bundle a sudden hoist, when he stopped in the act. From some point not a great way off there came the sudden report of, not a musket with its heavy boom, but a hunter's clear-toned rifle. And accompanying the sound they caught a loud voice raised in an excited shout, as though some one was striving against difficulties that threatened to overcome him. CHAPTER V WHEN KATE CAME HOME "SOME one is in trouble, Bob!" cried the younger Armstrong boy, as these sounds came floating to their ears. "Yes, and a white man, too," said Bob, as he tossed the bundle of venison up into the crotch of a big oak tree close at hand. "We must see if we can help him." Sandy was nothing loth. He knew full well that the unwritten law of the woods compelled every man to extend assistance when he met with one in need, and from the nature of the racket they could imagine that something quite out of the ordinary must be taking place. The two lads set off on a run, eager to reach the spot as quickly as possible. True, they were rather short of ammunition just then, but so long as a single load remained to their guns they were ready to use it in behalf of any one in distress. "Listen, brother," said Sandy, when they had covered some little distance; "surely we have heard that voice before." [Illustration: "KICKING FURIOUSLY AT A LEAN BLACK BEAR, JUST BELOW HIM."] "Yes," returned Bob, with a little laugh, "it is our old friend, Pat O'Mara, without a doubt; but what can he have stumbled into now? Pat is always looking for a 'ruction,' as he calls it, and generally finding what he wants." "Perhaps the wolves, after leaving us, may have treed him," suggested Sandy, with something like a broad grin appearing on his freckled face. But the other shook his head in the negative. He seldom jumped at conclusions as did Sandy, and usually weighed his words before speaking. "Hardly that, boy," he observed; "we would have heard their howls before this. And besides, we have good reason to know that wolves are arrant cowards in the daytime." "Well, let us run on again, for evidently Pat is in need of help. This may pay him back for dragging me out of that quicksand last summer, when I thought my last hour had arrived," and Sandy once more started on a trot in the direction of the spot whence the shouts arose. Soon another sound mingled with the cries of the Irish trapper. "It must be a bear!" said Sandy over his shoulder, as he ran. Bob was of the same opinion, for the ferocious growls that came down the breeze could surely have been produced by no other among the woods creatures. Then they burst through a thicket, and suddenly came in sight of a spectacle so remarkable that both boys stood still to gape and grin. A rather stout man was sitting up in the wreck of an old tree, kicking furiously at a lean black bear, just below him, that was striking with his claws in the endeavor to fasten upon the legging of the other's foot. While he thus kicked, the man in fringed buckskin was constantly talking, often giving vent to a shout of joy when his foot chanced to land against the head of his hairy enemy. On the ground lay a rifle; but the bear did not seem to be seriously wounded in any way, which fact puzzled the boys not a little, because Pat O'Mara had the reputation of being a marvellous shot, and they remembered having heard the report of the gun a short time back. When he saw the new arrivals, the trapper let out a cheer that told of solid satisfaction. And indeed, to tell the truth, his situation was anything but pleasant, and the end uncertain, with that wicked old bear determined to get him by fair means or foul. "Haroo!" shouted the trapper, waving his coonskin cap vigorously above his red head; "sure yees are the byes to hilp me out av throuble, so ye be! Alriddy he scents me frinds, and is backin' down out av the three. Just take up alongside the fut av the same, and put a flea in his ear before he can turn to do yees any harrm. Haroo! Make a clane job av the same, remimber. An' wan at a time, av ye plaze!" "You take him first, Sandy," said Bob, with his usual thoughtfulness, always willing that his brother should carry off the honors when there was a choice. He stood alongside, and held his musket in readiness, so that in case the first leaden missile failed to finish old Bruin he might join in the affair. The bear, while still angry, was evidently considerably concerned over the coming of reinforcements. Sandy knew how to do the part of the business that had been entrusted to him. "Stiddy, lad, stiddy!" warned the trapper, already following the bear down the tree. "Make a sure job av it now; and don't spile the pelt!" Bang! went the heavy charge which was in Sandy's flint-lock musket. The bear immediately fell in a heap on the ground. Bob stood there, ready to add the finishing touch if absolutely necessary; but among hunters it is always understood that there shall be no interference at such times unless positively needed; and the game had been placed in Sandy's hands. And in this case there was no need, for the bear, after making a desperate attempt to struggle to his feet, dropped, and lay still; whereupon Sandy and the good-natured Irish trapper united in a cheer that made the woods ring again and again. "Afther all, it is Sandy's pelt, and it's glad I am he had the good sinse to sind his bullet back av the forelig instid av liftin' the baste's hid," declared the man who had been rescued from the tree. "But how comes it that we found you in such a queer scrape, Pat?" asked Bob, with a twinkle in his eye; for he knew very well something must have gone amiss, or the usually clever woodsman would not have found himself in so sore a strait. "Arrah! it's ashamed I am to till yees, me byes; but sure thot was a time Patsy found himself up the wrong tree," admitted the other, who was so good-natured that he could even laugh at a joke on himself. "And not much of a tree at that, I should say," remarked Sandy dryly, as he surveyed the stump which had been the scene of the trapper's adventure. "Seems to me, Pat, that if I wanted to climb a tree, and fight it out with a bear, I would pick a bigger one than this rotten old thing." "Oh! ye wud, eh? Phat if the bear was so clost till yer heels that ye had to shin up anything at all?" objected Pat, with a comical grin. "Well, in that case no one could blame you," returned Bob. "Tell us how it came you failed to kill the beast when you fired." "Sure, and ye are mistaken, Bob; niver a shot did I take at the ould beggar," said the other, positively. The boys looked at each other. "But surely we heard a shot," observed Sandy. "Yis, but thot was the bear shootin', I give ye my word," the man in buckskin avowed. "Do you mean to tell us that the bear fired your gun at you?" questioned Sandy, who knew the joking propensity of the jolly Irish trapper. "Whirra! now, who said he fired _at_ me? Afther chasing me up here the ugly ould baste took a notion to scratch at me gun down on the ground; and as by bad luck the hammer was back, bedad if he didn't manage somehow to pull the trigger. Sure, if ye look here, yees can see the hole the bullet made in the butt av the tree!" At this frank declaration on the part of the trapper Sandy was unable to keep a straight face any longer, but broke out into a roar. Nor was Pat long in joining him, seeming to think it a fine joke. "But afther all it was the bear that hild the small ind av the sthick," the hero of the adventure remarked as, with knife in hand, he started to remove the heavy skin of the victim. Sandy tramped back to secure the venison from the crotch in the oak, while Bob aided the trapper. Pat was a roving blade. He loved the wide expanse of wilderness, and had made several long trips into the west, though as yet never as far as Colonel Boone and his party had gone. He had always been a good friend of the Armstrongs, and was particularly fond of the two brothers. After about an hour's delay the boys, accompanied by O'Mara, made a start for the cabin in the clearing, each one well loaded with packages of meat. The bear had not been in very good condition, having hibernated all winter, and lived upon his fat; but still the experienced trapper knew just what portions to carry along, such as would afford good stews to the hungry Armstrongs. It was just noon when they came in sight of the cabin. Of course it was the anxious mother who sighted the boys first, as she stood within the open doorway, shading her eyes with her hand so as to shut out the glare of the sun on the snow. Soon the newcomers were sitting in front of the big blaze in the yawning fireplace, where a pot bubbled and gave out appetizing odors, telling the story of their adventures; while David, the look of concern gone for the time being from his face, undid the packages of supplies that had been secured. Indeed it was a happy little party that sat around the plain deal table. What mattered it that the chairs were home-made, that Sandy even had to utilize a three-legged stool; that instead of boards the cabin had only a hard earthen floor; while there was an utter absence of anything beyond the absolute necessities of existence, as lived in those primitive times? (Note 4.) Love dwelt there, and smoothed all the rough edges. Looking into the proud and apparently happy face of the little mother the two boys were pleased to think fortune had been so very kind, and allowed them to bring home such a goodly supply of meat; for the larder was almost bare. Pat was always the life of any party. When he chose to exert himself things went on with a whirl, and there was much merriment. If Mr. Armstrong meant to ask his advice about the plans he was forming connected with their emigration to the new country beyond the horizon in the west, he held his peace just then, not wishing to arouse the boys as yet; for he knew Sandy's impetuous ways, and how the facts must soon become public property once he learned them. The thing that worried David Armstrong most was his uncertainty as to where he could secure money enough to fit out for the long journey. They really needed at least two horses, upon which the bedding and extra clothing, as well as cooking utensils, could be loaded; for no one would think of carrying anything else over such an unknown road, hundreds of miles into the untrodden wilderness, where most of the travelling must be done over the winding buffalo trails. However, he had a plan, thanks to a suggestion on the part of his thoughtful wife, and with the assistance of Pat O'Mara he fancied he could secure what he wished so earnestly, a loan from a man he had once befriended, and who was now well-to-do. They had just finished their meal when Sandy discovered something through the little window near which he happened to be sitting. "Why, would you believe it, mother, here comes sister Kate!" he exclaimed. All of them made a start to leave the table; and then, influenced perhaps by some hidden fear, they turned to exchange glances. Could anything have happened that the girl was coming home at this unusual hour; for the cabin where she had been employed was half a mile away? The door opened to admit a pretty little girl with flaxen curls, just now sadly awry; and the eye of Mrs. Armstrong saw instantly that Kate had certainly been indulging in a good cry, something she was seldom guilty of doing, being possessed of a sunny disposition very like her mother's, though perhaps she had also a dash of her father's peppery nature. At sight of the family Kate was unable to restrain her feelings any longer, for again the tears began to flow down her rosy cheeks. "Why, Kate, my child, what has happened? Why are you here, when your duty is at the Hodgkins?" asked Mrs. Armstrong, hastening to throw a reassuring arm around the shoulders of the slight figure that was shaking with emotion. The girl looked up, the tears shining in her blue eyes. There was also a flash of temper to be seen there, and evidently Kate had been recently aroused to a point where she could stand things no longer. "I am done with the Hodgkins," she cried, stamping her little foot on the clay floor; "I will never go back there again! I hate them, every one! Oh! it was so mean, so cowardly to say that!" Mrs. Armstrong turned pale, and her husband said something under his breath, as they exchanged uneasy glances. "Tell us, what did they dare say to you?" demanded Sandy, gritting his teeth. "They mocked me, and said my father was a barn-burner!" sobbed the girl, bitterly. CHAPTER VI THE DIE IS CAST "SAY it again, child!" roared the head of the little family, as he jumped to his feet, his strong features working. "David, be careful; let me mother the girl a bit, until she gets over her cry!" said Mrs. Armstrong; and as usual her soothing voice gained the mastery over the temper of the impulsive man. Bob and Sandy exchanged looks. Already smarting under the injustice of many who had called themselves friends in times past, this new indignity aroused all the Scotch combativeness in their natures. Instinctively they clenched their fists, and drew together, as though by mutual sympathy. The same thought had flashed into each mind--that _something_ must be done to check this rising tide before it utterly overwhelmed the Armstrong family. The mother saw that look, and in her heart understood. Proud she might be of the love that influenced her boys; still there was something higher than loyalty by which she must be governed, and this was duty. She managed to draw the whole sad story from the girl, amid several little tear-storms. Then she soothed and quieted Kate, who in the shelter of that motherly breast found comfort and presently dried her tears. The Irish trapper was a witness of this little excitement. He frowned, too, for his nature was impulsive, and he keenly sympathized with his friends. But at the same time more than once a ghost of a smile would chase across his jovial face. Evidently Pat O'Mara was thinking of the plans which he had been forming, and by means of which he hoped to influence the Armstrongs to leave this hateful community, where their worth was not appreciated. A short time later Bob gave Sandy a sly dig in the ribs, and made a quick motion with his head. Apparently the younger brother understood what was meant, for soon afterwards, when he thought he was unobserved, he slipped out of the cabin. Just as he expected, he found Bob awaiting him under the trees where bubbled up the spring which, winter and summer, supplied them with the clearest of water. And Bob was evidently in a mighty serious frame of mind, even for him. His face looked gloomy and forbidding, while he continually gnawed his upper lip, after a fashion he had when deeply aroused. Sandy recognized the signs. He had seen them on several occasions before. Once a settlement bully--for they had them in those early days just the same as now--was engaged in the, to him, delightful task of abusing a lad much smaller than himself, when the Armstrongs came upon the scene. The bully had a crony at hand, just as big as himself, and snapped his fingers at Bob when the other asked him to desist. Then it was that Sandy had seen his brother's face assume the same expression that it carried now. Unable to stand the sight of such cowardly practices, Bob had attacked the fellow, and, spurred on by the righteousness of his cause, succeeded in giving him the beating he so richly deserved, while Sandy and the abused boy took care of the bully's friend. There were other cases of a similar character, too, and Sandy would never forget a single one of them. To him his brother Bob was the embodiment of all that was noble in a boy. "There is no other way, Sandy," said the older one, shaking his head, as though he had a disagreeable duty to perform, which could not be evaded. "You are right," declared Sandy, hotly. "I know, and you know, who is to blame for those children saying such things. Did not we hear their father, Abner Hodgkins, say almost the same thing just three days ago, when we passed him at the door of the alehouse?" "Yes," said Bob, between his teeth, "and how red he turned when he knew that we must have heard him. And he is the man our father once helped when he was sorely distressed! This insult can only be wiped out in one way." "In only one way, brother," breathed Sandy. "And since mother has brought father to her way of thinking, it falls on us to give Abner Hodgkins his lesson," went on Bob, his eyes taking on a steely glitter at thought of the many ill turns that had of late been showered on their heads. "But we must not let mother know," ventured the younger brother. "Surely not. Mother would never consent. In her eyes only the last necessity excuses fighting. After it is all over she will forgive us," said Bob, his voice unconsciously becoming very tender. "Perhaps they will have some care how they let their wicked tongues wag after they hear what has happened to one tattler," went on Sandy. "Then you are with me?" asked the elder brother, eagerly. "The sooner the better!" cried Sandy, impulsive as usual; "let us go now, and strike while the iron is hot!" "Agreed. For Kate said he had arrived home just as she left, for he called out after her to know where she was going. I am ready, Sandy!" The fact that the man under discussion was one of the most muscular in all that border community did not seem to worry the two boys at all, for they were fairly burning with a desire to avenge the constant insults cast upon their loved ones. Grasping the arm of Sandy, Bob turned around to hurry away ere any one could see them, and, guessing their mission, bring it to a halt. Then he caught his breath, and his pale face took on the color of confusion. For he found himself confronted by his mother, the very last person in all the world whom he would have wished to see under such conditions. While listening to Kate's pitiful story she had observed the signal that passed between them. Understanding her boys, she knew what thoughts must be passing through their heated brains. And when they slipped away, unobserved as they believed, that fond heart had lost no time in following. "I hope, my sons," she said sweetly, as she placed a hand on an arm of each, "that you are not thinking of doing aught that would only add to our troubles. Heaven knows that we have enough to bear now. Two wrongs, you know, never yet made a right. We must bear our cross, knowing that in good season this bitter cloud will pass away. Promise me that you will neither of you seek Abner Hodgkins, nor have one word to say to him should you meet!" The two confused boys looked at each other rather whimsically. They knew they could refuse their mother nothing. And perhaps, too, at that moment they realized the utter folly of the course they had mapped out. So they promised, and, with an arm about the waist of each, she accompanied them back to the cabin. The balance of that day passed slowly. Every one was uneasy save possibly Pat O'Mara, whose jolly disposition could never be cast down. And that evening, after supper, as they gathered around the blazing fire, he exerted himself as never before to sway the minds of these good friends. The boys sat there on the bench that stood against the wall, and listened with wide-open ears when by degrees the trapper came around to the entrancing subject of that magical country whose beauties he seemed never to tire of telling. David Armstrong and his wife harkened also, but said little, leaving it to Bob and his brother to ask questions. It was a cozy picture. The flames darted up the wide-throated chimney and took the place of the customary candle in lighting the room, glancing from the walls, where the chinks between the roughly hewn logs had been filled with hardened clay, and then whitewashed. Herbs hung from the rafters overhead. High up alongside the chimney several packages of the dried venison Sandy disliked so much had their places. The shiny brass kettle, an heirloom in the family, stood upon the hob near the flames, and occasionally sang a low accompaniment to the trapper's enticing tales. Would the new country offer them as comfortable a home as this? After all, so long as the mother were spared, it must ever be her deft hand that made home what it was; and no matter whether here in Virginia, or far off on the banks of the storied Ohio, it would be the same. "But how about the Indians, Pat?" asked Sandy finally. "You have told us little of the red men. Are they disposed to be friendly; or would we have to fight whenever we ran across them?" "That is the only darrk spot to the picture, me byes," returned the trapper, with a sigh. "Sorry am I to say the same, but the rid divels are all for makin' throuble. But 'tis numbers that may hould thim in check. Troth, if enough whites iver r'ach the shore of that enchantin' river, they kin bid the Injuns defiance. In union there is strength, ye know, Sandy, bye. 'Tis thim same rid divils that gives me pain in me hearrt." To the boys, however, this was not so serious a drawback. In common with most young fellows of the day they had a contempt for the valor of the native sons of the forest. It was not so with the gentle mother; and her eyes involuntarily sought those of her husband, while she shivered at the thought of the loneliness that must encompass pilgrims who emigrated beyond the mountain chain, losing themselves in the untracked wilderness. But David was himself rapidly coming around. It is human nature not to compare the ills we know not of with those visible ones by which we find ourselves confronted on every hand. And when Mary saw the way in which his face was set, she knew, just as well as if he had spoken, that the die was cast. They would go into the wilderness, and hew out a new home _somewhere_. The sturdy spirit of the early pioneers had been fully awakened, and the call of the west could no longer be ignored. Destiny was pushing them on. CHAPTER VII INTO THE UNKNOWN LAND DURING the following two days peace reigned around the humble home of the Armstrongs; but this was partly because no one went into the town again save the father, who came home on the second afternoon leading two horses, at sight of which the boys could hardly repress their shouts of satisfaction. This told them that the die was indeed cast, for little need they would have of horses, save as beasts of burden in case of migration. Wagons could not be used, so O'Mara had declared, because much of the long journey must be accomplished along those winding buffalo trails that traversed the forest, for of roads there were absolutely none. It was at this time there arose a necessity for some supplies, and the brothers were told to go into town to obtain the same. Apparently David had succeeded in securing the funds he so badly needed, showing that one staunch friend must have stood by him. The mother looked wistfully after her boys when they hurried away, filled with new enthusiasm because of the nearness of the time when they would depart from the scene of all their woes. "I do hope they will restrain themselves, and not get into any trouble," she said to her husband, who was busily engaged with the horses, a new feature in their experience, and one that gave them much concern. David smiled back, for it seemed to be his turn to comfort. "Have no fear of the lads, wife," he said heartily. "They are good boys, and true, of whom we can well be proud. Sandy is o'er impulsive, it is true; but Robert possesses the balance. We have need to be thankful to Providence that we possess two such sons when about to start upon such a hazardous journey as this." An hour or so later Pat O'Mara saw the brothers returning. They carried several packages, which constituted their purchases of necessities, simple though these were. But the sharp eyes of the trapper saw something more which they were carrying. Several scratches marked their faces, and Sandy's left optic seemed to be in a degree of mourning, all of which told the astute Irish trapper that there must have been a fracas of some sort. He knew well those signs; and it was with difficulty he managed to conceal the grin that forced itself upon his genial face. Of course there could be no concealing these evident marks of battle. Nor did the boys attempt to do so. "You have been in trouble, son," said the mother, as she took the package from Sandy, and looked upon the cuts and scratches on his cheek. It was Bob of course who showed signs of contrition; Sandy, on the other hand, threw his head back, as though proud of his scars. To him every one stood for an honor mark. "I could not help it, mother dear," he said. "They taunted me, three of them, and began to strike me. Then Bob came, and it was better, though still uneven. But we were furious, and would not give in; would we, Bob?" "Who could have been so cowardly and cruel?" asked Mary, as she hurried to get warm water in a basin, so that the wounds might be properly bathed, and some homemade liniment put upon them. "Who but that same bully, Armand Whalen," Sandy went on, eagerly. "Once before, Bob whipped him until he cried for mercy, and he has never forgiven us. But never mind, mother; we gave the cowards all they deserved. They look much worse than we do; and besides, they ran away in the end. These little cuts are nothing to us. Surely we have had others many times worse." "Indeed, I am sorry to have displeased you, mother," said Bob; "but they were all picking on Sandy, and my blood fairly boiled. Had there been twice as many it could have made no difference. At any rate, they will often think of us when we are gone, which is a satisfaction." At which naive remark the mother found herself compelled to smile. She could not be provoked with the boys. And besides, she knew very well what affronts they had continually suffered. Again she found her eyes drawn irresistibly toward those of her husband. Upon his face was a set look, as though his mind had been made up now beyond recall. "It is the last straw," he said, bitterly; "and the end cannot come any too soon now to please me. I shall be glad when we have wiped the dirt of this place from our shoes. Boys, you did what any manly lad would find himself compelled to do. I am not blaming you one bit. But after this you must remain at home." "But father, there is news," said Bob, as he suddenly remembered. "They are coming here then, those brave souls from Carolina, who head toward the setting sun?" asked David, showing the eagerness that possessed his soul. "Yes," returned the boy; "a messenger has arrived in town from the head man in charge of the expedition, warning all who mean to accompany them that they will arrive in three days, and only stop twenty-four hours. This is the last settlement. When they leave here, it will be to enter the wilderness." "Glory be!" exclaimed the trapper, upon hearing this. "Then we will soon be on our way, with all our troubles behind." The good wife sighed. She did not anticipate such glorious things as beckoned the others on. Perhaps she had forebodings in her gentle heart that the new perils all pioneers must face might prove even more formidable than those they were leaving behind; and that perchance one of her loved ones might find an early grave in that new land, a victim to the treachery of the red men. But not for worlds would she utter one discouraging word. There seemed no other course open to them; and the women of that day were every one of them heroines, capable of enduring untold suffering in the search of a place they could call home. Two days afterwards, as promised, the emigrants made their appearance. David had gone out to meet them on one of the horses. "Fetch them here to camp beside our spring," his wife had told him; "for we may be the only family meaning to join our fortunes with theirs." And sure enough, they camped near the cabin in the clearing, a round three dozen in all, including some five more or less sturdy boys with whom Bob and Sandy fraternized at once. Then began a period of bustle, as the last preparations were undertaken by the Armstrongs. Some of their things they gave in charge of the one faithful neighbor who had remained true to them through good and evil report. Perhaps at some day an opportunity might arise whereby these precious, if bulky, heirlooms in the way of furniture could be brought out to their new home. Just now such a thing was not to be considered for a moment. And then the last morning broke. The brothers were brimming over with excitement, nor did they feel any particular pain over quitting the place they had for so long called home. It had ceased to have attraction for them since this shadow had fallen; and they believed they would be happy to leave it forever. David Armstrong, too, managed to conceal what feeling he may have had. But with the little mother it was different. That humble log cabin meant much to her, for inside those stout walls she had spent several fairly happy years; but she put these sad thoughts away with a resolute hand whenever David was near. They would do to dream over when utterly alone, perhaps in the dark watches of the night, in a new country, and amid strangers. All was bustle and confusion. A few of the town people had come out to see the start of the expedition, and many were the remarks that were made concerning the possibilities that awaited the daring travellers. In this hour of parting some of the neighbors, possibly overcome by contrition, tried to make amends for their recent cruel conduct, but David ignored all signs of friendly handshakes, and would have none of them. The iron had eaten too deeply into his soul. The pack train of horses looked quite formidable when lined up for the start. "Twelve of them in all!" Sandy sang out, as he stood ready to urge his animal on when the leader gave the order to start. A hardy gathering of valiant souls the emigrants looked just then. Fortune beckoned to them, and all seemed delightful. If they could only have looked ahead a few months, and seen the terrible dangers that lay in wait, doubtless many a smile would have faded from the faces that now looked so cheerful. "Hurrah!" shouted the boys, when finally the word passed along the line, and those in the lead began to move. But there were no cheers. Those grave-faced men realized only too well that in thus putting their fortunes to the touch, by venturing into that unknown world of which so much had been told, they were carrying not only their own lives, but also those dear to them, in the hollow of their hands. The caravan moved away amid the sound of many voices, as the boys urged their pack steeds along. Never once did Sandy glance back toward the home he was leaving; he seemed given up entirely to the witchery of the adventure. But one pair of eyes turned for a last wistful look at the familiar log cabin, with the grand old oak hovering above its humble roof, that had sheltered her little brood so faithfully these years. And then a turn in the trail shut out the view. Mary Armstrong heaved a sigh, and then resolutely strove to think only of what might be in store for them in the new world to which they were journeying. CHAPTER VIII THE PERILS OF THE WILDERNESS "DID you see that, Bob?" Sandy clutched his brother by the arm as he whispered these words, and both of them sank back lower behind the fringe of bushes. Some weeks had gone by since they had left the old home. By slow degrees the mountains had been surmounted, and they were now nearing the region of the Ohio, on the banks of which the settlers hoped to find homes. There were eleven men in the party, with seven women, and a round dozen children of varying ages. Day by day the party of settlers had plodded onward, with their faces ever toward the west. Often they saw the prowling panther near the camp; and it was a common thing to have a deer or a buffalo spring up in advance of the caravan, to go bounding or lumbering away, startled by this first glimpse of white men. As there was no road it had been utterly impossible to make use of such clumsy vehicles as the early settlers knew. Upon the backs of the horses was piled all their possessions; and besides, frequently the women and children had to be added to the loads. The settlers considered themselves fortunate in having with them a man who had gone over this trail before. Pat O'Mara kept at the head of the column throughout each long day. Many times they had to make detours in order to overcome obstacles in the way that could not be directly overcome. Sometimes these took the form of deep ravines, the banks of which were too steep to allow the horses to obtain a foothold; then again they might be windfalls, where the grand forest trees had been razed, along a track half a mile broad, by some fierce tornado. When night drew near O'Mara selected some favorable place for a camp which offered opportunities for defence. For they never allowed themselves to fall into a state of security that might induce fatal carelessness. Some days the settlers made fair progress under favoring conditions; then again they would strike a section of country where every mile had to be won, with patient effort, foot by foot. And they were always vigilant, believing in that motto of the Puritans: "Trust in the Lord; but _keep your powder dry_!" Each night, as the cheerful fires crackled, and the women gathered around to prepare the evening meal, the tired men would bring in wood for use while the darkness lasted; and then throw together some sort of defence. While as yet these preparations had been apparently needless, still the cautious O'Mara warned them that they were now nearing the hunting grounds of the warlike Shawanees; and that any day some party might discover the caravan, and carry the news of their coming to the nearest Indian village. As yet they had really seen little of the red men. Twice hunters, who were out securing fresh food for the party, had reported catching glimpses of dusky figures darting in and out among the trees; but no attack had as yet been made upon any members of the little expedition. Bob and his brother were in the habit of going out on alternate days, and looking for game. As this was plentiful they had little trouble in securing a deer whenever the larder got low. One day they had tramped ahead of the party, following the old buffalo trail which the horses would take as they came along and which led westward. In this way, if they secured game, it would not be necessary to carry it far in order to join the others. As yet they had seen nothing worth shooting, when Sandy made the remark with which this chapter begins. His brother stared in his face, and there was a serious look in his eyes, as he made answer. "Yes, I saw it; and I'm afraid it was an Indian, brother." "With feathers in his scalp-lock, which means war!" continued Sandy, who was always questioning Pat O'Mara, and hence had picked up considerable knowledge concerning the red men and their habits. Again did the two boys exchange uneasy looks. "Do you suppose he is alone?" whispered Sandy, presently. "Let us try to see. Raise your head, inch by inch, until you can look over the tops of these bushes; but be careful," continued the other. Back to back they started to do this, intending to cover the entire surrounding woods with a close scrutiny. Suddenly there was an odd twanging sound heard. Bob knew instinctively that it was the recoil of a bow-string, and he dragged his brother down instantly. Then came a heavy thud close by their ears. Looking around, the brothers saw a feathered shaft quivering, with its flint head buried in the trunk of a tree. It was the first time in all their lives that either of them had been under fire. The mere thought that some human being was endeavoring to do them deadly injury caused a momentary thrill. But, in those early days, boys were made of sterling material; and, after that involuntary shudder, they faced the danger resolutely, with a spirit that would have well become their father. "We must get out of here," whispered Bob, as he prepared to crawl along in the shelter of the bushes. "But which way?" demanded Sandy, confused; for how were they to know just where the unseen enemy might be hidden? "That arrow came from yonder; therefore we must turn the other way," was the convincing argument Bob advanced, and his brother immediately saw the logic of it. Bob led the retreat, with Sandy trailing close at his heels. Each lad clutched his gun in a nervous grip, and strained his ears to catch the slightest suspicious sound near by. So they crept on, for ten minutes, without anything happening, and by degrees Sandy felt his courage return. Perhaps, after all, there had only been a single savage; and, again, he may have been as frightened as they were, making off immediately after discharging that lone arrow! Their hearts still beating faster than was their wont, the boys came to the termination of the line of dense bushes. If they expected to go on from this point they must of necessity change their tactics entirely, and expose themselves to the gaze of any lurker. "Let's run for it!" suggested Sandy, at a loss for any other plan. "No, I have another idea," returned his resourceful brother. "Then let us have it, quick, Bob!" whispered the other, to whom inaction was always more or less irksome. "You start off as though meaning to escape, dodging this way and that. He will perhaps believe that I was cut down by that hissing arrow. Then, if he shows himself, I can get him, perhaps," Bob ventured. Sandy fell in with the idea at once, although he realized the danger. "Give the word, then, Bob, and let me go. Anything is better than this suspense," he said, immediately, starting to get on his feet. "If you hear me shout, drop flat," the elder brother said, impressively. "That will mean he is trying to shoot at you. And if you hear the report of my gun, seek shelter behind some tree." The last thing Sandy heard as he gained a half-erect position, and started off on a lope, was the click of Bob's gun-lock as he prepared for business. No doubt the boy's heart was pounding like a hammer as he thus exposed himself to the aim of an enemy; but, nothing daunted, he kept right on, looking to the right and to the left as he scurried along. And Bob, left behind amid the bushes, lifted his head slowly, so that he could see all that transpired, a grim expression on his young face, such as the stern realities of those early days stamped upon many a boyish countenance. Ha! There was a movement not far away that his keen ear caught. Not turning his head a particle he twisted his eyes around to the left, and immediately discovered a bent figure that was skulking along, now dodging behind a tree, and anon crouching flat, as Sandy threatened to look around. It was an Indian, rigged out in all the horrid paint and feathers that marked a Shawanee brave on the warpath. He gripped a short, but stout, bow in his hands; and even as Bob caught sight of him seemed to be fitting a feathered shaft to the tense gut that served as a cord. Undoubtedly it was his intention to shoot again, and this time, as Sandy's back would be turned, there was a strong probability that the arrow might find a victim. Bob looked no further; his mind was made up, and, raising his flint-lock musket to his shoulder, he glanced hastily along the barrel. The red man was in the very act of letting fly his arrow when the bang of the heavily charged musket awoke the echoes of the forest. Sandy had not forgotten his part in the programme, for no sooner did he hear that discharge than he made a quick spring to a neighboring beech tree, back of which he crouched, ready to do his part in the game. The Indian fell down, but, immediately scrambling to his feet with a whoop, ran off like a frightened deer. He was holding his right arm as he went, from which fact Bob gained the opinion that his hastily sent bullet must have struck that part of the enemy's anatomy. Then he vanished in the depths of the forest, while Bob reloaded as fast as he could work his hands. "Are there any more of them?" called Sandy, as he poked his gun out from behind the beech, ready to make use of the same at the slightest provocation. "I do not think so," replied Bob, considerably relieved at not discovering a horde of dusky figures rushing toward them, as he had feared would be the case. Nor did they notice any signs of enemies around them. Sandy insisted upon going over to the spot where the Indian had dropped his bow and arrow, at the time he received Bob's bullet in his arm. "Some of them might refuse to believe that we had met a real Indian, and got the better of him," he said, after picking up his trophies; "but these will be the proof." "Let us go on," observed Bob, who had now finished the labor of recharging his gun. "Then you do not mean to give up looking for game?" asked Sandy, eagerly. "Why should we?" observed his brother, sturdily. "That Indian has run off, and we need fear nothing further from him. Perhaps there is no other within miles of this spot, and we need fresh meat very much. If my shot has not frightened everything away, we may get a chance at a deer yet." "Perhaps a buffalo!" remarked Sandy, with eagerness in his voice; for as yet no one in the company had been successful in shooting a specimen of those huge, shaggy monsters, about which they had heard so much, and whose beaten trails they followed so persistently in making their way. They kept on, Bob careful all the while to observe the direction they took, for he did not wish to get lost. He was moving up against the wind, so that even the most suspicious game might not scent their presence. "Look! What is that?" whispered Sandy, as they made their way through a screen of bushes, and some bulky object was observed trotting along ahead. "A buffalo at last! Get ready, and we will fire together!" said Bob, trying to stifle his excitement as he dropped on one knee, the better to aim his gun. "Ready? Shoot!" The two reports sounded almost as one. "He went down! Oh! we got him!" shrilled the sanguine one, ready to rush forward. "Hold on!" Bob quickly cried; "see, you're mistaken, for he has scrambled to his feet. Wounded as he is, if he sees us there will be trouble. There, he is heading this way, Sandy! Jump for a tree, lad, jump for a tree!" CHAPTER IX ALONG THE BUFFALO TRAIL SANDY jumped according to orders. With that furious-looking beast coming on the trot, with lowered, massive head, and uttering savage bellows as he advanced, no boy would have hesitated in seeking safety. [Illustration: "SLIPPING ADROITLY AROUND THE BEECH AS FAST AS THE BUFFALO COULD CHASE AFTER HIM."] Bob swung himself into the lower branches of the tree under which he chanced to be at the time the attack came. On the other hand, Sandy did not understand it in that light. He expected to use the trunk of a beech as a shield, behind which he might find shelter from the bison bull. Apparently the animal had only sighted Sandy, since he made direct for the tree back of which the boy crouched. "Look out for him, Sandy!" shouted the occupant of the tree, as he kicked his moccasined feet, and in other ways tried to attract to himself the attention of the infuriated beast. In this he did not seem to be successful, for the charging bull kept straight on, and came up against the trunk of Sandy's refuge with a thump that staggered him not a little. "You see what you get!" called the boy, tauntingly, hovering behind the tree, and ready to glide around it at the first sign of pursuit. "Take care, he's going to chase after you! Keep close to the tree, and be sure you don't slip!" called Bob; who, his hands trembling with excitement, was trying to get a charge of powder into the barrel of his musket, no easy task while he sat perched on a limb. Meanwhile there was a scene of action close by. Sandy showed a clean pair of heels to the enemy, slipping adroitly around the beech as fast as the buffalo could chase after him. If he kept his footing all would be well; but, should he ever trip on one of the roots that cropped out of the ground, perhaps the ugly horns of the beast would gore him before he could roll out of reach. So, while he continued to load his gun, Bob kept up a succession of outcries, intended to encourage his brother, and at the same time disconcert the stubborn bison. "Keep moving, Sandy! Don't let him get a swipe at you, boy! Oh! I came near dropping that bullet then. Will I ever get this gun loaded? Be careful, lad! That time you were nearly down. He is tiring, Sandy; but unless I make haste something dreadful may happen. I must finish this job. Look out again, he's meaning to turn on you suddenly. There! just what I feared; but you were too quick for him!" By this time the boy who was spinning around the tree so rapidly had begun to realize that it was not so much fun, after all, this being pursued by a monster with wicked horns, and the power of a tornado in his thick-set neck. At times he could almost feel the hot breath of the animal upon his neck, which showed how very close the buffalo must be. Had Sandy chanced to be alone his condition must have been doubly desperate. As it was, his only hope seemed to lie in the ability of his brother to get his gun loaded in time to put an end to the crazy bison. "Keep it up just ten seconds longer, Sandy, and I'll be ready! The priming, boy, that's all! Now look out, here goes!" As Bob said this he discharged his musket, after securing a fair aim, as the animal's flank came around in full view. "Hurrah! he's down again!" gasped poor Sandy with almost his last breath, for he seemed on the verge of exhaustion from the whirl around that tree. "Climb up out of reach, quick!" shouted Bob, jumping down so as to attract the attention of the bull toward himself should the animal manage to stagger to his legs again, for he saw his brother was exhausted and would now prove an easy victim. But Sandy was on the ground, and he saw something that his brother did not. The last bullet had reached a vital spot, and already the big animal was quivering in the last expiring throes. "Get your gun, and load up as fast as you can!" said Bob, himself suiting the action to the word. "But see, he is dead!" expostulated the other, pointing to the buffalo, which by now had ceased to struggle and lay quite still. "Never mind. Load the gun as fast as you can!" repeated Bob. "A hunter with an empty shooting-iron is an easy mark for every prowling redskin. Surely Pat has said that to us many times. And we now know there are Indians around here." Thus urged, the younger boy hastened to comply. "Just to think," he could not help saying, when this important business had been attended to, and both of the guns were placed in shape for further service, "we've actually brought down a big buffalo. And it is the first one shot by any of our party. But all the honor is yours, Bob. If it had been left to me perhaps the old sinner might have got me. I was getting blown to a certainty." "But we can share the honor, Sandy; for if you had not kept running round and round as you did, how else could I have shot him?" That was Bob's generous way, and Sandy knew it would be utterly useless trying to escape taking half the credit. "You watch while I use the knife and take off the skin," Bob went on; for he knew that the hide, if properly cured, would make a valuable robe, to insure warmth when the winter snows came again. "And watch out for Indians," he added suggestively. These boys had served their apprenticeship at trapping animals, and there was little in the science of removing and preserving pelts that they did not know. So now, while Bob had never before seen a dead buffalo, and only had a glimpse of a live one close at hand, he knew just how to go to work. "Plenty of good meat here for the whole camp," remarked Sandy, with kindling eyes, as he saw the large buffalo hams exposed by the removal of the hide. "Yes, and they say it is fine. If it can beat that bear we shot early last winter, before all its fat was gone, I'll be glad we ran across him," Bob remarked, as he now prepared to cut the carcass up, so that the best portions might be reserved. "I wonder when the folks will be along?" said the younger lad, allowing his gaze to travel between the thick trees in that quarter where it might be expected the pack-horses would sooner or later appear. "Listen!" remarked Bob just then, raising his head, "I thought I heard a shout far away." Sandy began to look anxious. "Oh! I hope nothing has gone wrong," he observed. "Nonsense!" expostulated the other, "what could have happened? Just because we saw an Indian, and he tried to put an arrow in one of us, is no sign of danger to the camp. The only thing that bothers me is that perhaps they have halted far back there for the night. In that event, see where we would have to carry all this meat." "We might hang it up out of reach of wolves, and bring some of the men, with a horse, to tote it in," suggested Sandy. "That is so, and a clever idea, too. Wait and see. Perhaps they may come on, and pass near us here," Bob remarked, "for we are close to the trail, which I am sure lies over by that leaning sycamore tree." So they sat down to wait and listen for more signs. "This certainly beats our woods back in Virginia," remarked Bob, as he looked around at the great primeval forest that surrounded them, the trees of tremendous girth and beginning to show a new crop of bright green leaves. "Yes," responded his brother, reflectively, "it is indeed a wonderful country, and, from the signs, just overflowing with game. There was that salt-lick we ran across two days ago; why, from the marks, thousands of deer and buffalo must visit it every year. That very night we shot three fine stags and a doe, you remember." "Yes, and I was sorry we killed that last one, for she had a little, spotted fawn running at her heels, and of course it will die, being left uncared for." Bob was a true sportsman. He loved to hunt game, but something within always prevented him from killing more than he could use. And that is ever the mark of one who truly loves Nature. Believing that these good things are provided by an all-wise Creator for the enjoyment of man, they look on it as a sin to waste any such bounties. "There, that was a shout, and close by, too. I think it must have been Darby calling to that lazy beast of his, which wants to lie down in every little stream we have to ford. Yes, there he breaks out again," said Sandy. "And from the row that is going on, and the laughing, I fear the beast has done what he's been threatening to do this long while, and rolled over in a brook. But I can see them now, over yonder," said Bob, pointing. Presently the straggling line of pack-horses came along. When the head man saw what a fine supply of meat the two young Nimrods had awaiting them, he gave the word to pitch camp. "The afternoon is going, and we could hardly find a better spot than right here," he observed; at which there was a bustle all around, for camp always meant a period of ease and rest from the weary tramping over rough ground. "But what is that you are carrying, Sandy?" demanded David Armstrong, as he came along with his two horses, his wife and Kate tramping at their side with the steadiness of squaws, for they had become accustomed to such vigorous and healthy labor. "An Indian's bow and arrow which we picked up after Bob shot and wounded the owner, who was trying to get me," the boy quickly replied. At the word "Indian" others came to stare at the weapon with curiosity, not unmixed with alarm, for they knew only too well that now they had burned their bridges behind them, for there could be no going back, and every day carried them further and further into the debatable country of the Shawanees, which later on would be known as the "dark and bloody ground." CHAPTER X ATTACKED BY INDIANS "IT looks as if Pat expected trouble to-night, Bob." "Well, the men have been holding a council, and father says it is best to be on the safe side; so the guard after this will be doubled." The two brothers were sitting on the outskirts of the camp. It did not look like the cheerful spectacle that up to now had marked every stopping place on the journey. A fire had been made late in the afternoon, and all the cooking done before it grew dark; then the blaze was allowed to die out. This had been done through the advice of the Irish trapper, who knew that the eyes of Indians are especially keen, and that, when darkness came, they could see a light like a camp-fire a long distance off. Even this precaution might not prevent their being attacked before dawn; but it was reducing the chances to a minimum. From where the brothers sat they could just make out the camp, with the horses quietly feeding, and the rude shelters erected to protect the women and children from the damp night air. The more hardy men, when not on duty, were accustomed to dropping down anywhere, and going to sleep. On one side several fallen trees had been formed into a rude sort of rampart, behind which, in a pinch, the members of the expedition might find shelter from plunging arrows, should the worst come. All these preparations were just what they had been expecting must come sooner or later. Nevertheless, they naturally gave the boys considerable uneasiness, not so much on account of themselves, as because of those loved ones, their mother and Kate. "There are several scouts out, too, to discover the approach of any hostiles, and bring warning," remarked Bob. "Oh! I hope nothing happens," said Sandy, with a sigh; for, now that they were face to face with the long-anticipated trouble, somehow things looked different from when he surveyed them before leaving that Virginia home in the valley of the Shenandoah. "Pat says these redskins are not accustomed to the sound of firearms," the older boy continued. "Few among them have guns; and those have been sold to them by the treacherous French traders, who are always setting the Indians on the English." "Just because they want to have a line of trading posts stretching between their possessions up in Canada, and down in Louisiana," remarked Sandy, bitterly; for this was a subject that all the colonists felt deeply; because the French traders lost no opportunity for causing ill blood between the Iroquois, Shawanees, Delawares, Sacs and Pottawatomies on the one side, and the English on the other. "Yes," replied Bob, "that is supposed to be the reason. Then, again, these Indian tribes see the end of their hunting grounds if the palefaces keep coming across the mountains year by year, and they will fight. Sooner or later we must encounter them. Father knew it; yes, and that is why mother has that sad look in her eyes." No longer did the boys belonging to the camp venture upon any of their sports and games while the expedition rested for the night. On other occasions they had wrestled, run races afoot, and engaged in various small rivalries, though there had been no shooting at a mark, since ammunition was far too valuable to be thus wasted. To-night they hung around, listening to the subdued talk, and imbued with some of the same spirit that cause the women to huddle together around their little ones and speak in hushed voices. A silence seemed to be upon the very forest itself, though at this early period in the spring there were usually few birds moving, and animated nature had not as yet wholly issued forth after the winter hibernation, so that this in itself was not so strange. "Shall we go in and try to sleep?" asked Sandy, after two hours had passed with no alarm being given. "You might," returned Bob; "but I mean to stay up as long as I can." "But, you know, Pat was telling us that these red men of the west usually attack just before dawn, when sleep hangs heaviest and the darkness is strongest!" remarked Sandy, shrewdly. "All very true," Bob hastened to say; "but this once they may see fit to change their tactics. Besides, I do not feel at all sleepy. You go in and lie down; but keep your gun close beside you, and remember what the orders are in case of an alarm." "I have not forgotten. Every man has his position; and, as we can handle a gun, we count for the same. But, if you expect to stay right here, why should I not lie down and sleep under this tree, as well as in there?" Bob being unable to advance any plausible reason why this would not answer, the younger boy curled himself up in a knot right there on the bare ground, and inside of five minutes his regular breathing announced that he was asleep. Sitting there, Bob allowed his thoughts to wander far afield, and of course, in spite of himself, they went back to the home of his childhood, to that familiar old cabin under the wide-spreading oak. But he had no regrets. The bitterness caused by the unkind conduct of those one-time friends and neighbors still swayed him; and he was glad at the thought of being gone forever from such unhappy surroundings. What was that? He certainly had heard a sound like some one running; and, even as he started up to listen, a figure brushed past, and went on into the camp! Bob's heart began to beat more rapidly. He knew that this must be one of the scouts. What news did he bring? Were the Indians about to descend upon them? "Wake up, Sandy!" he said, as he laid a hand on the sleeping boy. The other sat up, rubbing his eyes as though hardly understanding where he was; but suddenly he seemed to comprehend. "What is it, Bob?" he asked, eagerly, "are they coming; and must we fight in the dark?" "I do not exactly know," returned the other; "only, some one hurried by us, and I think he brings news. Yes, see, the men are quietly rising up all around. The signal must have been given. Come, let us get back into camp before we are cut off by the enemy." The two boys soon joined the rest, when they learned that the scout had indeed brought startling news. The Indians were coming in force, and advancing secretly to try to take the settlers by surprise. At any minute they might spring up and send a cloud of missiles into the camp. All preparations as yet undone must now be hurriedly looked after. The women and children were placed behind the shelter of the log rampart. Each, man took the position that had been marked out for him; then, with bated breath, they waited for what was coming. None would ever forget that night! It was their first real experience with the wily and treacherous red foe, with whom they were fated in after years to become so familiar, and to hate so cordially. Pat O'Mara was perhaps the only one among them fully acquainted with the tricky ways of the redskins; and he had endeavored to put every man on his guard against being caught unawares. Besides, he had laid out a shrewd plan of campaign, by means of which it was hoped to demoralize the assailants. After what seemed like an interminable wait there was a sudden shot. One of those on guard had possibly caught sight of an enemy creeping closer to the outskirts of the camp. It was enough to tell the prowling Indians that their plans were no secret; for immediately the forest resounded with their shrill whoops. They seemed to spring up from every direction. Seeing their numbers in the faint light of the stars, the defenders of the camp might well be excused for feeling new alarm. Then guns began to sound and to join their ringing reports with the awful shouts of the enemy. The arrows flew like hail, and lucky the white who had found shelter in time behind some friendly tree. It was in this exciting moment that Pat O'Mara proved his worth. Above the dreadful clamor his brave Irish voice rang out, cheering the men on. "Hurroo! give it till 'em, me byes! Shoot straight ivery toime, and make each bit av lead count! Remimber the wimmen and childer, it is; and knock ivery head ye say!" he kept shouting, seeming to be everywhere at once. He had arranged it so that the men fought in couples. While one fired the other was reloading his gun; and thus there was always a detail capable of sending in a volley, should it be desperately needed. Bob and Sandy crouched low, doing manful work, though filled with unspeakable dread lest the Indians should rush the camp, carrying all before them. "Are they retreating, brother?" asked Sandy at length, after this riot of terrible sounds had been going on for what seemed an age. "I think it must be so," returned Bob, hardly able to believe the truth himself. "Their shouts seem to be further away; and the arrows have stopped falling!" "Oh! I wonder what damage has been done, and if--" But even the stout-hearted Sandy dare not voice the fear that was in his soul, for his thoughts had turned to the beloved father and the two others who crouched back of that poor shelter of logs. Were any of them injured? "Lights! Start the fire, so that we can see what damage has been done!" called the leader of the emigrant band; and almost like magic tinder was ignited, to be applied to the fires prepared against this time of need. CHAPTER XI ON THE BANK OF THE OHIO "COME with me, Bob!" said the younger boy, unable to undertake the mission alone. "Courage!" cried the other in his ear; "I am sure all is well, and that I heard Kate's voice in the song of hallelujah that arose from the women when it was known the Indians had fled. All must be well, brother!" Yes, all was well; and in another moment the boys were encircled in the loving arms of their anxious mother, while David, bleeding from a slight wound where an arrow had struck him, stood by with thanksgiving written on his bearded face. If the boys had felt worried about the mother and Kate, fancy her feelings, knowing as she did that her loved ones were on the firing line and taking a thousand risks! But it was all over now. Pat O'Mara declared that the red men had received a lesson they would not soon forget. Doubtless the valiant little company of home-seekers would not be troubled again while on the way to the Ohio. They had not come out of the battle entirely unscathed. True, Heaven had been kind, and no one had been mortally hurt; but there were several suffering grievous wounds, who would have to be tenderly nursed for a time. "It's lucky for us," declared the redoubtable Irish trapper, after the extent of the damage had been discovered, "thot the Shawanees niver poison their war arrows. Troth, but it would be a sorry day for the loike av us if thot same were thrue, as I've knowed some Injuns to do." And every poor fellow who had received a more or less painful wound echoed his words. When the pioneers came to look around in the early morning light, expecting to find many dead Indians, for those guns had poured a hail of bullets directly into the midst of the onrushing foe, to their great surprise they failed to discover a single one. Their dusky comrades must have crept up in the darkness and removed both dead and wounded, fearing lest they fall into the hands of the whites. It was high noon before the expedition could get started that day, there were so many things to be done toward repairing damages, attending the wounded, and waiting to hear the report of scouts sent out to learn whether the Indians had really left the vicinity. Satisfied at length that it would be safe to travel, they made a start. But it might be noticed that from now on there would be no long straggling line of burdened horses, strung out along the buffalo trail. They huddled together in a bunch, and every man clung to his gun constantly, while eyes were kept on the alert for the slightest sign of the cunning enemy. Several times there were alarms that sent a quiver throughout the entire line. Once a woman discovered a branch moving in a tree, and was sure that their relentless foes must have secreted themselves among the sprouting foliage of the oaks, or amid the dense pines, ready to drop down upon the little caravan as it passed. Forming in a compact mass, with the horses and women in the centre, and the armed men circling the whole, they waited until Pat O'Mara himself crept forward to investigate. Then it was found that a wildcat had jumped from one branch to another, causing the swaying movement that brought about the alarm. Altogether it was a day never to be forgotten. When night drew near, the leader, after conferring with the trapper, selected a place for camping which could readily be defended. Half an hour's work among the loose rocks, and the pioneers had constructed quite a fort. Bob and his brother worked with the rest; but both of them keenly felt this new necessity for being shut up with the others, for they loved dearly to roam. "To-morrow, if all is well, we must get out ahead again," said Sandy, as they watched the night shades gather around the new camp. "Pat says there is little danger," added Bob, reflectively. "He knows these Indians like a book, and declares that they will not recover from their licking in a hurry. Besides, we need not go far away in order to strike game in this country where it is so plentiful." "It looks as if they meant to keep the fires going to-night." "Yes, that is to show the enemy that we do not fear them. Pat says you can cow Indians by appearing to have a contempt for them. Once let them believe you are _afraid_ and they will be very brave. Besides, you know we have men out yonder watching. No danger of a surprise to-night. Every trail is guarded." "Well, it looks more cheerful, I must say," declared Sandy; "and there is surely something in what Pat says. Who knows the ways of these redskins better than he? Twice has he been with Colonel Boone, far down in the regions of the Kentucky River. I would trust his word in anything." "He seems to be everywhere, and hardly sleeps. But," and Bob sighed as he spoke, "I know I shall be glad, for one, when we reach the spot where we mean to make our new home, and can build a cabin to cover the heads of mother and Kate." "Just what I was thinking," echoed the younger lad. "After all, there is nothing like home, no matter if it be in Virginia or in the wilderness, so long as _she_ is there. But, oh! listen! Is that not the signal agreed upon with the sentinels out in the timber? Can the enemy be coming down on us now?" "Impossible," said Bob, after listening intently. "According to all we have ever heard about their ways they do not make an attack before late in the night, and never at dusk. It must mean something else." "But there it goes again, and closer. One of the men is coming in. Perhaps he does not wish to take chances of being fired upon by some hasty fellow." "Now I hear voices," declared Bob, raising his hand, "and some of them do not sound familiar, though they speak good English. Oh! I wonder if it can be--look at Pat hurrying forward, and see how his face is covered with a broad grin! Brother, it must be he recognized a familiar sound in--Look, several men are coming, and they are hunters, too!" "That one in front, Bob, with the bold air--I have not forgotten that Pat told us how one man he knew seemed born to command. Did you ever see a face like that? It is,--it must be Colonel Boone himself!" All was now excitement in the emigrant camp. Dogs barked, horses neighed, men shouted, and women laughed; while children added their shrill cries to the general clamor. Just the coming of five men clad in buckskin had caused this uproar; but such men! "Come!" cried Sandy, seizing hold of his brother by the sleeve. "Let us go forward and meet them. See, there is father shaking hands with Colonel Boone, just as if he had known him before. And look at Pat dancing around like a crazy man! Did you ever know him to be so happy? Now we shall surely reach the Ohio without being set upon again by the red men." It was a period of great rejoicing. Daniel Boone (Note 5) and his fellow hunters were once more on their way to the region where the great pioneer had determined to locate his future home, in the heart of the country below the Ohio, and to be known later on as Kentucky. As the hunters had not supped, the women were soon employed getting them a good meal. Meanwhile the story of the recent fight was told. But there was little that was new to these readers of Indian signs; for they had passed over the scene of the fight just a few hours back, and, not finding any signs of fresh graves, knew that death could not have visited the pioneers. Both Bob and Sandy felt proud to shake the hand of the man of whom they had heard so much from the Irish trapper; and, when they looked into his bold face, with its wonderfully magnetic eyes, they understood how it was that Colonel Boone had such a strange influence with the Indians along the Ohio. "He has promised to stay wid us until we reach the river," said Pat O'Mara, as he joined the Armstrong family a little later, as they were comparing notes. "And the others also?" asked David. "Daviess, Hardin, Harlan and the young man, Simon Kenton (Note 6), of whom Boone seems to be so fond, will they also remain in our company that long?" "Sure they will," replied the trapper, quickly, "an' only too glad av the chanct. It isn't often they happens to run acrost white paple in this blissed wilderness. The sight av a lady must be a plisure till men as are exiled from home. Sure they mane to stay by us. And by the same token 'tis little we nade fear from the pesky rid varmints after this." It seemed to Sandy that he could not sleep, much as he was in need of rest after the wakefulness of the previous night. He hovered around wherever Colonel Boone chanced to be, listening to his musical voice, and hanging upon his words. The forest rangers were all dressed pretty much alike, after the custom in vogue at that day. The outside garment was a hunting shirt, or loose open frock, made of tanned deerskins. Leggins of the same material covered the lower limbs, fancifully fringed along the outside seam; the collar, or cape, of the shirt was also fringed. The feet were clad in beaded moccasins, no doubt made in some Indian wigwam. Each man carried a hatchet or tomahawk suspended from his belt, while a keen-edged hunting knife reposed in a leather sheath. Besides, there were a powder-horn, bullet-pouch, and a little bag containing tinder, flint and steel, and such indispensables as a nomad, wandering day by day through unknown forests, would need for his comfort. Sandy, even after he was induced to lie under a blanket, kept watching the imposing figure of Boone, as he moved about the camp. It was a plain case of hero worship on the boy's part. He had heard so much about this wonderful man, and now that he had seen him there was not the least disappointment connected with the reality. Finally Sandy fell asleep, his last thought being a sincere wish that some day he too might possess a portion of the power over men that was given to Daniel Boone. It was morning when the boy awoke. There had been no alarm during the night, and Pat O'Mara's prediction concerning the Indians seemed coming true. The defeat they had received at the hands of the whites had cowed them for the time being, though of course no one was so simple as to believe that this state of affairs, however pleasant it might seem, would last long. An early start was made, for they had high hopes that they might arrive at the bank of the mighty Ohio River before another night. "If you put your best foot forward," Boone had told them the previous night, as he conferred with Pat and the leading spirits in the camp, "it may be possible to look upon the Ohio before dark sets in again. Jo Daviess here, who has a better knowledge of distances than the rest of us, since he has been a surveyor, tells me it can be done. And I have never known him to make a mistake." That day marked a vast difference in the attitude of the pioneers. No longer did they huddle together like a hunch of scared quail, anticipating trouble from every quarter. The very presence of those five experienced hunters and Indian fighters seemed a tower of strength to them. Sandy and his brother took advantage of the opportunity to resume their usual hunting expedition, and managed to bring down a fine five-pronged buck that was a welcome addition to the larder. It was about four in the afternoon, as told by the sun in the western heavens, for none of them had any other means of ascertaining the flight of time, when, passing through an unusually dense patch of timber, the pioneers came out upon a high bank, and saw a sight that tingled their blood. Before them flowed a majestic stream, wooded down to the edge of the water, and with the westering sun gilding the little wavelets until they seemed tipped with gold. It was the sublime Ohio, at that time the most beautiful of streams, for its hilly shores were covered with the virgin forest. Loud rang the cheers from that little band of pioneers. The Armstrongs' long and arduous journey was at an end. Somewhere along the river they would select the spot upon which to erect their cabin. The surrounding country fairly teemed with game; and, if the Indians would only leave them in peace, they had reason to believe that in this wilderness they might find the haven for which they sighed when leaving their Virginia home. CHAPTER XII BOONE, THE CAPTAIN OF PIONEERS THAT night the hunters passed again with the settlers. On the following morning it was the intention of Boone and his companions to start further west; for the lure of Kentucky was in his veins, and he felt that no other place could satisfy him, after having once seen that rich soil and hunted in the majestic woods along the Kentucky River. Before leaving the pioneers the mighty hunter gave them much good advice. He knew of a very desirable plateau just a few miles further west, looking out upon the river, where he himself would locate if he had not already decided on a site on the Kentucky River; and here he hoped they would settle. Bob and Sandy had decided that they would accompany the hunters a little way when they left. They wished to see as much of them as possible, and, besides, it was down the river the rest would soon be coming, in search of the spot marked out by the discerning eye of Boone. "Glad to have your company, lads," said Daniel Boone, when Bob made the request, "for I have taken much interest in both of you. Friend Armstrong is a lucky man to have his family with him from the start," and he sighed slightly, for it had been so fated that in much of his pioneer work Boone was compelled to be separated from those he loved. That was a morning those lads would never forget as long as they lived. Side by side they walked with the man who knew more about Indian craftiness than any other along the entire frontier; and in his own pleasant way Boone gave the boys much valuable advice. "Always keep a charge in your gun if possible," he said, "and sleep with one eye open, when you have reason to believe there are Indians around; for, next to a cat, I believe the red varmints to be the trickiest things in all creation. But here we are at the spot I picked out for your settlement. It would not be wise for you to go any further, lads. What do you think of my choice? Do you believe you can make a happy home here?" When they looked around, and noted the natural beauty of the location, commanding a fine view of the river as it did, the two boys were loud in its praise. "I'm glad you like it," observed Boone; "for the first time I struck this place I determined that some day it must be covered with the homes of white men. Once an Indian village stood here, and why they moved away I never learned; but you will find many signs where their lodges stood, and there are burial places back in the hills." "Must you go now, Colonel Boone?" asked Bob, who felt a sense of keen regret because their pleasant relations must be severed so soon. "It is necessary that we lose no more time," came the reply; "already I fear that some who await us far beyond may be in difficulties, for the Indians were beginning to grow troublesome at the time I left. But we will come again. Here we shall hope to find a warm welcome when passing back and forth." So the boys shook hands with each of the five buckskin-clad rangers. The young man, Simon Kenton, had interested them very much. "He has the making of a second Colonel Boone in him," Bob said, as his eyes followed the little band of pioneers, walking along in Indian file, with Kenton bringing up the rear; "I wish he would only take a notion to join his fortunes with us here." Then the figures of the five were hidden in the dense undergrowth. The last they saw of Daniel Boone was when he turned, before plunging into the thicket, to wave a hand to them in good-bye. "What shall we do now?" asked Sandy, rather gloomily; for somehow he seemed to feel the departure of these valiant frontiersmen keenly, though he had only known them such a brief time. "Stay around here until our folks come. We promised Colonel Boone not to follow after him, you remember," returned Bob, with whom his word was as good as his bond. "But that may not be for some hours," protested the impatient Sandy; "because, you know, they were not near ready to start when we left camp; and then they will move much slower than we did, led by men who know every trail." "But it ought to be enough for us to just sit here and look out on that grand river," remarked Bob, admiration in his eyes, as he turned them upon the silently flowing stream, still bank-full from the spring rains. "It is a fine sight, I'm ready to say," Sandy admitted; "and after we get a cabin built we ought to be mighty well contented here, with fish to be had for the taking at the door, and game coming up almost asking to be shot." "Think of the use for our traps back in those wooded hills. Why, I wager we shall lay in a store of pelts the first winter five times as great as ever happened in Virginia. But how glad I am the dreadful journey is done. Kate and mother both stood it better than father expected. How brave they are, and what a blessing it is to have such a mother and sister." Bob's eyes filled while he was speaking; but they were tears of gratitude, not sorrow. Sitting there, and gazing as if fascinated out upon the broad and majestic stream which from this time on was fated to enter so deeply into their new life, Bob did not notice that his younger brother was wandering around the place. Sandy had always been as curious as any woman, and this propensity had more than a few times brought him face to face with trouble. It was perhaps half an hour after the five hunters had left them when Bob suddenly aroused to the fact that for some time he had not heard anything from his brother. "I wonder where he can be?" he said to himself a little anxiously as he scrambled to his feet to glance around. "Strange that he is not in sight. Perhaps after all he did lie down, and in this warm sunshine has gone to sleep." The idea pleased him, and he started to search for some sign of the missing one. Three minutes, five passed, and still he had not discovered Sandy. He had not as yet called, thinking that there was no need. "Perhaps I can track him," Bob said to himself, as he once more reached the spot where he had been reclining. It was not very difficult to ascertain where the footprints of his brother made a distinct trail, for, although Sandy wore moccasins, the soil was soft, and he had not been at any pains to hide his tracks. So Bob moved along, to the right and to the left, just as Sandy had happened to make his way when investigating the site for the proposed settlement. Thus by slow degrees he found himself doubling on their own trail. At discovering this Bob smiled. "I think I can see now," he remarked. "While we promised Colonel Boone not to go any further than this, nothing was said about the back country. And Sandy has been unable to resist the temptation to wander around, looking for game. But he could not have found anything worth while, or surely I should have heard a gun-shot. Perhaps I had better give him a hail." So saying he raised his hand to his mouth, after a fashion which they had long followed when in the woods, or following their line of traps, and immediately through the woods rang his shout: "Ho! Sandy! Hello!" To his astonishment a voice immediately answered, and he saw his brother advancing hurriedly toward him. But he carried no game; and no sooner had Bob set eyes upon the other's face than he realized that Sandy brought news of some sort, for he looked excited. "What is it,--Indians?" asked the older boy, involuntarily half raising his musket, and casting an apprehensive glance around at the frowning and mysterious forest by which they were almost entirely surrounded. But Sandy shook his head in the negative, much to the relief of his brother. "Then have you found a bear's den, or perhaps a wolf's whelps?" he went on. "You would never guess it in a week, Bob," declared Sandy, with a smile; "but come with me. I am sure you can do him good, with your knowledge of surgery, which is going to make you a wonderful man some fine day." "Surgery! What have you found, Sandy? Is there any one wounded near here?" Sandy nodded his head. "Yes, and pretty badly hurt, I fear." "Not a white man, surely?" went on the other, falling into step with the impatient one. "It is an Indian," replied Sandy, soberly. "Perhaps one of those who were wounded in the fight. He may have come thus far on his way to his village, and given out," and now it was Bob who urged the pace, for his professional instinct had been aroused. True, it was only an Indian who was injured, and in those days the settlers on the frontiers had a very low estimation of the red man as a human being. But then Bob was a boy, and his love for relieving pain amounted almost to a mania with him. Many a time had he set the broken limb of some little wild animal, across which he had accidentally come in the forest; and his operations had always been very successful; so much so that both father and mother were proud of him. Sandy had apparently taken particular notice of the place where he had found the injured Indian, for he seemed to experience no trouble in leading the way back there. "Here he is," he suddenly remarked, as he swept aside a screen of pawpaws. Bob looked down upon a painted face, and felt a pair of glittering black eyes fastened intently upon him. "Why, he is a young fellow, hardly more than a boy," he remarked in some surprise; but his words must have been understood by the wounded one, for he tried to draw his slender figure up in pride. "Me brave--me Blue Jacket!" he said, almost fiercely, smiting himself several times on the chest. The peculiar name caused Bob to notice for the first time that the young Indian was indeed wearing a hunting shirt fancifully decked with the quills of the blue-jay, and from which he doubtless took his name, although in the Indian tongue it would probably be of an altogether unpronounceable nature. The Indian did not wholly trust them, it was plain to be seen. Unable to fight, he seemed ready to stoically meet his fate without a whimper, for, perhaps, he fully expected these enemies to knock him on the head, because it was evident from the nature of his wound that he had been in the recent engagement. "Let me look at your hurt, Blue Jacket," said Bob, bending down over the recumbent figure. The other set his teeth hard, but beyond a grunt gave no sign, while the white lad carefully drew away the cloth which was tied about the leg in which a bullet had become imbedded. In some way the wounded brave must have become separated from his fellows, and, while trying to get to his village alone, had fallen here through weakness caused by the loss of blood. "He would have been dead by morning if some one had not found him," declared Bob as he started to cleanse the wound as well as possible just then, meaning to repeat the operation when he could have warm water in plenty. Those beady eyes followed each gentle action with perplexity that gradually grew into confidence. Blue Jacket was learning a new lesson in warfare. His savage conception of how a fallen enemy should be treated had received a rude jolt. "Here, Sandy," said the young surgeon, presently, "take hold of his feet, and we will carry him over to where we expect to camp on the site of the coming settlement. The poor fellow shall not die if I can help it. You found him, and he belongs to us. Remember that, if anybody wants to do him an injury. Pat will stand by us, I'm sure; and mother must, for has she not always told us we should do good even to them that persecute us. Now, gently, Sandy. An Indian can suffer, if he does refuse to show it." CHAPTER XIII BLUE JACKET "How will this place do?" asked Bob, coming to a halt, and the boys gently lowered their burden to the ground. "Just the place where I'd like to see our cabin raised, with that fine view of the river up and down," declared the other, enthusiastically. "And that is why I chose it," answered Bob with a smile. "If we are already at work here, father and mother will naturally come along to us, and the thing is done without any fuss." The young Indian had not said a single word since making the assertion that his name was Blue Jacket, and that he was a brave, not a boy. Those keen black eyes had observed all that the Armstrong lads did with an ever-increasing knowledge of what it meant. There was something in their manner of handling him that spoke louder than words to the wild heart of this child of the forest; and already he had begun to feel confidence in them. "Now, start a blaze as soon as you like, Sandy. By the time they get here the fire will be good and hot, so that water will heat in a jiffy." They had made the wounded Indian as comfortable as possible; and he lay there, apparently content to watch them work. Possibly he expected that, when the white men, against whom his hand had so recently been raised, should arrive on the scene, his fate must be a matter of minutes; but an Indian never shows emotion, and fear, in his eyes, is the symptom of a coward. Sandy immediately gathered some wood. He had had long experience in making fires, and gloried in the opportunity to show his skill. "There, how does that look?" he demanded presently, when, after having used his flint and steel with good results, the flying sparks quickly caught in the dry tinder, and flames began to creep up amidst the gathered wood. "As fine as the finest," returned his brother, who knew Sandy's weakness, and never let a chance to cater to it pass by; "and unless my ears deceive me I think I heard voices just then up-river." "You are right, brother," declared the younger lad, pointing; "for there they come, with Pat O'Mara, bless his heart, at the head of the line." The wounded Indian never even started, and yet a quiver of alarm must certainly have passed through his agonized frame. He simply turned his gaze toward the setting sun, as though, if the worst came, he wished to feast his eyes for the last time on that glorious spectacle. For the clouds floating in space had begun to take on a most gorgeous tint, as though the mysterious unknown country beyond might be putting on a holiday dress to welcome him to the Happy Hunting Grounds of the red man. Then the long line of horses and pioneers arrived on the spot that had been picked out by Colonel Boone as the prettiest site for a settlement he knew of along the upper Ohio. Various exclamations of rapture and delight broke forth. The magical beauty of the scene overpowered all alike. Men and women stood there, drinking in the river view as seen in the fading light of the sun; and, when they turned to exchange sentiments, they were unanimously favorable. "It is Paradise!" cried one woman, who had suffered greatly during the long pilgrimage across mountains and wilderness. Pat O'Mara was the happiest of the whole group. He did not expect to put up a cabin home, for his nature compelled him to be a rover; but, since he had guided these pioneers along the way into the Promised Land, naturally he felt elated because they were thrilled and pleased with their new homeland. And then again, Pat had the greatest admiration for that chief of pioneers, Daniel Boone, who had selected this site as the proper spot for a future white man's town. "Now, plase lave all thot till another day," he called out, presently; "and pay attintion till the juties av the hour. Sure, they be fires to sthart, fuel to chop, and some protiction to be made aginst an attack av the rids. To worrk thin, iverybody!" Seeing their two boys standing at a certain point, David Armstrong, his good wife, and Kate, leading the two horses, made toward them. From the fact that there was already quite a heap of firewood piled up they took it for granted that Bob wished them to camp on that particular spot for some reason or other. Suddenly Kate gave utterance to a bubbling cry of alarm. "What is it!" demanded her father, startled, since he could only imagine that the young girl might have turned her ankle at just the last stage of their long journey. "Look behind the boys, father! An Indian!" she exclaimed, pointing a trembling finger toward Bob. David, too, discovered the form just at that moment, and was also visibly disturbed. But he noticed that both boys were showing not the least sign of any alarm, and from that understood there could be no danger. Perhaps, also, his renewed confidence arose from the fact that the Indian was lying on his back, and not in the act of creeping forward, as if intent on sinking his tomahawk into the bodies of the lads. "What is this, Bob, Sandy?" he asked, as he stood over the form of the Shawanee, who met his gaze without a flicker of emotion. "We found the poor fellow near by, father. He is wounded, and was slowly bleeding to death," said Bob hastily, and not a little anxiously. "And Bob couldn't keep from helping him; you know his failing, father. What we want now is a kettle in which to heat some water," remarked Sandy, making a movement to secure the implement he had in mind, and which, in company with other cooking utensils, dangled from the back of the leading horse. "Stop! what is this you mean to do?" asked David Armstrong uneasily. "Save the poor fellow's life, perhaps. He has an even chance if I can cleanse that ugly wound," replied Bob, meeting his father's eye steadily. "But he must have been one of those savages who tried to rush our camp night before last; the wound is from one of our own bullets!" David went on, shaking his head, as though he did not wholly believe it right they should nurse a viper only to have him sting them. Bob looked appealingly at his mother. Well he knew where to go for backing in a case like this; nor did he make any mistake. "David, for shame! Would you let the poor boy die, even though his skin be different from ours? Do we learn this in the Good Book? Is it not written that we bind up the hurts of our enemies, and thus cover their heads with ashes of reproach? What if it were one of our dear lads, in an Indian village--would you wish him to be treated like a dog? We have come here to live, and it becomes us to set a Christian example to these poor heathen." David Armstrong was far from being a hard man at heart. Like most of the early pioneers he had imbibed strong ideas concerning the heroic measures necessary to hold their own against the grievous perils that menaced them on every side. And, doubtless, he, in common with most of the men in the ranks of those who invaded the wilderness, believed that the "only good Indian was a dead Indian." But, as always, he was dominated by the sweet influence of his gentle wife. "Boys, your mother knows best," he said, presently; "and it is better that you take pattern from her, than follow in my footsteps. Do what you think is right, and we will hope no evil follows." Of course the young Indian had listened to all this talk closely. He might not understand what sentiment influenced the wife and mother; but he could see the noble pity that shone in her eyes as she bent above him. Still, not by the slightest expression did he betray any satisfaction that may have passed through his heart at the knowledge that he was not to be ruthlessly put to death as he had anticipated. That would have ill become a warrior, which, boy though he seemed to be, he had so proudly proclaimed himself. Meanwhile Sandy made his way down to the edge of the flowing river and filled his kettle with water which he placed upon the stones composing the rude but effective fireplace. It would only take five or ten minutes to heat this sufficiently for the purpose of the amateur surgeon. David busied himself relieving the animals of their several loads, in which both Bob and Kate assisted. Rude shelters in the shape of tents would have to serve them for the present, until cabins could be provided; but, ere another sun set, the chances were that several houses would be started, for these pioneers were quick workers, once they set their shoulders to anything. Bob knew that no time should be lost in washing that inflamed wound, and applying some of the wholesome soothing lotion which his mother prided herself in making. Well he knew its wonderful properties in a case of this kind, and he believed that it would allay the dangerous stage of that injury as nothing else might, hence his desire to make haste in applying it. The others could in the meantime be erecting the tent and gathering their scanty household goods under its friendly shelter. When he found the water warm enough for his purpose he went to work. Most of the pioneers were too busily engaged just then in settling on locations for the night to bother hanging around to see what occupied the attention of the Armstrong lads; but, of course, the smaller children quickly discovered the presence of a real Indian in the camp, and the news speedily circulated around. Pat O'Mara himself came over to assist his particular friends, and when he saw what task was being done his eyes opened round with wonder. "Begorra! an' is it a horsepital ye've stharted already, Bob?" he asked, as he leaned over to look, and then started at seeing a copper-colored face with a pair of snapping black eyes fastened defiantly on his own countenance. "Phat! a ridskin it is ye are afther havin' here? Sure, it's the first toime I iver saw a white lad nurse a sick Injun bye!" When the prospect of death itself could not induce the Shawanee to show signs of emotion, this likening him to a youth, as in the previous instance, seemed to arouse him. An Indian hates above all things to be called a squaw or a child. He sat up, despite the restraining hand of Bob, and smote himself proudly on the chest, once again exclaiming angrily: "Blue Jacket, him no boy--warrior--big brave, ugh!" "Well," remarked Pat with a quizzical smile, "I reckons as how what ye sez is all quite thrue, Blue Jacket. And if so be this foine lad chooses to coddle yees back to loife agin, phat business is it av ours? On'y it sames till me 'tis a great waste av toime an' liniment. But, Bob, look out ye don't lose yer patient, lad." "Lose him, Pat?" echoed the other, pausing in the act of binding up the limb, after having used the precious, magical ointment given to him by his mother. "What can you mean? I feel sure he'll come around all right. He's young, and with good blood in his veins. Surely the chances are ten to one--" Bob stopped right there. Suddenly he comprehended what the kindly Irish trapper meant, when he spoke in that way. Following the meaning look of the other he saw that a man was hurriedly approaching them. He carried a gun in his hand, and there was an ugly expression on his bearded face. This man was a pioneer named Brady. He had come from the section of Carolina where the Boone family had lived, and was meaning to hew himself a new home in the great western wilderness. Anthony Brady was the father of a family, and a fair sample of the early pioneer, but he hated Indians above all living things, looking upon them as only fit to be shot and hewed down whenever possible. Bob knew that Anthony had had a brother dangerously wounded in that warm engagement when the Shawanees attempted to carry the camp. This must have aggravated Brady's already bitter feeling for the red men, and, hearing that the Armstrong boys were meaning to nurse one of the wounded foemen back to life, he was filled with rage that such a thing should ever be allowed. And Bob felt that Blue Jacket was in more peril right then than when he lay on the ground, weakened by his wound, and left to perish. CHAPTER XIV A NEW HOME IN THE WILDERNESS "SANDY!" The younger lad heard his name called and, looking up, caught the beckoning finger of his brother. One look told him what was threatening, for the face of the advancing settler betrayed the ugly thoughts that filled his mind. Sandy immediately sprang over to join forces with his brother, for whatever Bob did was right, in his mind, and he stood ready to back him up to the end. "What does all this foolishness mean?" demanded the tall pioneer as he came to where Bob was still kneeling beside his patient, with the bandage just secured by a strip of narrow linen which his mother was never without, since every housewife in those days had to be ready for emergencies. Bob did not answer. He waited until Mr. Brady saw the young Indian, who met the angry glare in the settler's eyes with a defiant look. Blue Jacket even hastened to sit up, and fold his sinewy arms across his chest. It was the attitude which he conceived a true warrior ought to assume when ready to chant his death song, and laugh at Fate. "An Injun!" roared the furious man, making a threatening movement with his long musket. "They told me so, but I couldn't hardly believe it. A red viper in our camp, to be nursed back to life so that he can bring his fellows down on us some fine night, and scalp the whole company. We'll soon settle that!" "Hold on, Mr. Brady," said Bob calmly. "What do you mean to do?" He had placed himself in front of the wounded Indian, shielding his painted body with his own. Sandy stood close at hand, ready to clutch the arm of the infuriated man should he dare venture to extremes. And Mr. Armstrong came hurrying up, urged on by his alarmed wife. "Shoot the snake as he deserves, if you must know!" shouted the man, who had worked himself up into a condition bordering on hysteria. "Who knows but what it was him that wounded my poor brother, Caleb! One Injun more or less can never matter much, anyway. So stand aside, Bob Armstrong, and let me put him out of his misery, like you would a mad dog." But he greatly mistook the temper of Bob, if he thought that threats like this could have any influence over him. On the contrary the young pioneer only spread himself more squarely in front of his helpless charge. "No, you shall not hurt him, Mr. Brady. Sandy and I found him, and he belongs to us. Pat O'Mara is still in charge of this company, and he has told us we could do what we wanted with him. Besides, he is only one lone Indian, and can do us no harm. Perhaps, if we help him now, he may not forget it some time in the future. For we are come here to stay always, and his people belong here." The man dared not attempt to fire while Bob thus interposed his body between; besides, he had a healthy respect for the redoubtable Irish trapper. "Is that true, O'Mara?" he demanded. "Have you given these foolish lads permission to keep this varmint alive when he's better off if dispatched?" "'Tis a fact that they prejudiced me in favor av thot same ijee, aven though I was opposed to the same in the sthart," responded the genial Pat, winking at Sandy while he spoke. "And p'raps it's best thot ye do be mindin' yer own business, Mr. Brady, meanin' no offence at all." "And," said David, laying a heavy hand on the other's shoulder, "they have the approval of both their mother and myself, Brady, so please pay no more attention to what we are doing here. The redskin will be able to travel in a few days. Perhaps he may take a message to his people from us, and be the means of bringing about a lasting truce--who knows? At all events he is going to be doctored by Robert, and no one will lay a finger on him without accounting to me!" Anthony Brady was no fool, though doubtless a most impulsive man. He knew that the conditions were most unfavorable for a continuance of the argument, so, shrugging his broad shoulders, and with a last scowl at the impassive face of the young Shawanee brave, he turned on his heel in disgust. "Well, have your way, Armstrong," he said, moodily. "But, if I happen to run across this young savage in the forest, he will never return to his people to tattle about our weakness." "And if you attempt any treachery, Brady, you will answer to me for it, remember," declared David, sternly. "An' to me, by the pipers!" echoed O'Mara, shaking his head aggressively. "Have no fear as long as he is in your charge, neighbor, for I am not the man to stir up strife over one wretched Injun; but, after he _leaves_ you the case is different, and he can be safely potted by any white with a ready gun," and with this dark threat Brady stalked away. And the one who had been the cause for all this excitement did not utter a single word to show that he understood what a world of gratitude he owed to the two boys. But there was a look of intelligence in his face. He understood, and would not forget. The night was now gathering around them. Fires had been started, and every soul in the new settlement seemed to be busily engaged. Already had the Armstrong tent been raised, and things were assuming rather a cheery look around them. And, while they worked, many times did the eyes of those pioneers wander down to the placid surface of that broad and swift river, concerning which they had heard such extravagant tales. Supper was presently ready. It consisted of the simplest of fare, for luxuries were utterly unknown among these early settlers along the Ohio; but there was plenty and to spare, and their good wives knew how to cook it in an appetizing manner. Nor was the young Indian forgotten. He sat up and ate in silence. Not one word did he speak to express any gratitude, save when he was through, and ready to lie back again, at which time he gave a grunt, and remarked: "Ugh! good!" "I guess he doesn't know much English," observed Sandy, chuckling. "That may be," replied his brother; "but I've heard Pat say that these Indians never tell what they think. I reckon he _feels_ it all right, for I can see something in those snapping black eyes of his that tells me so every time he looks at either of us." "Yes, and you in particular, Bob," declared Sandy; "because he just can't understand why you treat him so fine, when he expected to be knocked on the head, like we do a lynx or a fox we find in our traps." The customary precautions were taken that night to guard against a surprise. The gloomy mysterious forest surrounded them on every side save the river, and who could say what terrible perils it concealed? Here roved fierce beasts of prey, the bear, the panther, and the wolf, besides possibly other species of animals the nature of which they did not know. But still more to be feared ten times over were those dusky hordes of savages, whose country they had invaded, if not with hostile intent, at least meaning to take it for the use of the white man. But there was no night alarm. Doubtless more than one among the women trembled as she lay awake during that first night on the bank of the Ohio, and listened to various sounds from the forest that might not be familiar to her ears, and which her fears magnified into signals exchanged between different parties of prowling Indians waiting for a chance to attack the intruders. But morning dawned, bright and rosy, and all was well. Bob had slept close to where his patient lay on a spare blanket. He entertained some anxiety lest Brady, or another of the same stripe, might deem it a duty to creep up in the darkness and finish the wounded Indian. Perhaps he did the man an injustice in suspecting anything of the sort; but Bob had inherited his forefathers' Scotch caution. All was soon animation. While the women prepared breakfast the hardy men selected the sites upon which they expected to begin erecting their future cabin homes. The Armstrongs were able to retain possession of the spot which had so pleased the boys, and David had even marked the dimensions of his new home upon the rich soil; after which he took his axe and started to hew down a tree that interfered with the raising of the cabin. Every soul in camp had plenty to do that wonderful day. The men worked early and late, assisting each other with the heavier labor of lifting the logs, after they had been properly hewn to fit. Even Pat swung a spare blade with more or less skill, for he intended to stay about until he had seen his good friends snugly installed in their new home. The wounded Indian seemed to be getting along splendidly. His was a tough constitution, and able to withstand a shock that would have easily been fatal to one less accustomed to privations and hardships. He passed a few words with Bob now, though his accomplishments in the line of English seemed limited. Indeed, it was a mystery where he had ever picked up what he did know; though later on Bob discovered that there had been a white woman taken prisoner by his tribe a year or two previous, and that before she died from some fever she had taken especial interest in young Blue Jacket, for some reason or other, teaching him many things. When again night closed around the new settlement there were a dozen cabins in process of being erected. If the good work kept up, more than one might have a roof completed by another sunset. A feeling of contentment reigned. Every one seemed delighted with the location, and expressed a feeling of gratitude toward Colonel Boone, in that he had guided them to this place, rather than allowed them to settle elsewhere further up the river. And, when another day was spent, the Armstrong cabin was among the three that had the roof completed, so that they could actually move their belongings inside, and feel as though their period of pilgrimage were at an end, since once more they had a place to call home. Trust that wife and mother to quickly add the delicate little touches that would give it the familiar air to which all of them were accustomed. It was commodious enough to allow of the wounded Indian's being carried within, which task was performed by the two boys, assisted by David himself; and the little mother superintended the job of making him comfortable. He was improving rapidly, and Bob knew that it would not be many days before his patient would be able to walk, for the wound had started to heal in a magical way. Though Blue Jacket said little, he watched all the while. Not a thing went on but that those beady black eyes saw it. "I wonder what he thinks of it all," Mrs. Armstrong said several times, as she noticed how he followed her around with his gaze, while she was engaged in some of her household duties. "I only hope he appreciates what you are doing for him enough not to bring any of his friends down on us some fine night," said David, who was only half reconciled to this state of affairs, and had little use for the copper-colored sons of the wilderness. As the days passed on, and there was no alarm of any kind, the new settlers found reason to hope that the Indians, having been taught a severe lesson in that battle of the night, meant to leave them alone. "Niver belave thot," said the wise O'Mara, when he heard this opinion expressed, "they do be the most treacherous av varmints. 'Tis the lot av thim wud lull yees to slape, an' then take yees be surprise. Watch always, me friends! Kape wun eye open whin yees slape! An' niver, niver go away from home widout a gun an' plenty av powder an' ball. Faith, I wudn't giv sixpence for the life av the man as niglected the proper precautions whin dalin' wid ridskins." More than a whole week had now gone since the little company of daring souls came to a halt in this chosen spot; and then, one morning, there fell in the midst of the Armstrong family an unexpected shock that took every one by surprise. CHAPTER XV THE SUDDEN PERIL "OH! he's gone!" Bob uttered these words one morning just after daybreak. Being the first to awaken, he had thought to start the fire so that his mother might prepare an early breakfast, since all of them were so full of business. For he and Sandy had planned to go into the woods that day, hoping to secure a deer, since the stock of provisions was growing low. "What ails you, Bob?" grunted Sandy, as he sat up on his blanket and dug his knuckles into a pair of heavy eyes. "Blue Jacket--he's disappeared!" exclaimed the other, still looking as though he could not just grasp the fact that was so apparent. Whereupon Sandy sprang up and stared at the corner where the wounded Indian had been accustomed to lying. The blanket was there, but no Blue Jacket! "What can have happened to him, Bob?" exclaimed the younger boy, staring at his brother. "You don't think that ugly Anthony Brady did it? Oh! he surely could not have dragged him away to do him harm?" "Well, hardly," said the wiser Bob, with a negative shake of the head; "because you see, Sandy, I was sleeping not five feet away from him all night, and you know I am not a hard sleeper. They couldn't have dragged him away and I not know it." "But what do you think happened?" queried the puzzled Sandy. "Blue Jacket crept away while we slept. He believed he was well enough to make the journey to his village home," Bob went on saying, just as though he understood it all perfectly now. "And without saying good-bye to any of us? Did you ever hear of such ingratitude?" exclaimed the other, throwing up both hands in disgust. "Wait. You do not know. Pat is still in the settlement, and we can ask him what he thinks about it. Anyhow, Indians are queer fish. They never do things the same way we do;" and Bob smiled at the angry look on his brother's face. "But if he wanted to go home why didn't he tell us, and say good-bye in the right sort of way, instead of sneaking off like a sly mink!" Sandy kept on saying. "Listen, and I'll tell you what I think. You know what Mr. Brady said about his meaning to shoot an Indian every time he saw one in the woods! Blue Jacket heard that, and he must have understood what it meant." "Of course he did, for I saw him watching Mr. Brady," Sandy admitted. "Well," said Bob, "you see, he believed that man was on the watch for the time he would leave us. Now you and I understand Brady has changed his mind a little about all Indians being bad. But Blue Jacket didn't know that. No doubt he suspected that, if he went away in the daytime, some one would slip after him and lay him low. And so he determined to go while we were asleep. What do you think of my guess now, Sandy!" "It sounds all right," declared Sandy, enthusiastically; "yes, I'd wager a shilling that you have struck the truth, Bob. It takes you to see through things. But here is father; let us put it up to him." Mr. Armstrong, upon hearing what had happened, immediately declared that the young Shawanee must have considered it the part of wisdom to slip away unnoticed while the settlement was wrapped in peaceful slumber. "Go out and ask the sentinels whether any of them saw him," he said to the two boys; "but I wager you will find that nobody knows the first thing about him." This proved to be the case, for, although the young pioneers made the rounds of the men who had been on guard duty during the entire night, in no quarter could they learn that a single flitting figure had really been seen. One man had believed he saw something, but reached the conclusion, after an investigation, that it had only been a prowling raccoon or an opossum, both of which animals were to be found in plenty near the new settlement. On the way back they ran across the genial Irish trapper. He was oiling some of his traps, as though ready to put them away until another season. "The ridskin gone, is it, me byes?" he observed, after Sandy had told him why they were going around asking questions. "Well, upon me honor I'm not wan bit surprised, knowin' the sly ways av the animal so well. But, by yer lave, I'll go wid yees till the home, an' say if the ungrateful skunk had the good manners to lave a sign to till what he thought." So it was Pat's eyes that discovered something fastened to a crevice between two of the logs, as yet unfilled by mud. It seemed to be a bit of inner bark which Blue Jacket must have obtained possession of recently, after he was able to limp around the interior of the new cabin, and even venture outside a little way. Upon this he had scratched various rude signs. To the ignorant boys they looked like the crude work of a little child attempting to draw a pig, and some other domestic animals; but with Pat O'Mara it was different. Every little mark had a meaning of its own in his experienced eyes, for he had seen much of this Indian picture writing. "Sure, 'tis just what I thought, byes," he declared, as he scanned this piece of bark with its cipher message. "He knowed wan av us min would be able to rade this missage." "But what does it say, Pat?" demanded the impatient Sandy. "In so many worrds thin," began the other, wrinkling his brows, "that he will niver, niver forgit what yees have done for him; and that some day perhaps he may have a chanct to repay ye for it all. Begorra, afther all the rid sarpint did have some falin' in him! I takes back all I iver sed aginst the lad. Who knows but thot this may be the interin' wedge whereby we may make a treaty av pace wid the bloody Injuns?" Both boys were sorry that Blue Jacket was gone. Bob in particular had begun to feel quite drawn to the young Indian. Of late they had spent considerable time trying to converse. The Shawanee had told him more or less about his tribe, and in turn had learned that the motives of the invading whites were not at all warlike, if they were only let alone. The axes sounded through the livelong day, as the settlers continued to clear away the woods which shut them in so closely. The further the fringe of nearest trees could be moved back, the freer would they breathe; for it seemed as though enemies must ever be lurking in the gloomy depths of the dense forest. Fish were taken from the river with the utmost ease, and furnished many a fine meal, though many of them were of a species utterly unknown to any of the settlers. Blue Jacket had said they were good to eat, however, and so they had been found on testing them. The cabins continued to arise, as it were, in a night. In this duty the new settlers always assisted one another when the time came for the log raising, since what was the interest of one must ever be the interest of all. As fast as the trees were cut down, the virgin soil was turned over, rich as it was in valuable leaf mold, and some of the seeds, so carefully hoarded during the long journey from their Virginia starting place, were planted. It was wonderful what rapid changes took place in that favored spot. Every sunset saw new cabins being topped with such rude shingles as the newcomers could hew from the timber which was so plentiful. No sooner was a cabin finished than the fortunate family would move in. Little they cared that there was not a piece of furniture awaiting them; and that tables and seats would all have to be made. A sound roof over their heads in case of storm was the main thing; besides, no doubt the women naturally felt safer behind stout walls, rather than settled in tents, or make-shift shelters of branches. They could not easily forget the terrors of that awful night when the Indians had attacked the camp, and looked eagerly forward to the day when the entire settlement might have a strong blockhouse where all could find safety in case of sudden need. Then, by degrees, came the work of making things more comfortable for the women. Nearly every man could use fairly well the primitive tools of the day; and where this skill were lacking he might exchange his abilities in some other line with a more accomplished neighbor, so that the necessary deal table, and the benches, as well as bunks, or rude beds, for sleeping, were secured. Certain of the members of the little community were given other tasks. Food had to be secured, and fortunately there was no lack, with the adjacent river to supply plenty of fresh fish for the taking, and the bountiful store of game awaiting the coming of the marksman. Thus, in a very brief space of time, things began to take on a homelike appearance. Outdoor cooking might still be indulged in to a great extent; but there would also be times when the tempting venison roast would again be made ready for the table by the turning of the familiar spit over a fire of red ashes on the big hearth. These hardy pioneers seldom had need of medicine, such was their active life, and plain wholesome fare; nevertheless, every family always kept a store of certain dried herbs used for fevers and other ailments. As a rule accidents alone required medical care; but there was always some woman in a settlement more highly favored than her companions in knowledge of nursing; and to her they looked in times of need. Many of their cooking utensils they made themselves out of clay, which was baked after a rude fashion, just as the Indians did. These vessels, while not very fine looking, answered most admirably the purposes to which they were put, and many of them have been handed down to the descendants of these early Ohio settlers, to be treasured with due reverence. Salt they could obtain readily enough. In Kentucky and Ohio in these days there were what were called "salt licks," because deer and buffalo frequented the places in order to gratify their longing for this almost indispensable commodity. Here they were able to secure with little effort whatever quantity of salt was needed. Bob and Sandy were always on the lookout for such "licks." They knew from Daniel Boone and O'Mara that, whenever they wanted deer, it was simplest to hide close to one of these salt licks, and wait until buck or doe came to gratify its craving; when they could usually secure their game by a single shot. It might seem rather hard that the poor deer should be taken advantage of in this way; but these men of the border looked upon the stocking of the limitless forest with various kinds of game as a wise provision of Nature, intended primarily for their good while peopling the land, and extending civilization westward toward that wonderful river of which they never tired of talking, the Mississippi. David Armstrong had considered the situation carefully before starting from Virginia on this long journey. He also talked it over with Pat O'Mara. Consequently he had utilized every bit of money he could lay hands on to purchase certain articles which the Irish trapper assured him could be traded to the friendly Indians for their precious pelts of mink, fox, beaver, bear and other kinds of wild animals. The French traders had, up to now, monopolized this business along the frontier all the way from the great inland seas, of which so little was known, down to the great province of Louisiana on the Gulf. They understood that their day would soon be brought to an end once the English invaded this vast territory; and consequently they were forever endeavoring to arouse the savages against Daniel Boone and those other hardy spirits who meant to chop out trails through the new country, and found a race of English-speaking settlers. Mr. Armstrong intended to become a trader. In this way he believed he might earn enough to support his little family; especially since he had two such industrious boys, who could do so much to help out by bringing in game in season, tilling the little garden around the new home, and making good use of the few rusty and cumbersome traps they had brought all the way from Virginia. In their hunts the boys had already learned that there was an apparently endless supply of small fur-bearing animals among the valleys within ten miles of their new home. "Just think what great times we can have next winter," said Sandy, as they prepared for another jaunt into the timber, and this subject was brought up by the sight of Pat's rusty traps hanging from a peg on the side of the inner wall; for Pat was now ready to take one of his periodical lonely trips deeper into the unknown region further down the great river. Just then the Irish trapper himself came out from the inner room, where he had been saying good-bye to their mother. "Sure it's off I am, me byes," he observed, as he held out a hand to each, while his humorous blue eyes twinkled as he strove to keep back the tear which tried desperately to break loose. "Take good care av yersilves, now. And whist, lads; until the spring rains do be comin' to wit down the dead laves in the forest, it wud pay yees to be careful how ye set a fire goin'. Wanst caught in a forest fire was enough for me, thank ye." "Why, of course we will, Pat," said Bob, shaking the honest hand of the trapper warmly; "and we all hope you will be back this way before long." "And if you run across Colonel Boone," remarked Sandy, "as I reckon you mean to, tell him how glad we are to be here." To all of which Pat promised faithfully; after which he shouldered his long barrelled rifle, gave a hitch to his leather trousers, waved his hand to Kate, who was looking out of the window, her pretty face bedewed with tears, and then, whistling merrily to hide his own emotion, he strode away. A minute later he waved to them from the border of the dense woods; then he was gone, and no one could say whether they would ever again look upon the genial face of the happy Irish trapper. For his life was one constant succession of perilous adventures amidst wild beasts and even wilder human beings, so that he actually held his existence in the hollow of his hand. "Come on, let us make a start," said Sandy, as impatient as ever. Presently the two lads found themselves tramping along through the woods, on the alert for any game worth wasting precious powder and lead upon. It had been quite mild of late, but to-day the wind had veered back into the old quarter where the ice king dwelt, and was growing stronger all the time. To the young hunters, however, the air was only invigorating, and gave tone to their efforts. "Queer that we have seen nothing worth shooting up to now," remarked Sandy, after they had been tramping a full hour. "What do you think is the matter, Bob? Can the Indians be about, and have they frightened all the deer and buffalo away?" Bob shook his head. "I was just wondering," he said, "if we made too much noise stalking through all these dead leaves. Did you ever see such a thick mass? And as dry as tinder, too. See, when the wind catches them up, how they whirl like mad." "Goodness!" remarked Sandy, remembering the caution of the trapper; "wouldn't it just be awful if they caught fire? We must be miles away from home, and could never reach it. What in the world would we do, Bob?" Then, as he glanced up at his brother when asking this question, he discovered that Bob was standing there, sniffing the air suspiciously! In the present excited condition of Sandy's nerves that, of course, was enough to set him wild. "What is it? You smell something--oh! Bob, please don't tell me that it is smoke!" he exclaimed, his voice trembling with sudden alarm. "That is just what I do smell," replied Bob, uneasily, though, seeing the distress of his brother, he immediately tried to laugh it off. "But perhaps it comes from some campfire started by the Indians. How do we know but what we may be close to a village, since no one has ever come this way before?" "Now I get it," cried Sandy, "and, Bob, listen, what can that roaring sound mean? Are we near the river, and is that a rapids of any sort?" In spite of his bravery, and his desire not to frighten Sandy, Bob felt that his face turned pale, for he knew instinctively what that strange sound meant. "Come, perhaps we had better turn around, and walk this way," he said, suiting his action to the words. "You know something, and you're trying to keep it from me, brother. That isn't fair. Tell me the worst, Bob! That rushing sound up on the wind--_does that mean the woods are on fire_?" "That is just what it means, Sandy," said the other, "and we must run like mad now!" CHAPTER XVI CHASED BY THE FLAMES "BUT this way is not the way home, Bob!" expostulated the younger lad, even as he clung close to the flying feet of his brother. "True," Bob flung over his shoulder, while he ran on; "but it is away from the fire, and that must be enough for us now. Can you go any faster, Sandy?" "I know what it is!" cried the other, his voice trembling under the great strain; "you mean that the noise is getting louder all the while! Then the fire must be gaining on us! We will be caught!" "Oh! I do not say that," and Bob fell back a trifle so as to run alongside his companion; "but it is certainly advancing very fast and furiously. This wild wind whips it along much quicker than any man can run." "Look!" cried Sandy, suddenly, "what is that over yonder? Surely it is a buffalo--two, three of them! And see how they gallop along, with their heads lowered, and the hot steam pouring from their nostrils!" "They smell the smoke and hear the noise," Bob replied, speaking in jerks as he ran. "Perhaps they may never have seen a fire before, but they know what it means. And there goes a stag! Look at the tremendous leaps he is taking! No danger of his being caught by the flames!" "Don't I wish we could run as fast! What a pair of horns for this time of year!" said Sandy, who knew that it was the season when stags lose their antlers, to be replaced with a new pair. "Too bad we could not get one of those buffalo," observed Bob; "but it would be wicked to kill the poor beast when we could never save the meat. Let them live to another day." "Yes, we have all we want to do now, trying to save ourselves," panted Sandy, who was not his brother's equal in running, and was already beginning to show evident signs of exhaustion. Bob noticed this with increasing uneasiness. "We can never get away by running," he declared, as he shortened his pace; and Sandy hastened to do likewise, with evident relief. "Would it do to climb high up in a tree?" the latter hazarded at a venture. "Not at all, for we should be smothered with the smoke, even if we managed to keep from being cured like bacon. But I was thinking that if only we could run across a hollow tree we might find refuge in it," said Bob, looking eagerly to the right and left. Already the smoke, driven ahead of the flames, was beginning to make objects indistinct around them. It burned their eyes, and caused a shortness of breath that was a sample of what it might be when the full force of the forest fire swept down upon them. "But suppose the tree caught fire, and burned," said Sandy, in bewilderment; "how could we save ourselves then?" "You don't understand, Sandy," returned the other, quickly. "The trees will hardly burn at this season of the year, being full of sap. This fire is made up of all the dead leaves and ground stuff. It is fierce while it lasts; but it burns out in a short time. All we need is some shelter that can hold out against that wall of flame coming down on us." Something in his brother's words caused Sandy to glance back just then. What the alarmed lad saw was a terrifying spectacle indeed. The fire was in sight, and coming on at headlong speed. The vast amount of dry material waiting to be snatched up by the leaping tongues of flame caused the fire to mount upward fully twenty feet in the air. [Illustration: "THE FIRE WAS ... COMING ON AT HEADLONG SPEED."] "It lies in both directions as far as I can see!" gasped Sandy, surprised at the extent of the conflagration that menaced them. "Yes. I knew it, and that was why we could not get beyond the end of the line. That wind is something terrible. Look out for that herd of deer, brother; they are heading straight for us, crazed with fear!" Just in time did Bob whirl in his tracks and fire his gun, almost in the faces of the onrushing group of maddened animals, and this action caused them to veer, so that they passed by without doing injury. "Oh! what a narrow escape!" cried Sandy, who had been almost paralyzed by the nature of the sudden peril confronting them. And now they saw all manner of frightened animals speeding away as fast as their legs could carry them. Besides, a flock of wild turkeys sprang up with a furious whirring of wings, and were gone like magic. Partridges sailed past the two boys in coveys. Here a pair of red foxes fairly flashed by, making incredible speed. Everything seemed capable of getting out of the way of those greedy flames save the two young pioneers. It appeared at times to poor, impatient Sandy that they were having one of those ugly nightmares, where one's feet are glued to the ground, and all the while the peril plunges along toward the wretched dreamer. "If we could only find a cave of any kind, it might keep us from getting scorched!" ventured Sandy presently, though he found he had to raise his voice considerably in order to be heard, so loud were those terrible noises that accompanied the rush of the fire wall. "But there are none around here, for I have been looking," answered Bob. "I saw lots a while ago, all sorts of queer holes in the ground and rocks. Oh! don't I wish we could find just one now!" cried the other. "Ha! here is what we are looking for, a hollow tree trunk!" Bob shouted, just at that moment, when hope had well nigh deserted poor Sandy. He dragged his brother over to the left, to where a rather large oak stood. "I just happened to look back, and saw the opening. The tree is hollow, brother! Push in, and try to close the opening all you can, so as to keep out the smoke!" Almost before he knew what Bob was about, Sandy found himself shoved through the rather narrow opening. "But it is not big enough for two! We can never stay here, Bob. Help me out!" for all at once the lad realized what his brother meant to do. Did he not know only too well the self-sacrificing devotion of Bob? The other meant that he should find possible safety in this snug retreat, while he took chances of discovering another hole in which to burrow. And if the fire rushed down upon him before this discovery could be made, what then? There would be only one of them go back to the new cabin in the clearing that looked out on the clear waters of the Ohio. "Stay where you are, and do not move, on your life, or you will ruin all! There is another hollow tree for me! Remember mother, and do what I say!" And, giving Sandy a last push, Bob darted away. Eagerly the boy, encased in the hollow tree, tried to follow his brother with his smarting eyes; but the smoke was growing very dense as well as pungent now, and he could hardly see at all for the tears that blinded him. So, not daring to disobey that last injunction on the part of Bob, whom he was accustomed to minding, he could only press his back into the cleft, to shut out the choking smoke, and count the seconds as they passed. The fire was quickly all around him, and he could feel the fierce heat of the burning leaves. Fear for his own safety was almost entirely lost sight of in his anxiety concerning Bob. What if he had not been able to find a hiding-place after all, and was exposed to the full fury of that scorching blast! The very thought made Sandy feel weak. He groaned in anguish, and, from the very depths of his boyish heart, a prayer went up for the safety of the brother whom he loved so well. Meanwhile, what of Bob, who took his life in his hand, content to feel assured that at the worst Sandy would be saved? When Bob declared so vehemently that there was another hollow tree for him near by he said that of which he was by no means certain. He did this in order that Sandy might not push out from his refuge, and insist on sharing his fate. Of course he still had hopes that he might yet find some friendly shelter from the flames; and, as he rushed along, his eyes sought every tree he passed, hoping thus to discover an opening, into which he might crowd himself, and bid the flames defiance. But the precious seconds were passing, and, as yet, he had found no shelter. Twice had he caught sight of what seemed a chance; but upon rushing up to the tree, his heart beating high with anticipation, it was only to discover that the split was not nearly large enough to allow of the passage of his body, and seconds were too valuable just then to dream of trying to slash at the wood with his sharp hunting knife in the hope of enlarging the opening. Long before he could do this the threatening billow of fire must have reached the spot, and passed over him, so, in despair, he rushed along, his eyes now even scanning the ground for some log behind which he might crawl. "Oh!" cried Bob suddenly, as his glance caught a dark opening in a half-dead tree trunk. It was some little distance from the ground, possibly ten feet or more, but as a few limbs remained on the decayed forest monarch, once blasted by a wind-storm while in its prime, he believed he might readily reach the friendly crevice ere the flames took hold upon his buckskin garments. Bob was almost exhausted from his violent exertions; but he certainly gave no evidence of the fact, to judge from the way in which he ran to that tree and commenced to clamber into the lower branches. Burning leaves were already being swept past him on the breath of the wind, to drop into new magazines of dry tinder, and start additional fires ahead of the main blaze. Madly did he climb upward, and never would he forget the sight that met his eyes while making for that promised haven of refuge. As far as he could see, both to the east and to the west, that bank of leaping roaring flame held sway. Once Bob had been taken down to the sea by his father, and he had never forgotten how the great waves came sweeping resistlessly on, to break with a crash on the shore. So, in his mind, appeared those onrolling billows of fire. He could hardly breathe now. That was because of the heat and smoke combined. A great fear possessed him that perhaps after he had reached this dark cleft in the tree he might find it utterly impossible to push his way past the guarding portals. In that case all was lost, and he need not even mind dropping back to the ground, for the end would find him where he was. But at least that fear was quickly laid to rest. "It's plenty big enough!" he cried aloud in his new delight, for the opening was now only a couple of feet away from his hands. After that all he had to do was to cram his body through the hole, and find the shelter he craved. "Hurrah!" Somehow he could not help giving vent to that boyish shout at the prospect of cheating the fire out of its anticipated prey, although he really had little breath to spare just then. He even fixed it in his mind just how he must first of all thrust his lower limbs through the opening, and then allow himself to slide downwards, for he could already see that the hole extended toward the earth. It was not the first time Bob Armstrong found his nice little calculations upset by circumstances utterly beyond his control. Perhaps it would not be the last, either, since he expected to spend the major portion of his life roving the wilderness, in search of game, and in such labor as became a true pioneer. Just as Bob reached the hole in the tree he became conscious of the fact that the old stump was being violently agitated, as though some one were climbing up below him. He even glanced down, filled with a dread lest Sandy had after all disobeyed, and chased after him. Then something else attracted his attention and he raised his eyes, to make a most unpleasant discovery. The hole in the tree was no longer vacant, but a bristling black head and a pair of very frightened eyes met his startled gaze! CHAPTER XVII A STRANGE PRISON THE bear looked at Bob; and Bob stared at the bear. It was a mutual surprise, though on the whole, perhaps, the animal was the more astonished, since up to this time he could not have had any inkling of the tremendous things that were occurring so near his home. He blinked his little eyes as the glare of the great conflagration dazzled his vision; but at the same time there was not the faintest indication that Mr. Bruin thought of dropping back into his snug retreat. Here was a pretty kettle of fish, with the bear wanting to come out, and Bob just as set upon going in. Evidently there was a conflict of opinions as to the proper thing to do when the forest took to blazing. Bruin believed flight might serve him best; while the young pioneer knew positively that in his case it would not answer at all. Of course, when he first caught sight of that black muzzle, the boy had given a low cry of alarm. Possibly Mr. Bear had never up to now heard a human voice save, it might be, the war whoop of the red man. It did not seem, however, to deter him in the least from trying to carry out his original plan. He began to move upward, and Bob could hear his sharp claws digging into the interior of the stump, assisting his progress. The situation needed prompt measures for relief. To drop down again to the ground was not to be considered for a moment, since there was the advancing fire to consider. Fortunately Bob was a quick thinker, and often did things on the spur of the moment, as though acting from intuition rather than after deliberation and planning. Let the bear come out, if that was his intention! Not for the whole world would he offer the slightest objection to such a process, for he wanted that snug den in the stump, and he wanted it more, apparently, than the beast did. At the same time a collision was not at all to his liking. He had his gun strapped to his back, and was therefore in no condition to defend himself. The only way to avoid a meeting was to give the beast plenty of room. Undoubtedly the bear was growing frantic with fear at sight of the fire. Some inward sense told Bruin that the gravest danger of his whole life now faced him, and, unable to understand that the safest course would have been to drop back inside his fortress and let the hurricane of fire sweep past, he was bent on fleeing before the gale. Of course it would prove a fatal error of judgment for the animal, but what was Bruin's loss might be Bob's gain. Already his head and shoulders had issued from the hole, and he was surging forward, intent on one thing, which was to quit his quarters as speedily as his huge bulk would permit it. Bob swung himself half way around the trunk of the tree. He found it rather difficult to hang on, but, being tenacious by nature, and a good climber, he clung desperately to what stubs of branches he found there. Would the beast follow after him, bent on making an attack on the bold two-legged enemy that had ventured to brazenly face him at the mouth of his private castle? Bob had little fear of this. He believed the bear was too much alarmed by the unusual spectacle of the woods afire, and was seized with the same sort of panic that had sent buffalo, stags, wolves, foxes and even a gray panther bounding along to leeward as fast as their muscles could drive them. He knew when Bruin had managed to drag his entire bulk out from the enclosure, for the scene was by this time as well lighted up as though the sun shone through the eddying smoke clouds, only it was a red, angry glare, peculiarly terrifying. Yes, thank goodness, the beast was scurrying down the trunk of the old tree as fast as he possibly could. Fright urged him on, and Bob could not help adding to the situation by giving a shrill whoop. "Thank you, sir; with your leave I will tumble into your late berth," he exclaimed, as he struggled to pass around the stump again, in order to reach the opening. Short as was the time consumed in doing this, when he reached the gap in the trunk the bear had already tumbled to the ground. Bob heard the beast give utterance to a subdued roar, as though some of the flying leaves that were afire might have alighted on his hairy hide; then the black beast galloped madly off, heading in a direct line away from the approaching fire. But well did Bob know that, unless Bruin had some near-by cave in mind when he thus scampered off, the chances were ten to one he would roast in the conflagration, since he could never hope to outstrip its onward rush. Bob did not stop to see anything more just then. The air was already scorching, the smoke blinding, and there was danger lest his garments take fire unless he speedily dropped out of reach of the flying leaves. Of course there was only one way in which to properly enter that hole in the old tree trunk. That was feet first, just as the original proprietor of the den had been in the habit of doing. Regardless of almost everything else save the fact that he was in a tremendous hurry, the boy pushed his figure through the aperture. Since there was nothing to which he could apply his moccasined toes, in order to stay his downward movement, the consequence of haste was that Bob took a quick passage to the very bottom of the tree trunk. Beyond a few minor scratches, however, he did not think that he had received any hurt, and such trifles were not to be considered, when he had such a serious problem at stake as saving his life. Looking upward he could see the opening, for through it glowed the light of the conflagration. From this he was able to judge that the aperture must be some five feet above his head. There was ample room in the stump's interior for the boy to move around, and, on the whole, he did not doubt but that it had formed quite a pleasant den in which a bear could hibernate through the long winter. Already could he hear the roar of the flames all around him. Really, the sound was rather terrifying, though he knew full well it would be quickly over. At least there was now no fear of the bear returning. That possibility had worried Bob for a brief period, since it would be very inconvenient to have had the singed animal dropping down upon him in that confined space. "Phew! but it's getting warm in here!" he could not help exclaiming, as the perspiration began to ooze from his pores, and he found himself actually panting for breath. He judged that by now he was in the worst of the fire. This meant that it would have swept past the tree in another couple of minutes, and after that the heat must gradually decrease. Yes, already he felt sure that the loud roaring was growing sensibly less. The wave of fire had passed on, snatching up new supplies of dry fuel as it rushed along its way on the teeth of the wind. More than once his thoughts had gone out to Sandy. "Oh! I hope he stayed where I put him, and that all is well," he kept repeating to himself, as he sweltered in his hot oven. Surely it ought to be getting much more comfortable by now; and yet Bob could not positively say that he felt any cooling influence. Perhaps he would be wise to climb upward toward the exit, ready to thrust his head out, and see how the land lay. No sooner had this idea flashed upon him than he started to carry it out, only to make a very unpleasant discovery. He groped around him, seeking to find some projection that would give a grip or a foothold, but only to meet with grievous disappointment. "Why, what shall I do?" he cried aloud, in his sudden chagrin. "The inside of this old tree is as smooth as an otter slide! And I have no claws, like the bear, to help me climb up!" He tried pushing his back against one side of the hollow, while with his knees and hands he pressed against the opposite wall. It was a favorite trick which Bob had carried out successfully on more than one occasion. Somehow it did not seem to work now. Whether in his excitement he failed to take advantage of every little gain, or because the bear in his frequent passage up and down had polished the chute so that it was impossible for the boy to hold on, was a question Bob never found himself fully qualified to answer. All he knew was that three times he managed to get up a little distance, only to suddenly slide down again and land in a heap at the bottom. His failures were discouraging, to say the least. The worst of it all was that there did not seem to be any hope that, even given time, he could manage to accomplish the task, unless he took out his knife and deliberately hacked notches in the sides of his prison upon which he could rest his toes. That would take hours of time; and meanwhile what of Sandy? "I'll give it another try," he muttered, loth to confess himself beaten, "and then, if I fail to make it, something else must be done, for out of this I'm going to get, by hook or by crook!" This time he took particular pains in his movements. Inch by inch he kept advancing by that shuffling movement that always pushed his figure away from the ground. Hope even began to find a lodgment in his breast, for the bottom of the aperture seemed now within a foot of his reach, and, once let him get a grip on that, he could count the battle won. Then again there came a miscalculation, a trifling slip that upset his gravity, and once more poor Bob went plunging down to the bottom, worse off than ever. He actually grunted and groaned as he sat there, feeling to see if he had received any more damage than a few bruises from this heavy fall. And, strange to say, his back seemed to trouble him more than any other part of his body. "Feels as if I had started to roast along my spine," he said, as he found his buckskin tunic exceedingly hot when he laid a hand on it. Then, all at once, the truth burst upon him. "The old stump is afire! That's what that flashing means I saw through the opening! Why, I may be roasted here after all! What can I do?" he asked himself, once more struggling to his feet, and forgetting all his minor injuries as he contemplated this serious condition. To find out if his suspicion were true he started placing his hand at various spots along the inside of the tree trunk, and, from the intense heat, he found little hope that he had made a mistake. Was it worth while trying again to mount upward? Could he dig his toes into the smooth walls with enough vigor to sustain his weight? Four failures rather dampened his ardor along this line. His groping hand came in contact with his musket, which he had thrown aside on first finding himself caged in this trap. It had been leaning against the side of his prison all the while. To fire it would be useless, for who was there to come to his assistance? Suppose he managed to climb up again as far as on the last disastrous occasion, could he get any support by placing the butt of the gun upward, as a rest for one foot? It was a last desperate resort, and poor Bob shuddered at pressing his already tortured back against that heated wooden funnel. If there were only some other way by which he might hope to gain the outer air, how gladly would he welcome it! Just then he noticed something--he had really seen it before, but paid little attention to the fact, being wholly taken up with the idea of reaching the hole above. And, while this new sight did not seem to hold out any positive chances for an escape from his burning prison, Bob believed that it might be worth throwing all his last efforts into this new channel. CHAPTER XVIII AFTER THE FOREST FIRE THE old tree trunk was slowly giving way to the demands of Nature. It had a split up and down one side, where doubtless the wood was rotting away. Bob could see out of it--see the gray, smoky landscape, still lighted by flashes of fire. During the progress of the fire he had even watched the roaring whirlwind sweep past; and then forgotten all about this crevice in his mad desire to climb up to the hole that served as the bear's exit. The thought that came to him was this--that perhaps with the aid of his sharp hunting knife, and a set determination to bring about results, he might manage to enlarge this narrow opening enough to admit of his bursting forth! He did not lose another second in wondering whether it could be done. There was absolutely nothing else for him to try, if he hoped to keep from being slowly suffocated in that prison cell. He could do it, he _must_ do it! When he set to work, he found at once that the wood was inclined to be soft and wormy, especially close to the crack. Time had overcome the hardness of the oak, and under his vigorous assault it fairly crumbled away in sections. After what may have been a minute's labor but which seemed much longer, Bob was able to thrust his whole arm through the cleft he had made. At that rate he would soon be free. The very thought gave him new energy, and he went at the task even more fiercely than before. But somehow his rate of progress did not seem to increase in proportion to the extra vim he threw into the work. Evidently the deeper he cut, the harder the wood became. It was decayed only along the crevice! Realizing this, he now turned his attention to the other side, and for a brief time all went smoothly, progress being rapid. Now he could even thrust a leg out of his cell. Twice that dimension, and the gap would be large enough to admit of the passage of his entire body. But surely it was getting much hotter inside the stump. The fire had taken hold in earnest. He believed that the flames must be curling around the old tree, and mounting upward while they fed upon the dead wood. It mattered not just then that his hand grew sore from constant friction with the rough buck-horn handle of his knife. Such little things could not count when everything depended on his making a success of his effort. Just then Bob needed all the encouragement he could find. He realized this, and to try and cheer up his drooping spirits he started talking to himself while he worked, even laughing from time to time. It encouraged him, and could do no harm. "That was a good slice, Bob!" he went on, just as though it might be his mother speaking, "Keep it up, my boy! You're just bound to break out of this smoke-stack soon! Nothing can stop you, now you've got started in the right direction. Hey! almost dropped my knife outside that time. Gracious! what if it had gone beyond my reach! You must be more careful after this, Robert, my lad!" He sliced away, and the opening grew wider; but, oh! how slowly its dimensions increased, and how much hotter did the air seem all around him! Was it fated that he should be smothered here, suffocated by the pungent smoke that caught his breath, and seemed to choke him? He would not allow himself to give way to even the thought of such a horrible thing. "Sure you will get through, Bob!" he shouted, as he kept working away with every atom of strength. "Why, the hole must be mighty near big enough now for you to slip through. Sandy could do it, I know, and I'm not much stouter than he. Just hold out a little longer, boy! Keep at it, and success must come." His knife was no longer keen, since its working edge had been worn away against the tough wood; but, under the efforts Bob put into his work, it still sliced off shavings with every downward movement. He thrust his head forward, more in the desire to suck in some of the outer air than because he expected to be able to pass it through the opening. A thrill shook his whole frame when he found that he could thus thrust his head completely out of the prison cell. Seized with a new hope he began wriggling his body sideways, his right shoulder first of all being pushed through. And though it proved a tremendous task, and a tight fit, Bob managed to press completely through the narrow aperture! He fell in a heap on the ground, almost done for, yet with a feeling of thanksgiving. And his second thought was of that mother who he knew full well would be heartbroken should anything happen to either Sandy or himself. Although Bob had apparently collapsed after bursting out from his strange prison, he did not long remain there on the earth. "I must be up and doing," he cried, as he struggled to gain his feet. There was Sandy to think of, and, besides, it was quite too hot so close to the burning stump. How he longed for a cool drink to moisten his parched throat! "My gun! I could not think of leaving that behind!" he exclaimed, turning back once more, after starting to leave the scene of his singular adventure. Throwing himself down on the ground, he pushed close up to the tree and inserted his arm, groping in the quarter where he remembered his musket had last stood. At first he failed to touch it. "Why, that's odd," he exclaimed, dismayed at the idea of losing his precious weapon, for another could not probably have been obtained in its place for long, weary months. Perhaps, after all, it happened to be just out of reach of his fingers. Thinking thus, Bob snatched up a piece of wood that had escaped the ground conflagration. It was about a foot or so in length, and afforded him the assistance he needed. "There it is, if I can only start it coming this way!" he observed, still imbibing renewed courage from his habit of talking to himself. It proved that he could readily manage to move the heavy gun; and almost immediately his eager fingers were clutching the butt of the musket. "Now, after all, I'm little the worse off for it all," declared Bob, as he hastened to scramble further away from the pillar of fire before rising to his feet; "and the next thing is--Sandy!" He seemed to feel a sudden sinking in the region of his heart just at thought of his brother, and yet, if the boy had followed his instructions to the letter, surely no ill could have overwhelmed him. "That tree was sounder than the one where the bear had his den," he kept muttering to himself as he hurried along over the blackened ground in the direction where he believed he must find the hollow oak given over to Sandy; "and after it was all over he could come out much easier than I did. But why have I not heard his signal call? Would he not follow after the fire, seeking some sign of me?" Bob had just come through a very extraordinary adventure, for some time his life had actually hung in the balance; but he quickly forgot all about this in the new anxiety about his brother. More than once he had to cast about him to be sure that he was heading the right way. Somehow, since the fire had burned over the ground, eating up the masses of dead leaves and other inflammable growths, things did not look the same as before. "But the wind came down from the north," he kept saying, as he pushed doggedly on over the smoking ground; "and that is the way I'm going back now. Only, I seem to be in a new part of the forest, things look so different. But hold on, Bob, there's that cross formed by two trees that fell toward each other. I remember that plainly, and it was just after I left Sandy, too." Now he was sure that the hollow tree must be somewhere close by. He raised his voice, and called the name of his brother. "Sandy! Hello! where are you?" Through the desolate forest, with its blackened carpet, the sound of his voice came back to mock him. Nothing else responded to his hail. Louder than before he shouted, but there was no answering call. Bob again felt that terrible chill in the region of his heart. A brief time before, and he had been apparently burning up; now he was shivering. "There it is!" he suddenly cried, as he happened to let his wandering gaze fall upon a tree that seemed to have a gap in its side. He hurried forward. Even as he advanced other familiar things greeted him, so that his last lingering doubt vanished. "It's the tree, surely," he muttered, straining his eyes to see within, and almost holding his very breath lest he discover a motionless figure in the cavity. But it was empty! At least Sandy had not been smothered by the dense smoke; he must have left his retreat. "Oh! I hope he stayed here until the worst was over!" was the cry that burst from the boy, as he stood there, staring into the empty _cache_, which he had intended to be a means of life-saving to his brother. He turned and looked around. There did not seem to be a living thing in sight. Animals and birds had all been driven away by the fire, which was doubtless still rushing through the woods far to the south. Was it worth while to call out again? Surely if Sandy had been within half a mile of him he must have heard that last shout! Puzzled, and sorely distressed, Bob hardly knew what to do. He even looked again into the hollow tree, as though in that way he might receive an answer to his question as to what had become of his brother. And he did. For, when he looked down, he saw that there had gathered quite a quantity of dead wood within the cavity. It had not dried out since the last rain, some time before, which must have driven into the cleft. And plainly he could see marks there that must have been made by Sandy! This gave him an idea, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. Of what use was his forest training if he could not ascertain whether Sandy had issued from the tree before, or after, the fire? Down he dropped on his hands and knees. The very first thing he discovered was the positive impression made by one of his brother's new moccasins, given to him by Colonel Boone before the great hunter had said good-bye. It was plainly made after the fire had passed, of that Bob felt certain; and the fact gave him the keenest of pleasure, since it assured him of Sandy's having passed through the siege unharmed. But why had he not answered his shouts? Where could he have wandered to, that he failed to hear a far-reaching hail, such as the strong lungs of his brother had sent sounding through the forest? Bob began to follow the footprints. At least Sandy must have intended to seek him, for he had commenced to chase _after_ the fire. "Oh!" gasped the boy, suddenly coming to a stop, and gazing in alarm at some new marks that met his eyes. They were also moccasin tracks! More than that, they seemed to mingle with the smaller ones made by Sandy. Bob bent closer, his heart seeming to leap into his throat as a dreadful fear clutched him. One thing he noted that gave him this new chill--every one of the new footprints _toed in_! He knew what this signified. White men seldom tread that way, but it is the universal custom of Indians to walk after the fashion called "pigeon-toe" as nature undoubtedly intended should be done. Then Indians had been here,--after the fire, too; and poor Sandy must have fallen into their hands! CHAPTER XIX CAPTURED BY THE SHAWANEES "GLORY! but that was a hot time!" Sandy thrust his head out of the hollow tree as he gasped these words. The fire had swept past as he crouched there, trying to hold his breath, and wondering if it would reach into the aperture and seize hold of his garments. And now it was gone. He could hardly believe the truth, and that he had really escaped without any injury. Down the wind he could see the angry glow that marked the fire line. Here and there little blazes still remained, where a winrow of the dead leaves had offered fat pickings for the flames. And smoke curled up everywhere, sickening smoke that made the eyes smart. "But what of Bob?" That was the chief thought that surged through the mind of the boy as he crouched there inside his refuge and stared out at the strange scene. "Oh! what if he did not find a place to hide? What if he was caught in the open? I can stand this suspense no longer. I _must_ know the worst!" As he said this with a quavering voice, he issued from the tree. The earth was still hot after its recent burning; but, by picking his way, Sandy believed that he might find it possible to walk on in the direction the fire had swept along. He called to Bob as he moved. Once his heart seemed to leap into his mouth, for he thought he saw something move ahead; but, though he turned a little aside so as to advance that way, he failed to see it again. Then he stopped to consider. Was it wise for him to wander off in this manner, without a definite plan? Had not Bob told him to stay where he was until he came? He might get lost, and only add to their troubles. Yes, perhaps he had better restrain his impatience, and wait a reasonable time to see whether Bob would not show himself. It was while he stood thus, close to an unusually large tree, that something came to pass, possibly the very last thing in all the world Sandy was thinking about. A pair of muscular bronzed arms suddenly closed about the boy. Struggling hard, and twisting his head back, he found to his horror that he was looking into the painted face of an Indian warrior. [Illustration: "A PAIR OF MUSCULAR BRONZED ARMS SUDDENLY CLOSED ABOUT THE BOY."] Then he heard the brave give vent to a screech, which must have been some sort of signal, for immediately three other feathered heads popped into view, one of them from behind the very tree where Sandy had believed he saw something move. In vain the boy struggled with all his might; his strength was not equal to that of the man who held him, and, when the four ugly looking red men had gathered around him, the nearest snatched his musket away. "Ugh!" grunted his captor, suddenly releasing his arms. Sandy stood there in their midst, white and alarmed, but trying to summon all his resolution. And, indeed, if ever the boy needed his courage it was at that moment, when he realized that he was alone and powerless in the hands of the hostile Shawanees. Would they proceed to kill him then and there? He had heard terrible stories about the cruelty of these copper-colored sons of the wilderness. Now they were jabbering away in an unknown tongue. Occasionally they would point at him, as though he must be the subject of their talk, as he had no doubt was the case. "Oh! I wonder if they really mean to do it," was what Sandy was saying to himself, as he listened to the vigorous language, which to him was utterly without sense, although he felt sure that Colonel Boone could have understood every word of it. Then he saw one fellow, who seemed to scowl, fingering his tomahawk in a suggestive manner that made Sandy's very blood run cold. Thinking he saw a chance to bolt, the boy suddenly sprinted off. But ere he had gone twenty feet his arm was clutched in a dusky hand, and his flight brought to a halt. At least one of his captors could speak some English, and he shook his knife in Sandy's face: "No run--paleface boy try more, we kill!" Sandy managed to pluck up a little fresh hope. From what the painted brave said, if he tried again to escape they would do something desperate. Did that mean they would let him live if he gave in, and allowed himself to be made a prisoner? The man who gripped him held his hands behind, while another secured his wrists together with buckskin thongs. That looked as though they meant to take him along with them, perhaps to their village. And so presently Sandy found himself marching along over the blackened ground, hedged in by a quartette of vicious looking Indians. They paid little attention to him, though if at any time he seemed to slacken his pace, which was a jog-trot, such as Indians can keep up all day, he received, as a gentle reminder that he was to put on fresh speed, a dig in the ribs from one of those in the rear. Sandy never forgot that little excursion. While he may not have covered a great many miles, his spirits were so low that it seemed the most miserable period of his whole life. What had happened to Bob? That was the burden of his thoughts. He even found himself wondering whether his brother could have fallen in with these red men, and met with disaster. Then he noticed that one of the four carried a gun, and that it was such a weapon as the French traders used in dealing with the Indians, and not a staunch musket like the English possessed. If Bob had escaped both the peril of the fire and that of the Indians, would he discover what had happened to his brother and carry the news home? By degrees they had edged away from the burned tract. The wind had died out, and finally, after crossing a line of flickering flames that was making but poor progress, Sandy discovered that they no longer walked through blackened stuff, but upon leaves that had not felt the touch of fire. "Why, there must have been a shower over this way," he said to himself, noticing that the ground seemed wet; and that was exactly what had happened. He heard his captors exchanging remarks again, and from their manner guessed that the end of their pilgrimage must be close at hand. "Perhaps it is a village they are taking me to," he said, remembering what he had heard from Blue Jacket. Surely that was a dog barking somewhere ahead. Did the Indians have dogs? Yes, he remembered that this was so. Blue Jacket had told him how they had been bred from wolves, that long ago had been taken captive, so that they still possessed many of the savage traits that had marked their ancestors. And then as they pushed out of the forest he suddenly set eyes on the Shawanee village. It stood on the bank of a small stream, no doubt a tributary to the great Ohio. There were scores of skin lodges, each one gaudily painted with rude scenes representing some stirring incidents in the lives of the braves who owned them. In spite of the distressing condition in which he found himself placed, Sandy could not help feeling interested in the strange spectacle, for never before had he so much as looked upon a genuine Indian wigwam. He was not allowed to enjoy it long, however. As soon as the news that a prisoner had been brought in was circulated among the dusky occupants of the lodges, the utmost confusion abounded. Braves came thronging out to meet the returning warriors, squaws chattering, papooses squalling, and even half-naked youngsters adding to the clamor. Poor Sandy was pinched and poked and pushed about at the hands of the throng until he really feared for his life. Angry looks were cast upon him. Apparently there had been braves who had gone forth from this village upon the warpath to return no more. They seemed to want to vent their anger upon the head of the white boy who had fallen into their hands. Sandy was glad when they thrust him inside a lodge. So roughly was this done that the boy, rendered partly helpless by his bonds, reeled and fell on his face on the ground. Fortunately, however, the earth proved yielding, so that he was not seriously injured. Struggling to a sitting position, he tried to bolster up his courage by remembering all that he had ever heard about Indian villages from Pat O'Mara, and also from Daniel Boone himself, during that day's tramp through the forest. "And they said that these redskins like to burn their prisoners at the stake," Sandy whispered to himself, as he shook his head dolefully. "Oh! I hope they will never try that! I'm sure that was roast enough for me in that old tree. Perhaps now that old hag means to adopt me. She acted like it, when she threw her wrinkled arms around me, and jabbered so. And Colonel Boone told me how he was adopted into an Indian tribe, not long ago. She is a horrible looking old squaw; but better be made her son than--the other thing!" The day slowly died, and Sandy looked to the coming of night with new terror. He could not exactly remember whether it was in the evening or the morning that the Indians always burned their prisoners. "It would make some difference if I only knew," he said, with hope still fluttering in his boyish heart. He had some difficulty in creeping to the entrance of the lodge, but was determined to peep out again and see if there were any grim signs, such as the planting of a stake or the gathering of brush. "I can see nothing out of the way," he muttered, after carefully looking as well as the circumstances allowed. Fires had been lighted, and the squaws seemed to be getting a meal ready, though, from what he had heard, Sandy understood that the red men have really no set time for eating, like their paleface brothers; simply waiting until they are hungry, and then satisfying the demands of nature with food. It was a scene of bustle, with many dusky figures flitting about the fires. "I wonder if I could manage to get away from here, in case I got my hands free?" Sandy was saying; but almost immediately he discovered that close by was a squatting figure, evidently a guard, for he held a gun in his hands and seemed to be intently watching the head of the prisoner. So Sandy with a sigh drew back and waited for something to turn up. He was a most disconsolate figure as he crouched there, anticipating the worst; yet, while thinking of home and mother, trying to hope for the best. Then suddenly he started. Surely that was not the voice of an Indian he heard! Again he scrambled to the opening and thrust out his head. A neighboring fire lighted up the scene. It was of unusual size, and the boy immediately conceived the idea that the Indians meant to hold some sort of council, perhaps to decide his fate, for many were gathering around, with braves in the middle, and the squaws and boys on the outer fringe. And standing close by, in earnest conversation with one who seemed to be something of a chief, was a man in buckskin, a white man at that. At first Sandy felt a quick pulsation of fierce joy. Just to see a white man among all these dusky sons of the wilderness seemed to give him fresh courage. Then a spasm of chagrin passed over him, for he had remembered the stories told by Daniel Boone of those renegades, such as Simon Girty, who had turned their hand against their kind, and fought side by side with the savages, more cruel even than the Indians they had taken to be their brothers. "But no, he must be a French trader," he said immediately, as he listened to the voice of the man in buckskin; "like that Jacques Larue we met when we stopped at Will's Creek on the way from Virginia. It is the same! Yes, now I can see his face plainly. Oh! I wonder if he would help me get away!" Filled with this newly-awakened hope the boy prisoner lifted his voice and called out: "Monsieur Larue! oh! come this way, if you please!" CHAPTER XX THE COUNCIL FIRE "WHO calls me?" exclaimed the French trader, looking around him in some surprise. Evidently, although he must have known that the Indians had a prisoner, whose fate was to be decided at the council that was even then gathering, he could never have dreamed, up to now, that it was any one who knew him. "This way, please, monsieur. I am here in the lodge! Just to your right; now, if you look down you will see me!" cried Sandy, eagerly, though, if asked, he could not have told just why he fancied the Frenchman would assist him in the least. "Sacre! what haf we here? A young Eenglish viper, it seems. Ha! and surely ve haf before now met! Is it not so?" said the trader, as by the light of the council fire he saw Sandy's face. "Oh! yes, it was at Will's Creek. You remember we came into the place just before you left there, monsieur? You asked my father ever so many questions about what his business was. I am Sandy Armstrong, the youngest of his boys." "So, zat ees the vay ze vind blows? You belong to zat Eenglish colony zat mean to cheat honest men out of zere bread and butter. Worst of all, you own to being ze son of ze very man who would take away our trade with ze red men! Ho! Sandy Armstrong, say you? A very good evening to you, Sandy. It ees quite varm, but perhaps not yet so varm as it may be, eh?" The words were filled with much more of bitterness than seemed possible on the surface. Although he had not yet appealed to the trader for assistance, Sandy understood that no matter what he said, it would never touch the stony heart of the Frenchman. Jacques Larue was one of those frontiersmen who, having spent much of their lives amid scenes of turmoil and violence, could not listen to a plea for mercy, especially when uttered in an English voice. "But I am a prisoner here, and these Indians may mean to put me to death?" the boy went on, making a last effort to touch the trader. With a shrug of the shoulders the indifferent Frenchman answered back: "Zat would be a great pity--for ze muzzer. But what would you haf me do? Zese Indians haf been my good friends. Zey haf lost many of zere best braves in zat battle with your people. It is ze habit of ze red men to put prisoners to ze death. I am sorry for you, boy; but my business it ees too valuable to reesk it by offending zese friends. So again, I bid you ze good evening, young Armstrong." Trembling with indignation, Sandy cast discretion to the winds. "Yes, I know why you will not lift a finger to try and save me!" he cried aloud; "you hate my father just because he expects to trade honestly with the friendly Indians. I have heard Colonel Boone speak of you and your breed. You set the redskins against the English--you fill them with firewater, and start them out on the warpath, to burn and murder. You are like a snake in the grass, Jacques Larue. And some day the rifle of a true borderer like Boone will lay you low!" The Frenchman could hardly believe his ears. For a mere youth to brave him thus to his face staggered him. He took a step toward the lodge, and half raised his arm as though tempted to strike the boy. "Yes, that would be just like a man of your stripe, Monsieur Larue. Helpless, a prisoner, and with my hands tied behind my back, hit me if it please you!" dared the impetuous lad, not even deigning to move back into the recesses of his lodge. "Sacre! I forgot!" muttered the Frenchman, bringing himself up with a round turn; and, whirling on his heel, he strode off toward the circle of braves. Presently several warriors were dispatched to convey the captive to the council ring. One of them Sandy recognized as the fellow who had spoken a few words of English at the time of his capture. "Cut my hands loose," he pleaded, backing up to this brave in a suggestive manner. "Surely you need not be afraid of my running away. But my arms are so tired of being cramped in this way. Use your knife, Mr. Eagle Feather!" for, though he had no idea of what the name of the brave might be, he recognized the three feathers in his scalp-lock as belonging to the king of birds. "Ugh! paleface boy say true. No danger run away!" and with the words the other drew his knife, the same with which he had once threatened Sandy, across the stout buckskin thongs. "That feels better; and thank you for it," observed the boy, with a nod, as his hands fell apart, and he could chafe his numb wrists into a state of feeling. "Ugh! paleface boy much brave! Tell Swift Bullet him fool! Ugh!" said the warrior, as he took hold of Sandy's right arm, a companion leading him on the left. From these few words the boy understood, first, that the French trader must go by the name of Swift Bullet among the Shawanees; second, that the brave had heard all that had just passed between them; and, last of all, that possibly he did not chance to bear the best of feelings toward the French trader, since he evidently admired the stripling who dared defy Larue. When he found himself in the midst of that great throng Sandy's heart misgave him. Every face around the triple circle of braves looked dark and forbidding. In fact, aside from this single warrior who had helped capture him, he did not seem to have a single friend in the village. The French trader was present, sitting cross-legged beside the head chief. He smiled most of the time, as though simply amused at what was going on. Evidently Jacques Larue cared precious little whether the council decided upon the death of the young English pioneer or not. He looked upon all such as a breed of vipers, to be treated with scant ceremony whenever encountered. Of course Sandy could not understand what was said, so far as words went; but there was no mistaking the gestures of the speakers, some of which were passionate and striking. They were calling for his blood! Those who had fallen in battle must be avenged. Boy or not, he belonged to the hated English, and was not their country, given to them by the Great Spirit, being invaded by these bold compatriots of Boone and Harrod? Those very names were mentioned, and by Indian lips. Somehow, in his great extremity, the imperilled lad seemed to draw new inspiration from just hearing that magical name of Boone. He noted that every time the chief uttered it there was an uneasy movement that passed through, the entire assemblage; while many a head was half turned, as though a sudden fear had sprung into being lest the famous borderer make his appearance there before them, demanding that the prisoner be released. What manner of man could this be, that even the mention of his name should cause a shiver to pass through an Indian council? "I believe they're going to do it!" Sandy whispered to himself, when he saw how still more threatening looks were cast upon him. Then came the medicine man, dressed in most fantastic garb, and wearing a head of a bear, that had attached to it the horns of a buffalo. Into the circle he danced, waving his hands, and crooning some weird song that seemed to hold his hearers entranced, though to Sandy it sounded like the worst gibberish he had ever heard. But soon he, too, was following the movements of the old charmer with deepest anxiety; for it became impressed upon his mind that, after all, much depended on what he might decide. The medicine man was believed to be in direct communication with the Great Spirit, and could, after certain incantations, learn what the will of the Manitou might be. If he said that the prisoner must be burned, nothing could save Sandy. On the contrary, should the medicine man declare that the voice of Manitou declared that some other fate be meted out to the paleface captive, his word was law. Just then Sandy had his attention called to a movement in another quarter. "Oh! there is the old squaw who hugged me!" he exclaimed, almost holding his breath in suspense; "and she seems to be wanting to jump forward when the right time comes. All may not be lost. Perhaps I could never love her; but I'd be grateful if she saved my life!" Once the boy had been seized with a sudden hope, and had eagerly scanned each and every face in all that triple circle. "No, he is not here," he muttered in a disappointed tone; "perhaps he never got back home. Perhaps his wound broke out again, and he fell by the way! Such hard luck!" He was thinking of Blue Jacket, the young brave whom he and Bob had nursed back from the border of the grave. But Blue Jacket was certainly not there; or, if so, realizing his inability to help his young white friend, he kept his face hidden in his blanket of buffalo skin. And now the dancing medicine man's movements grew more rapid. He whirled his arms more violently above his head, and the various metal ornaments which were hung about his person jangled not unmusically, adding to the weird aspect of the scene. Apparently he had reached a point where he was about to launch his decision at the waiting warriors. Just then the harsh voice of a squaw was heard, and the old woman whom Sandy had noticed jumped into the ring, speaking eagerly, and making all sorts of impressive gestures with her talon-like hands. The prisoner shuddered as he gazed; but something like gratitude entered his heart. Repulsive as she appeared, the old squaw was trying to save his life! He watched the actions of the medicine man closely, as though he could tell in that way whether the request of the bereaved squaw would be granted, and the prisoner turned over to her to take the place of the son who would never again bring home to her lodge a share of the spoils of the hunt. Then the boy's very heart seemed to turn cold. Something about the manner of the entire assemblage seemed to say that the sentiment of the council was adverse. And doubtless the wily old medicine man usually gave the answer just as he saw it expressed on the faces of the warriors! They would condemn the prisoner, then, to be put to death! Brave lad though Sandy had shown himself on more than one occasion, he might easily be pardoned for experiencing a cold chill when the truth broke upon him. He seemed to feel a choking sensation in his throat, as though he could hardly breathe. Somehow, just at that moment his mind flew far away to the bank of the great Ohio, to a new cabin he could picture, where a grieving woman sat beside the large fireplace, and there was an empty stool at the rough table. "Mother!" he whispered, softly. And then he shut his teeth hard. At least they should not see him quail, these copper-colored men of the wilderness. Always had he heard that, above everything else, Indians admired bravery. When death in its more terrible aspect faced them, they pretended to show utter contempt, laughing their enemies in the face, and mocking them with their last breath. Well, he was an Armstrong! They had ever been a hardy race, and across the water had always taken a share in all the wars that rent Old England. He would show that, though but a boy in years, he had inherited the spirit of his ancestors. Not one groan, not one cry for mercy, would they hear falling from his lips! The squaw ceased to implore. She had fallen back to wait for the decision of the wizard, who was once again beginning to wave his arms about, and fix his mincing steps to keep time with his singsong words. Sandy was keeping his eyes glued upon the swaying figure. There was a sort of fascination about it all, just as though his own life did not hang in the balance. "It's coming!" he muttered, presently, as he saw the heads of the warriors inclined eagerly toward the magician. Sandy was conscious of a little confusion near by. He could not tear his eyes away from the dancer long enough to ascertain what it meant. Perhaps some prowling dog had been caught by a squaw stealing from her lodge, and was being soundly kicked and berated in consequence. The sounds were really coming closer. Loud voices could be heard, excited voices too, but in the Indian tongue. Sandy was not much interested, because he fancied that it was only some late comers, who were demanding to be told what the council was about, not knowing of the capture of a white. Now he could not help noticing, because there was a swaying of the outer lines, where the squaws and boys congregated. Louder grew the voices. Even the medicine man paused in the act of delivering the decree of Manitou, and every face was turned toward the quarter whence the growing clamor sounded. And as Sandy, half starting to his feet, stared, and held his breath, he saw a figure he knew only too well come limping into the lighted arena. It was Blue Jacket! CHAPTER XXI TIT FOR TAT YES, it was Blue Jacket, but apparently a wreck of the young Indian whom Sandy had last seen under the friendly roof of the new Armstrong cabin. He was blackened with smoke, his buckskin garments showing holes that the forest fire had burned; the proud feather that had once adorned his scalp-lock hung low over his ear, and broken; he seemed hardly able to drag himself past the wondering squaws, and reach the centre of the triple ring of warriors. But it was Blue Jacket, alive and in the flesh, for all that. "Glory! he has come home just in time to save me!" Sandy kept saying to himself, as he stared. "And that terrible old medicine man was going to seal my fate! Glory! could there be any greater luck? And didn't dear old Bob say the bread we cast upon the waters might return ere many days? Yes, it has come back, principal and interest!" Every eye was fastened upon the figure of the young brave. Not one present at the council fire but knew he had a story to tell that would thrill their souls. Even the squaws, seldom allowed to listen to the serious councils around the sacred fire, bent forward, the better not to lose a single word. Blue Jacket began to speak. At first his manner was sedate. He was telling of how he had fought in that night battle, of the wound that had left him on the field and how he crept away, hoping to return to his lodge among his people. Then Sandy, who could fairly interpret from his manner, knew that he spoke of finding himself alone, weakened from loss of blood, and unable to even call for assistance. Expecting to become the prey of wild beasts during the night, he had, with the stoicism of the red man, awaited the end calmly. Then came the paleface boys. His bronzed face lighted up as he told how they tenderly carried him to the brow of the hill overlooking the river, and cared for his wounds. Now he became dramatic in his recital, and held his hearers spellbound. Surely he was speaking of that white mother now, telling how she advised that he be cared for and made well. It was such a revelation, so entirely different from all that the savage Indian nature understood, that the old men wagged their heads from time to time, and looked at one another helplessly. Blue Jacket went on. Now he was telling of one paleface warrior who had sought his life, and how those boys stood between. Sandy guessed this. He was hanging on the excited words of the young Shawanee just as though he could fully grasp the full sense of the harangue. Suddenly Blue Jacket ceased. Striding forward as well as his lame leg would permit, he threw a protecting arm across the shoulders of Sandy, as he faced once more the throng of red men. "My brother!" That was all he said, but his manner told the story. He stood ready to sacrifice his life, if need be, to save this paleface lad from the stake. Simple, yet eloquent beyond description, was his attitude as he thus stood there. Would his will prevail? Had his rough eloquence reached the hearts of those sons of the wilderness? In years to come the name of Blue Jacket was fated to pass into the pages of history as a famous Indian orator, who could sway the minds of his people as few others were able. And in this fierce harangue, delivered in his youth, he made a reputation as a leader which was to follow him in all after years. The old men exchanged looks. They nodded their heads gravely. "I surely believe he has turned the scale!" breathed the anxious Sandy, noting these significant signs. The shrewd old medicine man could not always foretell the weather; but he was able to discern a sudden change in the wind of popular approval. Before this dramatic coming of the young and wounded brave he knew the consensus of opinion ran strongly toward putting the prisoner to the stake. It was different now! And so the wily old fellow once more started his incantations and whirlings, just as though he were taking them up at the point where he had been interrupted; but with a decided difference that even Sandy could notice. His manner now was not fierce and ugly; he no longer made swift downward strokes with his extended arms, but extended them upward in a beseeching manner, as though imploring Manitou to have mercy. Then, after a supreme exhibition of his powers, with a great rattling of wampum belt, and jangling metal discs that were strung about his person, he moved over to where Sandy stood, with the dusky protecting arm of Blue Jacket still flung about his shoulders. Holding his hands above the white prisoner, the medicine man uttered a string of words, amid much bobbings of the head. Although he could interpret not a single expression, Sandy knew full well that in this way the wizard was declaring he had been taken under the especial charge of the Great Spirit, and that henceforth no Shawanee hand should be raised against a member of the Armstrong family. The French trader had listened to all this with a sneer on his lips, while his face grew dark as though it pleased him not a bit. Sandy had little discretion, as we have seen more than once. With his usual impetuosity he could not restrain himself from flashing a look of triumph toward Jacques Larue. The trader saw it, and gritted his teeth. After that, he would doubtless feel more than ever a vicious spite against anything that bore the brand of an Armstrong. "Come!" said Blue Jacket, leading Sandy away. "With the greatest of pleasure," replied that worthy, feeling as though a tremendous weight had been taken from his shoulders, as indeed was the case. The young Shawanee led his white brother to his lodge, where an old squaw, his mother undoubtedly, proudly awaited them. Nothing was too good for the paleface who had saved the life of her boy. But first of all, Sandy insisted upon the wounds of the young warrior being dressed. "You must have been caught in the fire, too, Blue Jacket!" he declared, as he noted the condition of the warrior's scanty garments, which at least had been whole at the time he was in the new settlement. "Much time, Sandy. Near gone when reach creek and dive in!" replied the other, simply. And that was all he could be persuaded to say about his adventure, yet Sandy felt positive that the young brave must have gone through a thrilling experience, with the fire surrounding him, and wounded in the bargain. He could picture what Blue Jacket declined to relate. "They have spared my life, Blue Jacket," observed the white boy, after a time, when he had assisted the squaw to bind up the reopened wound of the brave once more; "but do they mean to keep me here a prisoner? Am I to never see my people again--dear old Bob, Kate, father, and my mother?" The budding warrior looked at him, and actually a faint smile came upon his face. Sandy could not remember having ever seen him show so much feeling before. "You wait, Sandy," he said in a low voice; "leave that to Blue Jacket. Give word Bob you be free. Me no fail! Never forget him mother, not much!" But Sandy had caught one word that riveted his attention. "When did you promise Bob to save me? Where did you see him, Blue Jacket?" he demanded, eagerly. "Me leave since sunset. Bob fix best can," and saying this the young Indian pointed down at his injured limb. "Do you mean that you have been with my brother since the fire?" cried Sandy, his face lighting up with a great joy, for that would tell him Bob could not have been injured in the forest conflagration, as he had greatly feared. Blue Jacket nodded gravely in the affirmative. English words did not come readily to his lips, and, when he could make a gesture take their place, he seldom failed to do so. "Bob find in creek. Him help 'long. Leg bad; much limp. Blue Jacket make like papoose. Get here just in time. Not much good. Ugh!" he grunted. "Then Bob came along with you?" persisted Sandy, determined to drag the whole truth out by degrees. "Come 'long, yes. No think safe enter village. Hide in woods. Wait till fox him bark three times. Bob know. Bob safe!" "Hurrah! that's good news you're telling me, Blue Jacket!" exclaimed Sandy, exultantly. "So Bob is safe, and near at hand right now! Why, he never even went back to the settlement to tell the story, and get assistance. Surely he is a brother to be proud of. Tell me, Blue Jacket, did he send any message by you? Have you got any of the white man's writing to give me?" Whereupon the other gravely drew something from the bosom of his torn hunting shirt, and extended it to Sandy. "Me forget. Bob say all right. No can understand spider crawl on bark. Sandy know. Bob tell," he said quaintly. There were not many words, and these had been scratched by some sharp-pointed flint, so that it was only with an effort that the boy could make them out by the light of the fire in front of the lodge. "SANDY:--Keep up a brave heart. We are going to get you out of there to-night. Trust Blue Jacket. He is true as steel. Bring gun. "BOB." Sandy smiled as he saw that reference to the old musket; and yet, after all, it was not so strange that cautious, wise Bob should remember how much of their anticipated pleasure in hunting during the months that were ahead would be taken away if Sandy were without a weapon. He read the message aloud to his friend. Blue Jacket evidently saw nothing singular about that mention of a gun. He knew what it meant to be without the means of obtaining food in that great wilderness. What bow and arrows, a tomahawk, or a crude knife, meant to an Indian, a gun stood for in the eyes of a white man. And so Blue Jacket only nodded his head gravely as he listened, saying finally: "Get gun all right. No fear. Much skins here. Swap with brave for gun. Go now." He evidently believed in striking while the iron was hot, for, stooping down, he gathered in his arms several valuable skins, among them some beautiful otter pelts, and started out. The squaw never raised a finger to interfere, yet she knew that Blue Jacket was very weak and sore from his tremendous exertions in trying to escape from the pursuing fire. And she was his mother, too. But then Sandy realized that Indian mothers differed in many respects from those of white boys. Blue Jacket, was he not a warrior now, and as such fully competent to decide for himself? The old squaw no doubt would have held her tongue had he declared it to be his intention to start back to the white settlement with Sandy, even though she knew it must be the means of bringing about his death. Sure enough, Blue Jacket must have gauged well the temper of the brave who had obtained the old flintlock musket, and knew just how to wheedle him out of his recent prize, for, when the young Indian returned, he placed in Sandy's eager hands not only the gun, but all other things taken from the prisoner at the time he fell into the hands of the four Shawanee warriors--his powder horn, carved with considerable rude skill by Bob, the bullet pouch decorated with colored porcupine quills, his hatchet, knife, and even the little bag, in which Sandy was accustomed to keeping his flint and steel, some dry tinder for starting fires, and a few trifling odds and ends. "Why, my brother!" cried the delighted white boy, "you are a bigger medicine man than the old fellow who danced, and shook those hollow gourds with the dried beans inside. Here are all my belongings, with not one thing missing. Oh! I tell you, it was a fine day I discovered you there in the grass, Blue Jacket. For you have returned what little we did a dozen fold!" But evidently the young Indian had his own ideas about that, for he shook his head, and made a grimace. He would never forget how those boys had stood between when the irate settler, Anthony Brady, demanded his blood! "No can repay. Armstrong name never can forget. You see. To-night we go away. Bob wait to show way home. Blue Jacket him not able go far. Much sorry!" he said, as he limped about the lodge to try his poor limb. But Sandy gripped the Shawanee's hand, while his boyish face fairly beamed with the affection he felt toward the gallant young savage. CHAPTER XXII THE ESCAPE "WHEN can we go, Blue Jacket?" asked the boy, with his usual impatience. "No can get away yet some time. Sandy look out," came the reply. "Well, I see what you mean," admitted the prisoner, reluctantly. "There does seem to be considerable of a stir around. Everybody is moving about. Even the dogs seem to be prowling around sniffing at things." "Ugh! much stir. Talk heap. French trader try to palaver with chiefs. Make think English bad men. Steal Indian country, kill squaws, papooses, all. Ugh!" and, from the way Blue Jacket said this, it was evident that he feared the influence of the smooth-voiced Jacques Larue would undo all the good his harangue had accomplished. Not that his people would think of putting Sandy to the stake. That bugbear had been effectually squelched after he had told how kind the two Armstrong boys had shown themselves to him. But they might refuse to let the prisoner go free, demanding that he be forced to join the tribe. The lodge was still to be a prison, for the squaw had betaken herself off, and Blue Jacket had said he would not be allowed to stay with his white brother. Even Sandy understood something of his danger. Perhaps it had to do with his impatience to get away from the village, with its clamor and its strange inhabitants. He remembered the skinny old crone who had wanted to adopt him as her own son. She meant it all in kindness, perhaps, but the very thought made poor Sandy shiver. "But look here, Blue Jacket, what about Bob?" he said, presently, after he had turned away from peeping out at the exit of the lodge. "Bob wait," replied the Indian with his customary taciturnity. "Yes, but when time passes, and I fail to come, he may get impatient and do something that will get him into trouble?" At this the young Indian shrugged his shoulders. Perhaps he had caught the manner from the French traders, oily men who often visited the Shawanees in their villages to barter poor guns and powder for their valuable pelts. "Bob no Sandy!" was his only comment; and it struck home, too, for the one who heard gave a little chuckle, as he hastened to reply: "You are right about that, Blue Jacket; and perhaps it's just as well that he is not. One hothead in the family is quite enough. But you think, then, Bob will bide his time patiently, and wait to hear from you?" "Him say," answered the other, calmly. "Oh!" observed Sandy; but he saw a great light. It told him what a distinct impression that sober brother of his must have made on the observing young Indian during the week of their intercourse. Accustomed to reading people just as Sandy might the pages of a printed book, Blue Jacket knew that, when Bob Armstrong said a thing, that was just what he meant. His simple word was, in the eye of this native of the woods, as good as another's bond. Presently Sandy spoke again, for he could not keep his mind long off that fascinating subject. "Is he near the border of the village, Blue Jacket?" he asked. "Much close. Blue Jacket him hide Bob. No can find. P'raps dog smell him. Not much danger that. You wait. Sleep. Time come bimeby. Blue Jacket crawl in lodge, wake. Make not noise, but move like snake. Ugh!" With that the young Indian abruptly left him. Sandy threw himself down on the blanket and bearskin which he found in his prison. Perhaps what the Indian suggested would be a wise thing for him to do. He was very tired, and trembling with excitement. Of course, he hardly hoped to sleep any; but even lying there would rest him more or less. But, despite his fears, he must have passed away into dreamland very shortly after dropping on the soft robes, for he could not remember doing any great amount of thinking over his past troubles and the uncertain future. A cold hand touching his face awakened him. Before he could utter a sound he heard a low hiss that warned him against making a single exclamation. It was well Blue Jacket adopted this course, because naturally Sandy supposed himself safe at home, in his own newly-fashioned bed, and that it was Bob who had disturbed his dreams. Instantly he understood. The skin lodge was almost in darkness. Still, something of a flickering light seeped in through little openings at the entrance; and he could just manage to make out a bending figure that crouched beside him. "Is it you, Blue Jacket?" he whispered softly, as his hand went out to feel of this figure. Again that warning hiss greeted him. Then there was a gentle pull at his buckskin tunic, which Sandy could not mistake. His ghostly visitor wanted him to follow his lead. Expecting some such summons, Sandy had made all preparations for a quick departure. His precious gun was lying close beside him; moreover, he had secured powder-horn, bullet pouch, and all other belongings, so that nothing would be left behind. Blue Jacket turned and crawled away. To Sandy's surprise the young Shawanee did not head toward the opening of the lodge; but common sense told him why. There was a fire still burning out there, and possibly some brave might awaken just at the critical moment when they were passing. Evidently Blue Jacket had crept in at the rear, and meant to return the same way. He knew the possibilities of his own wigwam. Sandy wriggled his body under the tightly drawn skin that, with its fellows, formed the wigwam. He could just barely see the figure of his guide moving off ahead. And, when Blue Jacket had said they must glide like the snake that goes upon its belly, he certainly hit the truth, for Sandy could not discover the slightest movement of either arms or legs. Still the other made fair progress. Between lodges, avoiding the smouldering fires, they went. Surely the red guide must have figured every inch of the route in advance. Not even a dog seemed to be along the course; and Sandy's admiration for his friend increased by bounds with every yard that they advanced. He had been wise enough to observe the location of Blue Jacket's lodge, and hence knew that they were now heading in a general way toward the bank of the small stream near which this temporary hunting camp of the Shawanees had been located. This gave him a sudden and brilliant idea. Bid Blue Jacket mean that they should make their escape by water? It would save many weary miles of tramping, which task Sandy was not in very good physical condition to undertake. More than once the dark figure ahead came to a pause, and lay as still as a log. Sandy was keenly awake to the situation, and copied his actions to the letter. On one occasion a couple of dogs came running past, having evidently been hunting on their own account in the forest. They stopped to sniff the air, but luckily they were not on the windward side of the crouching figures; and so the presence of a paleface was not discovered; for soon they went on among the lodges, to lie down and rest after their long chase. Another time it was a moving warrior who caused alarm. But he seemed to have only been down to the river for a drink, for he walked past the spot where the two shadows lay without any suspicion that anything was amiss. It was an exciting time for poor Sandy, and his heart seemed to be up in his throat with suspense as he kept his agonized eyes fastened on that tall, dusky figure, until it was lost among the neighboring lodges. All now seemed well, and the coast clear. Rapidly Blue Jacket advanced. No longer was he content to wriggle like the rattlesnake. He had first arisen to his knees, and finally to his feet. True, he limped sadly, and Sandy knew that, with an Indian's stoicism, his guide must be repressing the groans that a white boy would have uttered. "He's game, all right," Sandy was saying to himself, filled with gratitude toward the young Indian; "good Blue Jacket! Will I ever forget this? May my right arm wither if I should! And now, I wonder where Bob is?" They had gone some little distance from the village, so that there no longer seemed to be any danger that they would be seen if they walked erect. Sandy had impulsively thrown an arm about his companion, meaning to help him. Perhaps at another time the proud young Shawanee might have indignantly declined to accept any assistance; but he was weak, and he had learned to feel a singular affection for his two white brothers. They came to a stop near a tangle of thickets. "Listen!" said Blue Jacket. Then close by, so that it actually startled the white boy, came the bark of the red fox, twice repeated. And he remembered what his guide had said about the signal which Bob was to recognize. Anxiously Sandy waited, every nerve on edge for fear lest his brother might have gone. There was a stir in the thicket, and then came a low voice saying: "Sandy! Blue Jacket, is it you?" "Here!" exclaimed the escaped prisoner, unable to longer restrain his feelings; and in another moment he was clasped in a brother's sturdy embrace. "No time lose," observed the practical Indian. "Come long me. River close by. Canoe p'raps wait. Paddle home. Tell white squaw Blue Jacket much glad." In two minutes they had arrived at the border of the little stream, where Blue Jacket produced his canoe, hidden for this very purpose late that evening. "Go quick! No time lose. Mebbe alarm come. Who can tell?" said the Indian. Sandy had crept into the frail boat made of skins, and Bob was about to do so, after squeezing the hand of their red friend, when a smooth voice suddenly said: "Sacre! it ees just as I thought when I saw him paddle his canoe here. Not so quick, young messieurs. You are not yet out of ze woods." CHAPTER XXIII A CANOE TRIP IN THE STARLIGHT IT was Jacques Larue! The keen-eyed and suspicious French trader had by chance seen Blue Jacket slip away from his people and silently paddle his canoe down the river a short distance. He had followed, and watched him hide the bark here in the rushes bordering the shore. And of course the trader had no difficulty in guessing what this meant. He knew Blue Jacket intended that the white prisoner should escape by this means. Why Larue did not go at once to the head men, and tell of his discovery, will never be known. Perhaps he fancied that Sandy would come alone to the boat, and it struck him as a fine chance to frustrate the designs of the boy just when doubtless his heart would beat high with hope. At any rate here he was, possibly somewhat surprised that three dark figures confronted him instead of one shrinking lad. "What would you?" demanded Bob, turning quickly around, just as he was in the act of entering the canoe, which was floating among the rushes. "So, you are zere, too, it seems?" sneered the man. "I remember zere was also ze second Armstrong cub. Zis is vat I call neat. Two new Shawanee boys, adopted into ze tribe! Perhaps ze new Eenglish trader like to exchange hees goods for sons! Sacre! suppose you come back to lodges wiz me. I haf got ze gun pointed straight; and my fingair, it press on ze trigger. You refuse, and pouf! bang, down you go!" "What! do you mean that you would force us to go back to captivity; and you a white man at that? Shame on you, Jacques Larue! Better paint your face, and stick feathers in your hair; for you are more savage than the reddest Indian!" cried the reckless Sandy. The trader gave vent to a low cry of anger. Bob feared that the Frenchman might be urged to shoot by these taunts, for he was undoubtedly hot-blooded, like most of his countrymen. It was surely a time for action. The young pioneer made a sudden lunge forward and struck out with his right arm. Long handling of the axe had given Bob the muscles of an athlete; and when his clenched fist came in contact with the jaw of the French trader the result was disastrous to Larue. He went floundering on his back. His gun was discharged; but the missile that it had contained did no more damage than to shoot a hole through the atmosphere, for it was aimed at the time at the sky. "Away!" cried Blue Jacket, pushing Bob toward the boat; for the boy had acted as though tempted to follow up his one blow by giving the insulting trader the whipping he deserved. Prudence prevailed, and Bob hastened to leap aboard. Then the young Shawanee gave the canoe a shove that sent it out through the rushes, and upon the bosom of the flowing stream. Jacques Larue struggled to his feet, and wildly pranced up and down on the shore, shouting threats of what he would do if ever he came in contact with either of those Armstrong "cubs" again. But Bob gave little heed to what he said, being much more concerned with other matters. Of course the report of the heavily-charged gun, together with the cries of the angry French trader, must by this time have aroused the village. "I wonder if they will pursue us?" ventured Sandy, as he worked away valiantly at the paddle which he had taken up. "The current of this stream is swift, and the shores so filled with underbrush that we can make faster time than any brave could afoot," remarked Bob, while he, too, bent to the task before him, so that the little boat fairly danced along on the starlit stream, heading down toward the junction with the big Ohio. "But they have other canoes, for I saw three at least?" ventured Sandy. "But Blue Jacket knew that," returned the other, shrewdly; "and depend on it he saw to it that they were hidden away where they could not be found in a hurry. We may be pursued, but I am not afraid." They could hear some sort of hubbub taking place back toward the place where the village stood. No doubt the greatest confusion ensued when the absence of all the canoes was discovered. "I only hope he will not be made to suffer for what he did," mused Sandy; "because Blue Jacket is our red brother now, and he thinks a heap of you, Bob." "Yes, and of you, too, Sandy, because he said as much. How nice it has all turned out after all! And it pays, sometimes, brother, just as our mother says, to be kind toward an enemy. If we had let the poor fellow die, think what would be your condition to-night." Sandy worked for a long time in silence; but he was undoubtedly thinking over the stirring events of the last few hours, and the lesson must have sunk deep into his heart, never to be forgotten. "I believe we are close to the big river!" remarked Bob, after a time. "Why, you took the very words out of my mouth," returned Sandy; "for I can see much water ahead, and the waves seem to be getting larger. We must keep to the right, and paddle close to the shore." Presently they entered upon the vast expanse of the Ohio, and their progress became much slower, since now they were compelled to fight against a strong current, instead of having the benefit of one. "Jacques Larue seems to be in mortal fear about father taking his trade away from him," said Sandy, after a time. "That is because he has been robbing the Indians," observed the thoughtful Bob. "He knows that the English do not trade after that style, but believe in giving more for the pelts. And, brother, I believe that what has happened may assist father very much in his trade. You heard what the chief said--that never would the Shawanees war upon the family of Armstrong. That means they will be our friends, even though at war with the whites." "The skies seem to be brightening all around," remarked Sandy. "If only the truth would come out about that barn burning! It is the one black blot on our name, and father feels it keenly, though he tries to be so brave. His honor is very dear to him." "As it should be," cried Sandy. "But mother never loses hope. Does she not constantly say that in God's good time all must be made clear? And I believe that mother knows best. I keep hoping that some fine day we shall have news from our old home in Virginia, and that word will come to tell us father's name is cleared." They said no more for some time. Indeed, all of their breath was needed in the violent exertion of forcing the canoe against that current, running six miles or more an hour. "Oh! I believe we must be near home now!" cried Sandy suddenly, pointing with his extended paddle toward the nearby shore. "See, that bunch of trees on the hill-top looks like the one we can look at from our cabin. Yes, it must be, Bob! Shall we land here, and climb up?" "Ten minutes more ought to do it, brother," said the other, quietly. "So dip deep, and push hard. It is nearly over; and think of the joy of being home again." "Oh! yes. They must be dreadfully worried after knowing about that fire. How fortunate that it did not sweep this way," declared Sandy, between gasps; for he was very nearly done up, not having all the rugged physique of his brother. "We have much to be thankful for," replied Bob, working away. When the time set by Bob had expired the canoe was turned toward the shore, and the two landed, securing the frail craft, for they hoped to have many a trip in it on the broad bosom of the mighty Ohio. After this they mounted the hill. Bob, knowing that there were always sentinels on duty, and not wishing to be fired on by mistake, gave a signal that would be recognized; and presently they were met by one whom they knew well, being ushered by the guard into the settlement. There was a light burning in the Armstrong cabin, and they could easily understand that sleepless eyes reigned there. As they drew near, the door opened, and the two lads saw a well-known figure appear. It was the anxious mother who stood there, shading her eyes with her hand, for a fire burned near by. She had heard voices that thrilled her soul. Impulsive Sandy gave a shout and rushed forward, to be crushed to that loving breast, and kissed again and again. Then came the wide-eyed Kate, and the delighted father, to renew the tender caresses. Neighbors who had been aroused also flocked into the Armstrong cabin, eager to hear of the boys' adventures. So for an hour, or until nearly dawn, they had to relate the strange things that had befallen them since leaving home on that eventful hunt. Looking around the big room, where the fire burned so cheerily, and the kettle sang its home-like tune, Sandy heaved a great sigh of happiness. "It's just Heaven to be here!" he said; and, while his good mother shook her head in mild reproof at his words, she smiled with pleasure to realize that her boys thought so much of their home, humble though it might be, and devoid of many things others would deem necessities. After a warm meal the boys were compelled to go to bed, and secure some rest, of which both of them were certainly in sore need. Later on that day, when the full particulars of the captivity were told, David turned to his wife and said: "Yes, your way was the best way after all, Mary. See how blessed a return that poor wounded and almost dying Shawanee has made. With his life, if need be, he was determined to repay the debt. And to think that they call us _friends_, these red men with whom I expect to do much trading after a while! Son, that was surely the best day's work you ever did when you bound up the wounds of Blue Jacket, and took him in by our fireside. I will never forget the lesson, wife. Our bread cast upon the waters _did_ return, and that before many days." And the gentle Mary only said in reply: "Still have faith that the other cloud will yet be lifted in good time, David!" CHAPTER XXIV THE FEATHERED MESSAGE "LOOK up there on the roof of the cabin! What can it be?" It was about a week after the return of the two boys from the Shawanee village. During this time they had made several trips into the great forest, and never failed to bring home game, for there seemed a great abundance around the new settlement on the Ohio. The men had used their keen-edged axes well, and the trees were falling fast. It was even hoped that the small gardens would prove profitable, and that they might have other crops, besides the Indian corn that grew so well in this climate. The brief visit of Daniel Boone and his comrades had had one natural effect upon the two brothers. They began to copy the frontiersman style of dress, as the best fitted for the life they expected to lead from this time forward. Moccasins they had already; but now their mother was called upon to fashion for her boys hunting tunics of tanned buckskin, which in turn were fringed, as had been those worn by Kenton and the others. Besides, covering for their legs was made from the same material, and appeared similarly decorated. Bob had made a cap for himself out of the well-tanned skins of several raccoons he had trapped, with one of the beautifully marked tails dangling down the back, like that of his hero, Simon Kenton. Sandy, on his part, had done the same with some skins of gray squirrels, also using the bushy tails to complete the adornment, so that together the Armstrong boys presented a hunter-like appearance by the time these various additions to their wardrobe were completed. When they appeared in these new outfits both lads felt that they could now begin to call themselves pioneers in earnest. On this particular day Bob and Sandy had planned a delightful trip up the river in their canoe, seeking new fields for hunting; and looking into the possibilities of the region for the trapping season, that would begin when the leaves were dropping from the trees in October. It was Sandy who had given utterance to the exclamation with which this chapter opens. Bob had followed him out of the cabin. The sun was just peeping above the wooded hills away off in the east, and they sniffed the early morning air with delight; but one who could read the signs of the weather might have seen something about the coppery hue of that rising orb that showed that the long delayed Spring rains would soon burst upon the country. Seeing where Sandy was pointing, Bob also looked, and his surprise exceeded that of his younger brother when he saw the object that was sticking in the middle of the sloping roof. "Why, it is a feathered Indian arrow!" he cried. "How strange! And what can that be tied to it, Bob?" asked the other. "Here, boost me up and I will get it; then we can tell all about it," answered Bob, who did not believe in wasting time in talk when the solution of the mystery was so easy to learn. So Sandy gave him a hand, and the agile lad quickly gained the low roof; for the new cabin, while commodious, was only one story high, with a low loft above the living room and just under the roof. Bob took the arrow from the roof. He seemed to use more or less vigor in order to extract the flint head, showing that it had come down with considerable force after its aerial flight. "Oh! I remember now," said Sandy, suddenly arousing. "What?" demanded the other, as he prepared to jump to the ground, holding the feathered missile carefully in one hand. "Why," said Sandy, eagerly, "something seemed to arouse me just about daybreak. It sounded like a stone thrown against the house. But I thought father was up, and getting the fire ready, so mother could cook breakfast; and I went to sleep again. Bob, that must have been the time the arrow dropped on the roof!" "Yes, that was the time," answered Bob; "for the one who held the bow could never have seen how to aim in the night, even though there was a moon." "Aim, do you say, brother? Is it possible then he meant to stick that arrow in our roof rather than any other?" demanded Sandy, startled. "I surely do believe it. See, here is a message fastened to the shaft by little threads drawn from the fibre of cane!" and Bob held up the piece of birch bark, which Sandy now saw contained various rude designs possibly drawn with a sharp-pointed eagle quill, dipped in the juice of the poke berry. "Blue Jacket!" he exclaimed involuntarily, for suddenly he remembered that other unique message which the young Shawanee warrior had left, at the time he had slipped away from the cabin of the Armstrongs. "Yes, that is the plainest thing of all," remarked Bob, "for you see here at the end there is what is meant to be the figure of a man, an Indian, too, for he has feathers in his hair; and his jacket is daubed with a blue stain. But what puzzles me is to read these signs. Come, sit down here. Perhaps two heads may prove better than one, and you are quick at such things." "Oh! if only Pat O'Mara were here now, how quickly he would read it all," said Sandy, screwing up his forehead as he scanned the several lines of strange figures. "This must mean the sun, all right," remarked Bob, pointing to the first rude representation in the line. They both turned to look at the king of day as though understanding that the Indian artist meant to call their attention that way. "Well," remarked Sandy, "the old fellow does look angry this morning. And then the sky all around has a coppery hue. That must mean more dry weather, brother." But Bob shook his head. He had seen something more in those queer picture paintings that caught his attention. "No, I think you are wrong, Sandy," he observed slowly. "See, here is what he surely means for rain pouring down. And further along is what must be the river rushing along, bank-full. I begin to see what it is, brother." "A warning to the white settlers?" said Sandy quickly. "What else can it mean? And look at this figure standing here; what do you make of him?" asked the other, pointing. "Oh! I know!" cried Sandy, his face lighting up. "See how he is decked out with all sorts of things, bells and such! And in his hands he holds gourds that contain dried beans, to rattle when he shakes them. Yes, that must be the old medicine man I told you about. But what has he got to do with the rains?" "Now I understand it all," declared Bob, with a smile. "Then I wish you would tell me," remarked his brother, "for to tell the truth I don't seem able to grasp it." "The old medicine man has been talking again with the Manitou," said Bob, "and has learned that the rain will soon come along, making a flood of the river. Perhaps he knows this from some sign, like the angry sun; but he pretends that the information was given to him from the Great Spirit." "And Blue Jacket," cried Sandy, "believing all he says, has thought it worth while to come all the way over here, lame as he is, to warn us! That was good of him. He is afraid some of us may be caught napping. But how much better if he had only slipped into the settlement, and talked with us." "But Blue Jacket is an Indian, with all the cunning and caution of the red men," Bob replied. "He knows that all palefaces do not think alike; and he feared lest a guard should shoot him on sight. No, I am glad he was wise. Think how we should grieve if he were killed in our midst." "But about the warning? Shall you tell father, and have him spread the news?" asked the younger boy. "To be sure. It can do no harm, even if it prove to be a false alarm. They will understand the motive that sent Blue Jacket over here again. And, Sandy, perhaps father may want us to give up that long canoe trip we had planned for to-day." At that Sandy's face fell. "Oh! I hope not!" he exclaimed, quickly. "For I have been looking forward ever so much to exploring that country away to the east, and up the river. Pat told us that on the other shore, above, the game was thicker than any place he knew. We must get off to-day, brother! What if the rain does come, we are neither sugar nor salt, but strong enough to stand much." "Well, perhaps father may not think much of the old medicine man's belief. And, as you say, surely we are able to take care of ourselves. I am hoping myself that father may not forbid our going," said Bob. So Sandy, with an object in view, made it a point, when they told their father of the strange warning sent by their good friend Blue Jacket, to speak of the medicine man as a great fraud, who was certainly not worth considering. Whether David was influenced by what he said, or really believed the danger to be over-rated, he did not offer any particular objections to the boys' expedition. "Hurrah!" cried Sandy, as they reached the place where the canoe was hauled up on the sandy beach. "Now for a jolly paddle up the river, and a visit to that unknown shore over the water, where buffalo and deer are as thick as peas, and asking to be shot." Bob was not as enthusiastic, although doubtless he, too, anticipated more or less pleasure from the excursion. They did not expect to be back that night, unless their plans miscarried; but before another sun had set they meant to at least be on their way homeward. Soon they were paddling merrily up the river. There was not a cloud overhead, and the sun seemed to give promise of exerting unusual warmth for so early in the season. "Poor old medicine man," laughed Sandy, as he glanced around at the bright picture, and then thought of the warning message. "So we are to beware of the river's rising wrath, are we? Seems to be quiet enough just now, brother!" "Yes," was all that Bob replied; for somehow he seemed to have some foreboding of coming trouble, though he did not want to tell Sandy of this, lest the light-hearted one laugh at his fears, which after all might come to nothing. About noon they crossed to the other shore. Out in the middle of the river they found that it required considerable muscle to keep the canoe from losing in the fight with the swiftly gliding, though noiseless, current. They determined not to land just yet. Sandy remembered how Pat O'Mara had told about a certain wonderful cove further up the stream, where they could hide their boat while they hunted. Besides, there was less danger of running across any hostiles the further they went in the direction of Fort Pitt; since after the last great Indian battle the red tribes had retreated westward. It proved much further than they had been led to believe from what the Irish trapper had said; or else progress against that current was slower than they had calculated. At any rate, the hour was not far from sunset when they finally sighted the cove that was to be their landing place. CHAPTER XXV AFLOAT ON THE FLOOD "NOW to land!" cried Sandy, as they turned the head of the canoe toward shore. "Less noise, brother," whispered Bob; for the impetuous one was forever forgetting that a frontiersman must learn that silence is the price of safety when in the woods where the red man dwells. "But why do you keep looking up at the sky so much?" went on Sandy. "Just because it has clouded up, is no sign it will rain. Have we not heard that all signs fail in dry weather? And, even if that old humbug of a medicine man pretends he has had it direct from Manitou, I see no reason for being alarmed. Let it rain if it chooses. We can hunt in wet clothes as well as in dry." "Surely," replied Bob, pretending to throw aside his doubts, for he saw no reason why Sandy should share them; if trouble came they would know how to meet it. So they landed in the snug little cove. "Shall we stake the canoe out here in the rushes?" asked Sandy. "Not this time," replied Bob. "Take hold, and we will carry it up to that clump of bushes yonder. It can lie there safe until we come again." "Oh!" laughed Sandy, "I see you still believe the river will rise suddenly, and threaten to carry off our only means of getting home!" "Who knows?" replied the other, quite unmoved by the accusation; "and, if it did come, we would be very glad that we had taken time by the forelock. Besides, it is not much further." Having secreted the boat and both paddles, they concluded to go some little way back, to camp for the night. "We must do what Pat says all borderers do when in the enemy's country--make a very small fire to cook with, and hide that so that not even the keenest eye could discover it," observed Bob, as they walked on through the forest, both on the watch for game of any sort. "Well, it will be highly amusing, at least," admitted Sandy; "though, unless we are lucky enough to run across game very soon, we shall have to make our supper off that dried venison; and that I do not like." "Hist!" Bob suddenly caught the sleeve of his brother's hunting shirt. Following the direction in which the other seemed to be looking, Sandy caught a glimpse of some moving object to leeward. "A buffalo! Two, _three_ of them! Oh! Bob, what a chance!" he gasped. The other drew him down instantly, so that the bushes screened them. "Now let us crawl up as close as we dare. When we get within good gunshot we will both fire at the same time," he whispered in the ear of his companion. Bob, as usual, seemed perfectly calm, while of course the younger boy was fairly quivering with eagerness. Still, this would not prevent Sandy from giving a good account of himself when the time came to shoot, for he always fired off-hand at any rate, rather than by long sight, as some marksmen do. It was fortunate that the wind, what little seemed to be stirring through the forest just then, was coming from the feeding buffalo, and toward the hunters. This prevented the suspicious animals from scenting their human enemies. The boys made fair progress, taking advantage of clumps of bushes, trunks of trees, and fallen timber. "Slower," whispered Bob in his brother's ear. "They are getting uneasy. Notice how often that old bull throws up his head and sniffs the air? He trots away, only to come back again to his family. Now, again forward. This log will give us a good boost, I think." "We don't want the old bull," Sandy managed to say in the other's ear. "Hardly. He'd be too tough eating. You take the half-grown calf, and leave the cow to me," said the older hunter; and then made a gesture that prohibited further communications. Presently Bob realized that they had crept as close as seemed necessary. He caught the eye of Sandy, and nodded his head. Knowing what the programme was to be, for they had gone through it many times together, the other gradually managed to raise himself to a position where he had one knee on the ground. This was an ideal position for shooting, as it gave him a chance to rest his elbow on the other knee, to steady himself at the final instant. To Bob it was given to pick the time of firing. He had to watch closely, in order to make sure that both animals selected were free from trees, so that they might not uselessly waste precious ammunition. "Shoot!" he said, quickly. Bang! roared his own heavily-charged musket. The cow went floundering down, and never again arose, for Bob's aim had been true. Sandy was not quite so fortunate. Just at the second when Bob gave the word to fire, the half-grown young buffalo chanced to step behind a large tree trunk, so that it was out of the question to dispose of him while standing still. With the report the alarmed animals started to run wildly away. But Sandy had of course been expecting this, and was quick to shoot. He gave a shout as he saw the prize fall. Bob, on his part, was a little worried lest the bull charge them; but that old worthy was already in full flight, doubtless in the belief that the others of his family would rejoin him, when their little fright, concerning those lightning flashes and thunder crashes coming from the bushes, had died away. Here was great luck truly. All the game they could possibly carry home, and within carrying distance of the spot where the canoe had been secreted. They made camp at once. There was no tent to erect, so when Bob had removed the two hides, a laborious task even with Sandy's help, and started to cut the carcasses up, Sandy erected a lean-to of branches, bark and leaves, that would serve fairly well in case it did rain. Then came a little fire, built as Bob directed, in a cavity, where its light would never be seen beyond ten paces. After that supper was begun. And some of the meat from the young buffalo bull proved most tender eating. "Hark!" said Bob, as they were browning their fourth helping at the end of long wooden splinters thrust into the ground near the little mass of red embers. Sandy made an involuntary dive for his gun, as he ejaculated: "What did you hear? Was it the whoop of an Indian? Have they discovered us after all?" "It has begun to rain, that is all," answered Bob, smiling; for he had heard the first drops beginning to patter among the dead leaves. "Is that all? Why, it is hardly worth mentioning. And you did give me a start, to be sure. I'm glad we finished our supper before those clouds took to leaking." It seemed a trifling thing just then; but in the end it was freighted with momentous happenings connected with the fortunes of those two young pioneers of the Ohio. Presently the rain was coming down hard, so that the two lads were only too glad to crawl under the shelter that had been built. In less than an hour Sandy was bemoaning the fact that he had not, while he was about it, made the wattled roofing twice as thick, as it would have shed the rain to better advantage. That was certainly a night they would not soon forget; and of course it was Sandy who complained the most, for Bob could take his punishment in grim silence, Indian fashion. "When morning comes, we must try to get home!" declared the younger pioneer, as he crouched there and shivered. "We are so wet now that nothing could make us feel any worse," declared Bob. "I am going to try to weave a heavier roof, for the night is hardly half over." "A good idea," echoed Sandy. They set to work; and by the time an hour had gone by, were able to keep the furious rain from beating in on their guns. Sleep was entirely out of the question, and they could only sit there exchanging a few words to cheer one another up, and praying for the morning to come. It seemed never to dawn, and Sandy really began to declare that it was three nights wrapped in one, when his brother called his attention to a faint gray light in the east. The rain was still falling in sheets, so that the prospect looked poor indeed. Again was the voice of Sandy heard, lamenting the fact that in all likelihood they must go without any breakfast, which, in the eyes of a growing and always hungry boy, was next door to a crime. "Perhaps not," said Bob; "just wait until the day has really come, when we can see around. Surely there must be dead trees somewhere close by; and you know how dry the heart keeps. We have tinder, and we will have a fire yet." That promise sustained Sandy, for he could never remember when Bob gave his word without keeping it. Nor was it broken in the present instance. The rain never gave the slightest sign of stopping, although it must have deluged the headquarters of the great Ohio, and caused the river to rise many feet an hour. But Bob sallied forth, scorning the wet, to return presently, staggering under a load of fuel of a resinous nature, and calculated to burn, despite the storm. And it did; for soon, when the expert had applied his flint and steel to the dry tinder, in the midst of which a little powder had been dropped, the fire started, and in half an hour its genial heat did much to chase away the blues. It had been built close enough to their shelter so that the boys could sit and cook pieces of tender buffalo meat on the end of their reeds. And for perhaps upward of two hours they amused themselves in this fashion. "Now I feel able to carry my share of the game down to the boat, if you say the word," announced Sandy. "And, as I live, I believe the rain does not come quite as heavily as before. Let us be on the move!" Bob was not quite so sure that there would be any break in the storm; but on the whole he could not hold back. Surely the river would continue to rise for days after such a cloudburst; and unless they crossed soon they must stay on the opposite shore a week, perhaps two. When they reached the bushes where the canoe had been hidden, the craft was found just as they had left it. "We had better tie the packages of meat and our guns inside the canoe," said long-headed Bob; "for then, if we happen to be upset, they will not be lost." "A good idea," replied his brother. "But I hope we are not so unlucky as to be turned over out there," and he cast an apprehensive look upon the rushing surface of the flooded Ohio. Neither of the lads had had any experience in such an emergency; nor could they be expected to realize the terrible power that current possessed. It ran smoothly, and without any churning, but, once within its grip, it would require muscles of steel to guide a boat like the skin canoe belonging to Blue Jacket. It was already nearly noon. The sky was leaden, and the rain constantly falling. Surely the old medicine man of the Shawanees was for once having his prophecy bountifully fulfilled. It was with considerable misgivings that Bob, yielding to the importunities of his impulsive brother, decided to enter the frail canoe and start to cross that churning flood toward the other shore. Sandy had artfully mentioned the fact that the little mother would be anxious about their safety. "And," he had continued, "we can be heading toward the other bank all the time, even if the current does carry us downstream at a furious rate." They had not gone a quarter of the way across before Bob knew they had made a big mistake. For the little boat was a mere play-thing in the grasp of the furious current. They could make progress neither one way nor the other. All the while they were being swept along with the speed of a mill-race, held fast in that overpowering grip of the flood! CHAPTER XXVI THE SINKING CRAFT "THIS looks bad!" said Bob. He had to raise his voice much above the ordinary, for out there on the river the rushing water did not seem so silent as the boys had believed when ashore; and all around them could be heard the boiling of the flood. Tree trunks floated around them in all directions, showing what an unusual thing this sudden rise of the river must be. There was constant danger lest one of these tremendous snags sink the delicate little skin boat; and often the boys had to use their paddles like mad to prevent such a catastrophe from happening. And once, even a more singular peril threatened them. It was Sandy who made the discovery, shortly after Bob had uttered the remark given above. "Oh! look yonder, brother; whatever can that be, perched up in that tree-top? It moved then, and we are getting closer to it all the while!" he exclaimed. Bob needed only one look to tell him the nature of the object. "It is a panther, Sandy," he said, quickly, and with a shake of his head. "A big cat of the wilderness; and, as Colonel Boone said, the thing most to be feared in all the forest, for it jumps on the hunter from behind. See his sleek gray sides? And notice how he swings his long tail back and forth? I do not think we want to get any closer to the gentleman, do you, Sandy?" "See him crouch, Bob!" cried the other boy, in alarm. "Do you think he means to jump for the boat? What if he did, and upset us out here? That would be terrible! Let us shout together, and scare him, if we can!" They did so, at the same time working feverishly to urge the boat further away from the drifting tree-top, which had come to be the refuge of the wood's terror. Bob cast an apprehensive eye at the distance separating them. Could the animal clear it, if he decided to jump? Would he dream of changing his base in the hope of bettering his condition? In fact, Bob was just considering whether it would not be wiser for him to rely on his gun, if the priming could be renewed in time, rather than in the hope of leaving the beast in the lurch, when Sandy cried out gleefully: "We're gaining, Bob! Keep paddling like mad, and we shall make it. Already he hesitates, and dares not try! A strong pull, a long pull, and a pull all together now. Hurrah! who cares?" It was hard to quench that lad's spirit. And somehow, even in such a moment of alarm, his buoyant courage did much to renew Bob's sinking hopes. By increasing their pace, already incredibly swift, down the stream, they had managed to leave the panther and his tree-top in the lurch. There was no longer anything to be feared from that source. "Are we making any progress at all?" asked Sandy, who was pretty well exhausted from his exertions. "In one direction, yes; but toward the home shore I'm afraid not at all," was Bob's frank reply. "But what shall we do?" cried the younger boy, in rapidly growing alarm; for by now the situation was beginning to impress even his buoyant nature. "We can never keep on like this all day, for the river grows constantly wider, and the flood stronger. Besides, Bob, I'm afraid the canoe is beginning to leak!" Now, Bob had known that terrible fact for some little time, but hesitated to tell his brother, feeling sure that nothing they could do would mend matters. "I have been thinking, Sandy; and there seems only one chance for us now," he said, trying to look ahead down the river. "Oh! I hope you don't mean that we will have to swim for it!" cried the other, aghast at the idea of finding himself buffeting the flood, with either shore far away. "No, I hope that may not come--yet a while, at least. But I was thinking of the island!" said Bob. "The island! Oh! how did I come to forget that?" shouted Sandy, immediately beginning to show signs of new ambition. "Yes, that is it, Bob! We must try to land on the island, if it is still above water." "Oh!" declared Bob, quickly, "part of it must be, for you remember it had quite a little hill on it." "Yes, yes, for I spoke about the splendid tree that crowned the top, and said how I would like to own a cabin up under its shelter. But perhaps we have gone past the island! That would be terrible, wouldn't it, Bob?" "Surely. But I am positive that is not true. I am looking to see it at any moment now. And, Sandy, just as soon as it comes into view, we must paddle like everything to make it. Once we fly past, and it is all over with us!" The two castaways looked at each other, and each set his teeth with a determination to do wonders should the occasion call for it. "Do you suppose we are anywhere on a line with the island?" asked Sandy, a new fear taking possession of him. Bob shook his head. "I don't know. It is impossible to tell anything in all this noise and confusion. But I think so; I hope so," he replied. Both now settled down to watching the watery vista that stretched beyond. The wind was driving the rain out there on the river, so that at times a curtain seemed to be raised before them, only to fade away as the rain again held up for a brief interval. Bob cast an occasional glance full of apprehension down at the water that was coming into the canoe. He knew that the leak must be growing, slowly but surely. Could they manage to make land before the boat filled and sank under them? "There! I saw the island, I am sure!" cried Sandy, in a ringing tone. "But the rain has come back, and it is hidden again," he added in disgust. "Which way?" shouted Bob. "Over to the right! We must be just a little too far out!" replied Sandy. "Then let us get to work! Head in toward the shore we have left, and do your very hardest, boy!" cried Bob. Both of the lads dipped the paddles deeply. As before, they found that it required a giant's strength to accomplish anything worth while when pitted against that tremendous energy contained in the swift-moving flood. Fortunately Sandy had recuperated in the brief time he had rested from his efforts, so that he was able to do himself credit now, when so much depended on changing their location. The bare thought of missing the friendly island, and being carried on down that raging torrent, possibly to meet death somewhere below, was enough to make any one, even more tired than Sandy, swing his blade with a vim. "Oh! we can never do it, Bob!" he gasped. "Never say die! Keep at it, I tell you! It is our only chance!" was what came back from the other wielder of the spruce paddle. The island could now be plainly seen. It did not look so large by half as when they had seen it on going up the river; but the more elevated parts were standing well out of the flood. On the upper end was a mass of accumulated debris in the shape of stranded trees and logs. Poor Sandy looked, and a groan burst from his lips, for he feared they would not be able to overcome the current sufficiently to bring their little craft close enough to that friendly shore to enable them to land! And Bob, who clung so desperately to hope, knew that there was absolutely no chance for them to reach a landing spot at the upper end, even if they had wanted to mix up with all that mass of interlocked trees. He had grasped the situation in a comprehensive way, and sized it up. The island was narrow, but somewhat lengthy. Of course the current ran like a mill-race along the shore. But Bob knew that below, where the two opposite tides met once more, there was bound to be somewhat of a reaction. Here a little backward swirl would be found, a sort of undertow, bearing upstream toward the foot of the island. It would only extend for a limited distance. Once they got beyond that drawback, and there was absolutely no hope of making land! And that was the one thing he had in mind when he sang out so encouragingly to his weaker brother: "It is our only chance!" Sandy was paddling with all his nerve, but not making a very great success of the effort. In fact, he was so winded that he hardly knew when he dipped his blade in the yeasty water, or drew it quaveringly toward him. Still, he was game, and would not give up so long as he could move a hand. What little he could do to help might not stand for much, but every bit helped, and even in his great distress Sandy realized this. He could see his brother fighting like mad to swerve the boat still further toward that shore, now so very close. It did not seem possible that Bob could be equal to the slightest additional call upon his reserve forces. Now they had actually reached the upper end of the island, and were commencing to speed along its length. A minute or so more, and they would know their fate. Everything seemed to depend on that last turn, when the canoe arrived at the junction of the two currents, just below the foot of the haven of safety. "On the outer side--change over and help me!" shouted Bob, knowing that the critical moment was at hand. Sandy started hastily to obey, jumping at conclusions. But once more his nervousness played him a scurvy trick. "Oh! it is gone!" Bob heard him shriek suddenly, and, glancing up, the elder brother saw what had happened. The fierce sweep of the current had snatched the paddle from Sandy's weakened hand, and it was already floating far beyond his reach! CHAPTER XXVII BOB THE situation had suddenly grown more desperate. Deprived of what assistance Sandy might have given him, Bob must shoulder the entire burden. Perhaps the other had not been doing much, but his weak efforts must surely have helped a little. Bob instinctively moved back. This would give him greater power to swing the head of the dancing canoe toward the objective point; for the paddler in the stern usually commands the course of the boat better than his comrade placed in the bow, though the latter guards against collisions, where rocks or stumps abound. The time was so frightfully short that whatever was done had to be carried out by sheer instinct, rather than reasoning. Sandy, utterly exhausted, and with his poor heart almost broken because of this new catastrophe which could be laid to his eager clumsiness, had dropped back in the bottom of the canoe. Here he lay in several inches of water, so discouraged that he was for the moment utterly unmindful of what was going on around him. Of course he knew that Bob was working like a frantic being to push the wavering bow just a little closer to the shore they were so rapidly skirting. But it was all useless. His blunder had spoiled their last hope, and now nothing remained but to take what came. How wonderful it was to see how Bob arose to the occasion. His arms were working like flails in the hands of a thresher of grain. They sped backward and forward with a momentum that fairly bewildered the eyes of Sandy. But alas! there was one stupendous drawback, one thing that seemed fated to undo all this splendid work which his gallant brother was putting into play. Sandy saw, and groaned in spirit; for that was where he might have saved the day had he not lost his grip on his paddle when the hungry waves snatched at it. It was the lost motion that would ruin them. Fast though Bob was making his apparently tireless arms move, he could not keep up a constant movement. And between his strokes that ceaseless current would undo nearly every bit of good that had been accomplished by his efforts. Had Sandy been able to insert his blade between, he might have held the canoe to what had been gained. And each time Bob would have won more and more inches. And yet, despite this serious handicap, Bob was actually doing wonders. Surely they did not seem to be quite so far away from the shore as when they first came abreast of the long island! Sandy awoke to the fact that perhaps after all there _was_ a glimmer of hope. "Oh! if you only can, Bob!" he cried, bestirring himself. Was there anything he could do to help? He thought of leaning over the side of the canoe, and using his poor hands to dash at the water, on whose swiftly moving bosom they were being swept along. Useless, worse than useless, for in so doing he might only serve to weaken Bob's furious efforts, by shaking the frail and almost sinking boat. His gun--could he not do something with the broad shoulder butt to urge the canoe around? Sandy was a creature of impulse. He seldom waited to give a second thought to anything, once it found lodgment in his brain. So he made a swoop forward, snatching the musket from the place where it had been fastened before the voyage was begun. The cord held, but with a second fierce jerk he broke it. Then, with a shout in which new hope had a part, Sandy dipped the stock of the old gun deep in the river, and swept it around toward the stern. Bob realized what he was doing. He could not look around, of course, since each second was priceless just then. Perhaps he understood from some trifling change in the movement of the canoe, when he drew his dripping blade out for another mad plunge, that a new element had taken hold. And it may have even spurred the brave lad to doing better than before, if such a thing could be. They were now rapidly approaching the lower end of the island. Bob's eyes were fastened eagerly on that point. The rain had ceased temporarily, and he could see plainly. How he wished he had examined the cross currents there more closely at the time they were leisurely paddling up stream! There would only be time for about a dozen more quick energetic dips of the paddle. He must make each one tell. After that a great deal would depend on fortune whether they reached that line of foam which marked the edge of the drawback. If they could only attain a lodgment within that charmed half circle, he believed it would be possible to gain the land. Sandy was working again with feverish anxiety to undo the harm his mistake had wrought. The newly awakened hope gave him a fictitious strength, and, while the stock of an old flint-lock musket may not be the finest sort of a paddle in the world, there might be things much worse. Sandy knew they had a chance! He could see the head of the canoe, water-logged though the craft was at the time, and slow to respond to their efforts, turning toward the land, inch by inch. Yes, surely they were going to make it! If only Bob could keep up his strenuous work a dozen seconds longer all must be well. Once they reached the border of the cross currents, the tug would be relieved wonderfully, and they could urge their unwieldy craft into a harbor! He knew Bob would rise to the occasion. He could see him settling himself as if to let loose the very last atom of reserve strength there might lurk in his system. Gallant Bob! was his like ever known among the young pioneers of the West? Nothing seemed able to crush his hopeful and determined spirit. What a brother to have; and how Sandy's whole soul seemed to go out to him in that dreadful moment, when their lives hung trembling in the balance! Trust him for keeping a tight grip on his invaluable blade. There could never happen to wise Bob the same disaster that had overwhelmed Sandy with confusion. Three of the needed half-dozen sweeps had already been given. And the result seemed to be all that might have been expected, so that Sandy's hopes rose higher with each stroke. They were gaining--they would make the ripple, and be saved from the horrors that lay further down that swollen stream! And just when Sandy was about to burst out into a shout of joy, if his spent breath would allow of such a thing, he was suddenly plunged back again into the pit of despair. For there was an ominous sharp crack, a cry from Bob, and he held up the stump of his broken paddle. It had failed him at the critical moment! Poor Sandy collapsed when he saw this sight. He dropped his now useless gun in the bottom of the canoe, and cowered there, shutting out the terrible sight of the island slipping past by covering his eyes with his hands. It had been so nearly accomplished that the catastrophe seemed all the more keen, and he could not bear to look at the receding haven which they had hoped to make their refuge. Of course now the canoe would be wholly in the power of the victorious current, which must carry it onward like a chip, until shortly the incoming water would attain such a level as to sink the craft. Then--but Sandy could not allow himself to picture what would happen when he and his brother were forced to battle with the cruel giants contained in those leaping waves. But what was this? Surely there was a jerking motion to the craft that had been missing after Bob's ill-fated paddle broke! Sandy wonderingly uncovered his eyes. He stared in dismay. Why, where was Bob? The place where he had set while working like a hero was deserted! Had he seen the folly of further resistance, and thrown himself over the side, welcoming the fate that seemed so certain? Sandy half started up, cold with fear. The boat was still heading toward that end of the island, so close that he could easily have tossed a biscuit on the nearest bushes, half under water now! Some unseen influence was evidently urging the canoe along its course, just as though a friendly giant, concealed from view under the rushing, tumultuous waters, had decided at the last instant to give the adventurous boys a parting chance. Then all at once the truth flashed over him. Why, to be sure, it was Bob! He had refused to be utterly cast down by the sudden reverse that snatched away his valuable paddle by snapping it in half. He had instantly plunged over the side of the boat. He was in the water, gripping the hesitating canoe, and striving with all his power to urge it into peaceful waters! So Sandy again snatched up his abandoned gun, and, dipping the stock deep in the river's foam, strove to add what little assistance he could to the gallant efforts of the boy who would not give in. Inch by inch they began to win out. Sandy's heart seemed to be in his mouth during that critical period, when the boat actually balanced between two courses. Then, as though Bob had given a last tremendous lunge, it selected the easier alternative, and headed for the point of the island! CHAPTER XXVIII A RESCUE "OVERBOARD with you, and help!" "Yes, yes, Bob; I'm coming!" Sandy seemed to be given a new lease of life. Hope brought fresh powers of endurance. Without an instant's delay he slid over the end of the canoe, and into the flood. He was a swimmer, like every young pioneer who went into the wilderness with his people; and, as soon as Sandy put his shoulder to the now-lightened canoe, why of course its progress toward the near-by point of land was considerably quickened. It was all right! They could count on being able to make land, where the boat might be repaired, and their own flagging energies restored, ere they again breasted the swollen stream in the effort to reach the home shore. Now they could touch bottom with their feet. After that it was easy; so that soon the boat was dragged up on the land, safe from the swirling waters. Sandy tried to give a shout to signify how glad he felt; but there was not breath enough left in his lungs. All he could do was to sink down on the friendly shore, and pant like a winded deer. Bob followed suit. He was as exhausted as his brother; for his recent efforts had been simply tremendous. And, as he lay on the shore, there must have come to his heart that warm glow so natural to victory, when one has fought the good fight, and won. But not for long did Bob stay there on the ground. He knew that there was much to be done, since they were soaked to the skin, and shivering. Besides, the canoe must be emptied of the water it contained and dragged up higher; for no one could say to what limit the flood might attain ere it began to fall. And Sandy, seeing his intention, also dragged his weary frame erect. "What ought we do first?" he asked. "Take hold, and we will empty out the canoe. Then let us try to make some sort of shelter from the rain; after which a fire would be the next best thing." Sandy worked hard. He was cold, and his teeth rattled together in spite of the great gratitude that filled his heart over their almost miraculous preservation. The sooner they got that campfire started, the better for them both. He went to work as on the other occasion, at the time they were preparing against the coming of this storm. Only now he had to accept just such substitutes as the island afforded. Fortunately it was wooded, so that they need not lack for material. Some of the rocks offered a chance to build up side walls, over which the roof might slope, to shed the rain that was still coming down. It took time to accomplish all this, but promised to repay their efforts. When the shelter was in a fair way toward being finished, Bob set to work starting a fire. Luckily he kept his tinder in a little waterproof box, held within his bag; and it had not suffered from his immersion in the river. An adept with flint and steel, he quickly had the sparks flying, and a blaze began to spring up. This was fed with bits of dry wood, torn from the heart of a partly-dead tree, until there was enough fire to seize upon anything offered in the way of fuel. "How good that feels!" declared the shivering Sandy, holding out his hands toward the leaping flames. "I agree with you," answered Bob, smiling just as of yore, as if the terrible events of the last half hour were only a dream. They cowered there under their shelter while their garments steamed in the now genial heat. With every passing minute both boys were feeling better. Sandy even began to cast covetous glances toward the buffalo meat, which was lying close at hand, as though his customary appetite had once more started to let him know growing boys must be often fed. Seeing this, Bob nodded his head. He was feeling drowsy, for the natural reaction after his recent tremendous exertions had set in; and this was augmented by the delicious warmth of the fine fire. So Sandy started to find a lot of reeds that would answer for toasting forks, on which bits of meat could be brought to a delightful stage when placed close to the blaze. "It's stopped raining, Bob!" he declared, as he returned after his foraging expedition with all the reeds needed. "I hope that is the end of it," declared the other, though he poked his head out from his shelter and surveyed the lowering heavens doubtingly. "Where do you think all this water is coming from?" asked Sandy, looking across the broad river to the shore where, further down, the new settlement stood; and no doubt wondering how they were ever going to cross that raging flood that was carrying hundreds of trees on its bosom. "Oh, you forget that two rivers flow into this at Fort Pitt. Besides, there are other streams, all bank-full. It has been a terrible rain. Never in Virginia did we ever see anything like it." "How fortunate that there are hills all along the Ohio, where the flood cannot reach. No wonder Colonel Boone warned us never to build our cabins low down to the edge of the water. Why, Bob, just think what would have happened now had we foolishly done so!" "Yes," remarked the other, as he cut off several pieces of meat to toast at the end of the reeds Sandy had tossed him. "After this, perhaps some one I know will have more respect for the simple old medicine man who foretold just this flood. How about that, Sandy?" "He knew, sure enough," admitted the other, readily; "but just as you said, I believe he guessed what was coming from the looks of the sky. The longer it held off the worse it would be when it arrived. Say, this is what I call comfort, Bob. Think what a difference between our present condition, and when we were fighting for our lives out yonder," and Sandy shuddered as he cast a quick glance toward the spot where the two currents clashed after skirting the length of the island. After a while they were able to begin eating. Perhaps there might have seemed a sameness about this fare to a modern boy; but these hardy pioneer lads never dreamed of complaining. Indeed, their hearts were now filled with thanksgiving over their recent miraculous escape, and there was no room for regrets. Besides, they were not used to luxuries in those days. Sandy was drawing a long breath, as though really unable to finish all the food he had cooked, when he saw his brother start up. Bob was holding his head in a listening attitude. "What did you think you heard?" exclaimed the other, in alarm. "I must have been mistaken," said Bob, smiling; "for it would be next to impossible for any one to be out here on this island right now." "But did you think you heard some one call?" persisted Sandy. "Yes, it sounded like a shout. But no doubt it was some hawk that has found shelter, like ourselves, on the island. If we watch we will likely see him fly away, now that the rain has stopped." Bob had hardly spoken when both brothers half sprang to their feet. "It was a cry for help!" exclaimed Sandy, looking at his brother, as usual expecting Bob to take the initiative in the emergency. "Some one is in trouble!" said the other, "and it is up to us to see if we can do anything for him. Remember how we would have been crazy with joy had there been a helping hand held out when all seemed lost!" "There it comes again! And from the same place! Whoever it is, he cannot be going past the island." "No," cried Bob, "I think he must have been thrown ashore among all that trash at the upper end, and, unable to help himself, is in danger of drowning there, caught in the piled up tree-tops. Come, we must get there and lend a hand." "It may be an Indian, and a hostile," reminded Sandy. "I do not think so, for the shout seemed to call for 'help!' But even if it is an Indian, surely you have reason for knowing that all Indians are not cruel and merciless. Remember the gratitude of Blue Jacket. Come, Sandy!" Bob hardly needed to say all this, for Sandy would not have held back. Together they made their way along the shore. It was not easy travelling, for the bushes grew thickly and interfered with their passage; but Bob led the way, and, accustomed to pushing through the woods, he surmounted all difficulties, Sandy coming close at his heels. In this fashion they finally came to the head of the island, where the floating trunks of dead trees, some with branches, too, formed a sort of barrier, which the force of the flood had swept up on the point. "There, look yonder, Bob! I see him!" cried Sandy, the instant they arrived. There was indeed a clinging figure out amid that mass of floating timber. The unknown seemed to be endeavoring to crawl through the network surrounding him; but his strength had apparently reached its last notch. Bob never hesitated, but started out over the logs. Now and then he had to exercise considerable care lest he slip, and once more plunge into the roaring flood. "Stand where you are, Sandy," he called to his brother, who had followed him. "Be ready to help when I give the word. I think I can get hold of him, and slew him around to you. Take care, and keep your footing!" Evidently Bob knew just how to carry out his hastily-arranged plan, for in a brief time he had gripped the unknown by the arm, and was hauling him out of and over the wreckage that surrounded him. So by slow degrees they managed between them all to get ashore. Here the man collapsed. He was no doubt overcome by the joyful sense of safety, when he had apparently given himself up for lost. "We must get him down to our little camp," said Bob, as he looked at the exhausted man. "Who can he be!" questioned Sandy; for the bearded white face was totally unfamiliar to either of them. "I do not know. Take hold of his feet, while I try to hold his shoulders. Between us we can carry him, step by step." They had made a passage in going up, and it would have been easier returning had they not been burdened with the senseless stranger; but, by resting frequently, the two boys finally managed to attain their end, and the man was laid alongside the fire. They started to rub the hands of the sufferer, to restore circulation, for he was evidently chilled to the bone, as well as utterly exhausted. No doubt the genial warmth of the fire had considerable to do with it; but the efforts of the boys counted as something, and presently they were rewarded by seeing the man's eyes open. "He's alive, Bob! We're going to bring him around all right!" exclaimed Sandy. In five minutes the man could lie there and hold out his trembling hands to the fire. In ten he was sitting up, gnawing hungrily at a piece of roasted meat Sandy had handed him, as though he knew that in this way he would regain some of that strength which he had lost when engulfed in the flood. And sitting there, watching him curiously, the two lads never once suspected how again their lucky star was in the ascendent; and that in saving this stranger from a watery grave they were bringing happiness home to those they loved so dearly. CHAPTER XXIX WONDERFUL TIDINGS THE man was so weak that presently he sank back and seemed to sleep. "Is he going to die?" asked Sandy, alarmed at his looks. "Not just now," replied his brother, shaking his head as he spoke. "You felt that heat of the fire yourself; and you see it has sent him to sleep. Here, cover him with my blanket. It is dry now, and will keep him warm." Leaving the stranger, who as yet had not spoken a word, the boys turned their attention to the leaky canoe. They knew how the Indians managed to stop any such openings in their light boats, made of birch bark or buffalo hides; and Bob had been wise enough to carry along some of the necessary pitch when starting out on this journey of exploration. "Do you ever forget anything?" demanded Sandy, when he saw his brother produce the needed material for mending their boat, and start heating it over the fire. "Oh! yes, often," replied Bob, cheerfully; for he knew his own faults, even if Sandy refused to see them. "And it was possible that we would run on a snag that would punch a hole in the boat; so I came prepared to mend it." The boat had been carried near the fire some time before, in order that it might dry out. When the conditions were right Bob set to work. He had asked Blue Jacket many questions regarding repairing canoes, when the young Shawanee brave was a guest under the Armstrong roof; and what he had learned proved of considerable value to him now. "How will it hold?" asked Sandy, who was hovering near, eager to lend a hand if his brother needed help. "I think it will be stronger than ever," came the reply. "That was always a weak spot, I remember. Once, I thought my foot was going to break through," declared Sandy, reminiscently. "Just as you say. I noticed it myself, and that was one mistake I made. I should have put this patch on before we started on our trip," and Bob stood back to survey his work. "Well," remarked the younger lad, as his eyes went out over that tumbling flood, on which the trees were swiftly passing in procession, "we will need a good stout boat if we hope to get over there. Do you think we can manage it, Bob? I'd be willing to take some chances rather than stay here a week, perhaps two, and have mother crying her eyes out for us the while." "I see no reason why we shouldn't make it," came Bob's reply. "The current heads toward our shore. Besides, with three to paddle, we should be able, foot by foot, to get over. And when we once leave the middle of the river it will not be so bad." "Three! Then you expect that our new friend will be able to help out?" and Sandy glanced toward the sleeping stranger. "Surely. After he wakes up he will be stronger. And he does not look like one who would shirk. He must have struggled hard to reach that place where we found him. Perhaps he saw our fire through the trees, or heard you shout. That was what made him cry out." Bob had picked up a hatchet as he spoke, and started to move off. "Let me cut some more fuel," objected Sandy, as he tried to take the tool from the other's hands. "It isn't that," said Bob. "I am going to look for a piece of wood that can be chopped into new paddles. We need three of them, you see, and it is going to be a long job to fashion them, with only a hatchet and a jackknife to work with." "Then I will go along. Perhaps two pair of eyes may be better than one in looking for the spruce pine," declared the younger brother, eagerly. And so it proved, for Sandy was the one to discover the tree they sought. Bob could figure just how the paddles might be hewn out, and he attacked the tree in a spirited way that soon encompassed its fall. When he tired, Sandy took a turn; and in this fashion they finally had three pieces, in the rough, which Bob declared would make very good paddles. And by slow degrees the first one was shaped until it only needed whittling with a knife to complete the job. "That seems all right," declared Sandy, as he proceeded to try the blade; "and I give you my word that it is far stronger than either of the ones we lost. I mean to fasten my paddle, this time, to my wrist with a bit of buckskin thong, and then, even if I lose my grip, it will never get away." "A clever idea," answered Bob, pausing in his work to wipe his brow, and smile at his brother; "and it will pay us all to do the same. Was it not father who told us how an ounce of prevention is better than a pound of cure? And once a paddle gets caught in the clutch of that river it can never be recovered again." "See!" exclaimed Sandy, "our friend is stirring! He is sitting up, and staring around him. I think he can hardly understand where he is, and how he came to cheat the river of a grave. Now he sees us, and smiles. Bob, there is something I like about that man, stranger though he is. I seem to feel that he is a friend, and that we will always be glad we rescued him to-day." "I am sure of that. There, the second paddle is about done. I am tired of the work, so let us go over to make the acquaintance of our guest. He is beckoning to us," and Bob dropped his hatchet to obey the summons. The stranger held out both hands, while his bearded face lighted up with a smile that, as Sandy had said, was very winning. "How can I ever thank you, boys, for what you have done?" he said, as he pressed a hand of each. "But for you I should have passed over to the other side." "Please do not say anything more," replied Bob, who could not bear to be praised for simply doing his duty. "Who may you be, and how did it happen that we found you among the tree-tops at the head of this island?" "My name is Silas Hemphill. With a party of others I was on my way down the river in a dugout canoe, intending to join our fortunes with the new settlers from Virginia, who lately came overland. We left Fort Pitt two days back, and were progressing fairly when this storm broke upon us. Doubtless we took too many chances, for we presently found ourselves in the grasp of the river, and could not return to shore." He paused a minute to get a grip on himself, and then continued: "Finally our boat was overturned. Heaven alone knows what became of my two companions; but I fear they must have been drowned. Only by the rarest of good fortune, and the favor of Providence, was I able to keep afloat until cast up amid the tree-tops where you found me." "But why did you shout? Surely you could not imagine that any one would be on this island to hear you?" asked Sandy, curious still. "I did not know then it was an island. And it seemed to me that I had heard a voice calling, which I supposed must belong to one of my friends who had luckily gained a footing on the shore. That was why I cried out, for I was frantic. But I fear much that I am the only survivor of the three voyagers." The newcomer was eying them in turn curiously. "And now," he said, "I would like to know your names; for I shall never forget what I owe you both. I can see that you must be brothers, for there is some resemblance between you; though I should say that this one," indicating Sandy, "probably takes after his mother; while the other is more like his father. This without knowing who your parents may be." "My name is Alexander, though they always call me Sandy. We are the sons of David and Mary Armstrong." As Sandy spoke Silas Hemphill's eyes took on a new glow, and again he thrust out both hands to seize those of the boys. "How wonderful are the ways of Providence!" he muttered, in a way that gave the listening boys a start. "To think that my life should have been saved by the sons of David Armstrong, of all men!" "Then you know our father?" demanded Bob. "No, I have never met him," came the reply. "But I have heard much about him in the country I happened to pass through while on my way here from Carolina, where my former home lay." The rescued man looked at them both, and Bob was thrilled to see tears in his eyes. Why should this stranger be so moved at sight of David Armstrong's two boys? He spoke of having heard about their father--could that have been down in Virginia, in the town which had been so cruel to the man who valued his honor as he did his very life? Bob saw a faint gleam of light. He hardly dared believe it at first, in fear lest it prove only a hollow mockery. Still, he could not resist saying: "You say you heard much about our father, sir,--was it to his credit that these things were said; or did they tell you the hateful, lying stories that drove him to come far away from those who were once his neighbors and friends?" "My boy, I heard that which your father would give much to know. While I stopped for a few days in the town where you dwelt, there was a serious fray in a place where strong drink was sold. One man, a black, was badly wounded. His name was Scipio, Black Scipio he was called, and he used to work in the same tobacco warehouse where David Armstrong was employed. Before he died the man confessed that it was _his_ hand that fired the barn, for the destruction of which your father was blamed. And now Jason Diggett, conscience stricken for having driven an honest man into exile, wishes to hear from your father in order that he make amends, in so far as pounds, shillings and pence may heal the wound!" CHAPTER XXX CONCLUSION FOR a full minute the two lads just sat there and stared at each other. Neither could say a single word; indeed, they did not seem to even breathe, such was the excess of sheer happiness that passed over them like a great wave. Their father's innocence then was proved! His old-time neighbors knew now how grievously they had wronged the one whose name had never before been smirched with a suspicion of evil doing! Suddenly Sandy awoke. He sprang up and began to dance wildly about, while he flung his arms above his head and shouted at the top of his strong, boyish voice. "It's come at last, Bob! Just think of it! Father is able to look any man in the face now! Hurrah! it was worth all it cost to learn this! Yes, and I'd go through it again if I had to. Thank you, Mr. Hemphill, thank you! You will find a happy family when you go home with us, and a warm welcome there!" The stranded man looked out over that tumbling sea, and shrugged his shoulders. "Do we have to take the chances of crossing that swollen stream?" he asked. "Yes," said Bob; "but we have mended our boat, and will have three strong new paddles to work with. We could stay here until to-morrow, but I fear the river may be even worse then than now. But you have made us both happy. We feel that nothing ought to keep us from reaching home this day, to carry the blessed news to our dear ones!" Bob started back at his work with feverish eagerness; but now joy filled his soul, and caused him to chop with new zeal. The third paddle was hewn out even while Sandy was smoothing off the second with his jackknife, he being a master-hand at such work, as many boys were in the days when few amusements were given them. It was now about the middle of the afternoon. The sky was still gloomy overhead, and Bob had fears that the rain would set in again. "Another reason why we ought to try to cross before darkness comes," he said, when they spoke about this. "I only hope it does not start when we are out on that flood," answered Sandy, with a shiver. "That would be a misfortune," declared Silas Hemphill. "Surely we will not be deserted in the eleventh hour. I hope to shake David Armstrong's hand to-night." Sandy hurried the finishing of the third paddle. He did not relish the voyage they had before them; but there seemed no other course open. Before starting out they made all things as secure as possible. Hemphill had by this time fully recovered and professed himself not only willing, but able, to do his share of the paddling. The canoe would carry three, though one might find it necessary at times to stop paddling in order to bale out what water dashed over the sides. Bob had taken as good a view as possible of their expected course. As he could not see a great distance down the river he might only surmise what awaited them there. Of course the one prime necessity was to make as quickly as they could toward shore, taking advantage of every eddy to gain a few inches or feet at a time. "I believe I have learned something from our past experience," he remarked, as he took his place in the stern, ready to push off. Sandy occupied the bow, while Silas Hemphill was a fixture in the centre, where he could assist with his blade, or dip water over the side, as occasion arose. "Ready?" asked Bob, trying to appear quite at his ease, though doubtless his heart was thumping at a tremendous rate at the prospect of their once more daring the dangers of the flood. "Yes, push off, Bob!" said Sandy, wonderfully grave, for him. Truth to tell there was no doubt but that every one of them just then was occupied with secretly praying that success might attend their object, and the friendly shore be attained in safety. "Here goes, then!" With the words Bob gave a shove, and the canoe once more danced upon the swollen waters of the furious Ohio. Immediately every paddle was set to work. The boat made a good start, and shot away from the lower end of the island like a thing of life, heading for the southern bank of the river. Then came that strong current, and seized hold. The paddles rose and fell, fast and faster. Muscles were brought to bear that dipped the blades deeply below the surface, and, despite the sweep of the tide, they kept continually edging nearer and nearer the goal for which they were aiming. There was a deep satisfaction in this. It spurred them all on to doing better things. When a wave slopped over the side Silas Hemphill needed no reminder to tell him his duty, but, picking up the little cooking kettle, he started to relieve the canoe of its burden of water. No one said a word. There was scant breath for the work that occupied their attention, not to mention talking. Actions must take the place of conversation at such a time. All the while Bob knew that they were gaining. The shore for a brief space of time stood out more positively than before. True, it was beginning to rain, and coming down harder and harder with each passing moment; but even this could not wholly cast a damper over his satisfaction. "Keep going! All is well!" He managed to shout these few words, feeling that Sandy might be in need of encouragement. Just where they might be no one could even give a guess now. It was a fight in the dark, apparently; but it could not last much longer. Already had Bob noticed with joy that the "pull" of the current was slackening considerably. There could be but one reason for that--the shore was close by, and here the swollen river moved with far less impetuosity than out in the middle. At times it had been difficult to wholly avoid a collision with some of the floating trees; but these never varied in their steady downward progress, and the canoe was capable of veering out of the way, so that thus far they had succeeded in keeping trouble at bay. "Only a little more, Sandy!" called Bob. Silas Hemphill again had his paddle working, and all together they sent the boat flying to the shore. But not one of them was able to raise a cheer when finally they ran aground. They lay there in the canoe for a short time, limp and exhausted, satisfied to know that they were at last safely landed. It was Sandy's quick eyes that suddenly made a discovery. "Look! where we have come to land, Bob!" he exclaimed, pointing to some bulky object that seemed to be fastened to the shore with ropes. "Why!" cried Bob, also taken aback, "as sure as anything that must be Captain Heally's new flatboat, on which he expects some day to drift further down the Ohio! What luck, Mr. Hemphill! Just to think that we have landed in front of _home_!" They made haste to scramble ashore, after which the canoe was carried up out of reach of the hungry tide. By this time several men, who had been watching to see that the ropes holding the flatboat did not give way, had heard them, and came hastening to the spot. Shouldering the buffalo meat which had been safely carried through all their adventures, and with their guns and new paddles, the boys started up the hill, eager to reassure those dear ones, who must certainly be worrying concerning their safety. Kate was the first to sight them. The girl had been to the lookout when the rain held up, hoping to get some glimpse of the boat, though no one believed it could cross the river in all that angry storm. She had returned to the cabin when once more the rain came down, but was sitting at a door looking forth when, through the mists, she caught sight of them. Presently the boys and their guest were inside the cabin, where a warm welcome awaited them. Sandy of course could not keep back the good news. "Father!" he cried, drawing the stranger forward, "this is Mr. Silas Hemphill, and he brings you great joy. Coming from our old home, he tells us the barn-burner has been found, and confessed his crime! And who do you think it was, but that good-for-nothing slave, Black Scipio, owned by Jason Diggett himself, and who wanted to even the score after receiving twenty lashes at the hands of his master!" David Armstrong's strong face paled. Words failed him in that supreme moment of happiness. He could only turn his mute eyes toward his wife, who in turn bent her head; and the boys knew she was giving thanks to the great God on high, because her faith had not been in vain. It was a happy household that gathered under the Armstrong roof that night. Wild though the winds howled across the waste of waters, furious as the flood swept past, inside their walls all was serene. Again and again did the newcomer have to tell his story. It seemed as though none of them could ever hear it often enough. And, tired though both boys must have been after their hard experiences of that day, neither would think of going to bed until a late hour. On the morrow a happy event took place, for both companions of Silas Hemphill made their appearance. They had fortunately kept together, and, being carried near a tree, managed to scramble into the branches. Some miles down the stream the tree was stranded near the shore, after getting in an eddy; and by great good luck they landed, to make their way to the settlement. David Armstrong thought little of returning to his old Virginia home, even though his name had been cleared. This new country looked far too good to him to give it up, and, besides, there were too many bitter memories connected with the Virginia town. In good time the repentant Jason Diggett did send out quite a bountiful supply of such things as he fancied the new settlers might need. David at first was inclined to refuse, but finally accepted the gift as in some sort an acknowledgment of reparation for the wrong done him. What the little family did not need he could readily barter with the Indians in his new trade relations, receiving in return valuable skins that he could exchange for money or for tea, sugar and such necessities. Occasionally Bob and Sandy saw their red friend, Blue Jacket; but he was chary about coming to the settlement, not having any great liking for the whites except the Armstrong family. The two young pioneers considered that they had well nigh exhausted the stock of adventures that were to fall to their portion when they rescued Silas Hemphill from the flood, and carried him across the raging river to bring good news to the Armstrong cabin. Little did they suspect that still more strenuous events were going to befall them later on that same season, when their little sister Kate was carried off a prisoner by the roving Iroquois. But these adventures must be kept for the next story of this series of frontier adventure, to be called: "The Pioneer Boys on the Great Lakes; or, On the Trail of the Iroquois." The new settlement waxed strong in numbers, as more people came out from the far country beyond the range of mountains, and joined their forces with those who were first on the ground. A blockhouse was soon finished, in which the settlers could find refuge in case of an Indian attack. Fields were planted as fast as the forest was cleared; and before Fall arrived it was one of the most thriving places west of Fort Pitt. Daniel Boone came again, and with him that fine fellow, Simon Kenton; just then starting out on his adventurous career, and destined to become so famous in the annals of border warfare. In him the brave and warlike red men found a fearless enemy, equal to Boone himself, and one ready to dare any peril in defence of the hardy settlers. As the summer waxed and waned Bob and Sandy Armstrong went about their business of providing the family with fresh meat, for game laws were unknown in those early days, and working men must have food to sustain their strength. While there were occasional times when the Shawanees swooped down upon the border settlements, they somehow seemed to leave this peaceful home community alone. And David Armstrong and his friends understood that this immunity was the result of the time when Bob and Sandy took the wounded brave in charge, and saved his life. Blue Jacket guarded their interests; and the whole community profited from the charge. [Illustration] THE END. NOTES NOTE 1 (PAGE 1) AMONG the people of the frontier it was customary, when fortune was kind, so that they happened to possess an overabundance of fresh venison, to dry a stock of this meat for the lean time when food would be scarce. This was known as dried or "jerked" venison, and could be nibbled at when on a tramp, or else served in the form of a stew, being fairly palatable. Of course they picked up this habit of laying in a store against a time of necessity from the Indians, who had possibly done this same thing through the centuries of the past, long before the new America became known to the people of the Old World. NOTE 2 (PAGE 10) The deer which had fallen to the guns of Bob and Sandy was of the common red Virginia species. This animal has always been found east of the Mississippi, and ranging from the Great Lakes down to the tip end of the Florida peninsula. The farther south one goes, the smaller the deer becomes; so that it is not uncommon for a successful hunter among the palmetto-bordered shores of the Mexican Gulf to carry his quarry home on his back, with little effort. NOTE 3 (PAGE 32) The usual costume of the day consisted of a heavy jacket and trousers, and under the jacket a sort of jerkin or close waistcoat made of wool. Underneath this was another garment that might perhaps be called a shirt, woven in the crude, home-made hand loom, and adding much to the comfort of the wearer. Except for the woollen jerkin, all the clothing was made of a stout cloth that in later days came to be known as jeans. It was wear-resisting to a remarkable degree, which of course proved to be a blessing all around, for new clothes in the families of most pioneers must always be an event never to be forgotten in the lives of the children. Moccasins usually covered the feet, shoes being expensive luxuries which few among the settlers could afford. To tan a deerskin, and fashion a pair of moccasins, was an accomplishment quickly learned from the Indians. NOTE 4 (PAGE 55) Perhaps to the boy of to-day the Armstrong home would have appeared a very cheerless place. The sleeping-places in the loft were reached by means of a pair of steep stairs that when not in use could be drawn up to the board ceiling, thus affording more room below. Over in one corner stood the spinning-wheel which was responsible for so many of Bob and Sandy's comforts in the way of clothes. In another quarter was the loom at which the good woman of the house was wont to fashion the stout cloth from which the outer garments of both boys, as well as Mr. Armstrong himself, were made. Under the small window stood the locker in which the housewife kept what small remnant of former luxuries in the way of linen remained to her from the stores in the comfortable home in Richmond that had been theirs before trouble found them out. The light from the open windows fell upon the bunches of herbs and dried vegetables that hung from the low rafters overhead, and upon the steaming pot that hung over the blaze in the wide-throated fireplace. NOTE 5 (PAGE 112) Daniel Boone at this time was still a comparatively young man; but already his intrepid soul had drank deeply of the cup of adventure; and he felt within him the yearning of a true explorer. He had, some years before, given up his comfortable home in the Yadkin valley, away back in North Carolina, because the country there was becoming "too thickly settled" to please his ideas of comfort. When it became necessary to mark the boundaries of his fields, and he could actually see the smoke of another cabin not over half a mile away, he resolved to put into action the designs for a westward move which in secret he had long been cherishing. His faithful wife gave herself heart and soul to his ambition to settle in that mysterious Golden West that seemed to be beckoning Boone on. They made a first step by crossing the Cumberland Mountains, and starting a new home to the west of this range. But Boone had already been further in Kentucky, and there was that in the rich plains of the interior to draw him like a magnet. When one has seen the region long known as the "Blue Grass country," around Lexington, and realized what a paradise on earth it has ever been, it is not so hard to understand why Daniel Boone refused to content himself with a home in a safer locality, less favored by Nature. In history Boone will always stand at the head of the brave pioneers who opened up the grand country south of the Ohio. All his later life he was engaged in trying to defend the infant settlements against the assaults of the red men. These Indians learned to respect him as a man more than any other "paleface" known to the times. Kentucky was known for many years as the "debatable ground," simply because of the tremendous efforts of the Shawanees, allied with other Indian tribes, to burn the new settlements, and drive out the pioneers. But by slow degrees they found themselves obliged to sue for peace, and cede their glorious lands to their conquerors in exchange for certain valuable commodities. To show what this remarkable man endured for the sake of the principle which he had made a part of his life, his own words, when speaking of Kentucky, may be given as evidence of his sincerity of purpose: "My footsteps have often been marked by blood, and therefore I can truly subscribe to its title of the 'dark and bloody ground.' Two darling sons and a brother have I lost by savage hands. Many dark and sleepless nights have I been a companion for owls, separated from the cheerful society of men, scorched by the summer's sun, and pinched by the winter's cold--an instrument ordained to settle the wilderness. But now the scene is changed; peace crowns the sylvan shade!" NOTE 6 (PAGE 113) Simon Kenton was very young at this time; but already in Boone he seems to have found the type of man whom he aspired to imitate. Brave to a stage of rashness, he lacked many of the most admirable qualities that stamped that peerless pioneer, but he had a personality that inspired the respect and admiration of all. Kenton's association with Boone in those early days had a great influence on his future life. His one failing was rashness; and, when dealing with a sly and treacherous foe, such as the red men invariably proved themselves to be, this was indeed a weakness that if not corrected would sooner or later have brought about the death of the venturesome frontiersman. Boone frequently took his younger companion to task for hasty words, or reckless conduct; and it was due to his wise counsel and example that Kenton became later a leader among the pioneers second only in influence and ability to Boone himself. Selections from The Page Company's Books for Young People THE BLUE BONNET SERIES _Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.50 =A TEXAS BLUE BONNET= By CAROLINE E. JACOBS. "The book's heroine, Blue Bonnet, has the very finest kind of wholesome, honest, lively girlishness and cannot but make friends with every one who meets her through the book as medium."--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._ =BLUE BONNET'S RANCH PARTY= By CAROLINE E. JACOBS AND EDYTH ELLERBECK READ. "A healthy, natural atmosphere breathes from every chapter."--_Boston Transcript._ =BLUE BONNET IN BOSTON;= OR, BOARDING-SCHOOL DAYS AT MISS NORTH'S. By CAROLINE E. JACOBS AND LELA HORN RICHARDS. "It is a fine story for girls, and is bound to become popular because of its wholesomeness and its many human touches."--_Boston Globe._ =BLUE BONNET KEEPS HOUSE;= OR, THE NEW HOME IN THE EAST. By CAROLINE E. JACOBS AND LELA HORN RICHARDS. "It cannot fail to prove fascinating to girls in their teens, not to mention those of older growth, who still hold dear the memory of their youth."--_New York Sun._ THE YOUNG PIONEER SERIES By HARRISON ADAMS _Each 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.25 =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE OHIO;= OR, CLEARING THE WILDERNESS. "Such books as this are an admirable means of stimulating among the young Americans of to-day interest in the story of their pioneer ancestors and the early days of the Republic."--_Boston Globe._ =THE PIONEER BOYS ON THE GREAT LAKES;= OR, ON THE TRAIL OF THE IROQUOIS. "The recital of the daring deeds of the frontier is not only interesting but instructive as well and shows the sterling type of character which these days of self-reliance and trial produced."--_American Tourist, Chicago._ =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSISSIPPI;= OR, THE HOMESTEAD IN THE WILDERNESS. "The story is told with spirit, and is full of adventure."--_New York Sun._ =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE MISSOURI;= OR, IN THE COUNTRY OF THE SIOUX. "Vivid in style, vigorous in movement, full of dramatic situations, true to historic perspective, this story is a capital one for boys."--_Watchman Examiner, New York City._ =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE YELLOWSTONE;= OR, LOST IN THE LAND OF WONDERS. "There is plenty of lively adventure and action and the story is well told."--_Duluth Herald, Duluth, Minn._ =THE PIONEER BOYS OF THE COLUMBIA;= OR, IN THE WILDERNESS OF THE GREAT NORTHWEST. "The story is full of spirited action and contains much valuable historical information."--_Boston Herald._ THE HADLEY HALL SERIES By LOUISE M. BREITENBACH _Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.50 =ALMA AT HADLEY HALL= "The author is to be congratulated on having written such an appealing book for girls."--_Detroit Free Press._ =ALMA'S SOPHOMORE YEAR= "It cannot fail to appeal to the lovers of good things in girls' books."--_Boston Herald._ =ALMA'S JUNIOR YEAR= "The diverse characters in the boarding-school are strongly drawn, the incidents are well developed and the action is never dull."--_The Boston Herald._ =ALMA'S SENIOR YEAR= "Incident abounds in all of Miss Breitenbach's stories and a healthy, natural atmosphere breathes from every chapter."--_Boston Transcript._ THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACE SERIES By HARRIET LUMMIS SMITH _Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.50 =THE GIRLS OF FRIENDLY TERRACE= "A book sure to please girl readers, for the author seems to understand perfectly the girl character."--_Boston Globe._ =PEGGY RAYMOND'S VACATION= "It is a wholesome, hearty story."--_Utica Observer._ =SCHOOL DAYS ON FRIENDLY TERRACE= The book is delightfully written, and contains lots of exciting incidents. FAMOUS LEADERS SERIES By CHARLES H. L. JOHNSTON _Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.50 =FAMOUS CAVALRY LEADERS= "More of such books should be written, books that acquaint young readers with historical personages in a pleasant, informal way."--_New York Sun._ "It is a book that will stir the heart of every boy and will prove interesting as well to the adults."--_Lawrence Daily World._ =FAMOUS INDIAN CHIEFS= "Mr. Johnston has done faithful work in this volume, and his relation of battles, sieges and struggles of these famous Indians with the whites for the possession of America is a worthy addition to United States History."--_New York Marine Journal._ =FAMOUS SCOUTS= "It is the kind of a book that will have a great fascination for boys and young men, and while it entertains them it will also present valuable information in regard to those who have left their impress upon the history of the country."--_The New London Day._ =FAMOUS PRIVATEERSMEN AND ADVENTURERS OF THE SEA= "The tales are more than merely interesting; they are entrancing, stirring the blood with thrilling force and bringing new zest to the never-ending interest in the dramas of the sea."--_The Pittsburgh Post._ =FAMOUS FRONTIERSMEN AND HEROES OF THE BORDER= This book is devoted to a description of the adventurous lives and stirring experiences of many pioneer heroes who were prominently identified with the opening of the Great West. "The accounts are not only authentic, but distinctly readable, making a book of wide appeal to all who love the history of actual adventure."--_Cleveland Leader._ HILDEGARDE-MARGARET SERIES By LAURA E. RICHARDS Eleven Volumes The Hildegarde-Margaret Series, beginning with "Queen Hildegarde" and ending with "The Merryweathers," make one of the best and most popular series of books for girls ever written. _Each large 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $1.25 _The eleven volumes boxed as a set_ $13.75 LIST OF TITLES =QUEEN HILDEGARDE= =HILDEGARDE'S HOLIDAY= =HILDEGARDE'S HOME= =HILDEGARDE'S NEIGHBORS= =HILDEGARDE'S HARVEST= =THREE MARGARETS= =MARGARET MONTFORT=PEGGY =RITA= =FERNLEY HOUSE= =THE MERRYWEATHERS= THE CAPTAIN JANUARY SERIES By LAURA E. RICHARDS _Each 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ 50 cents =CAPTAIN JANUARY= A charming idyl of New England coast life, whose success has been very remarkable. SAME. _Illustrated Holiday Edition_ $1.25 SAME, FRENCH TEXT. _Illustrated Holiday Edition_ $1.25 =MELODY:= THE STORY OF A CHILD. SAME. _Illustrated Holiday Edition_ $1.25 =MARIE= A companion to "Melody" and "Captain January." =ROSIN THE BEAU= A sequel to "Melody" and "Marie." =SNOW-WHITE;= OR, THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD. =JIM OF HELLAS;= OR, IN DURANCE VILE, and a companion story, BETHESDA POOL. =NARCISSA= And a companion story, IN VERONA, being two delightful short stories of New England life. "=SOME SAY=" And a companion story, NEIGHBORS IN CYRUS. =NAUTILUS= "'Nautilus' is by far the best product of the author's powers, and is certain to achieve the wide success it so richly merits." =ISLA HERON= This interesting story is written in the author's usual charming manner. =THE LITTLE MASTER= "A well told, interesting tale of a high character."--_California Gateway Gazette._ DELIGHTFUL BOOKS FOR LITTLE FOLKS By LAURA E. RICHARDS =THREE MINUTE STORIES= Cloth decorative, 12mo, with eight plates in full color and many text illustrations by Josephine Bruce. _Net_ $1.25; carriage paid $1.40 "Little ones will understand and delight in the stories and poems."--_Indianapolis News._ =FIVE MINUTE STORIES= Cloth decorative, square 12mo, illustrated $1.25 A charming collection of short stories and clever poems for children. =MORE FIVE MINUTE STORIES= Cloth decorative, square 12mo, illustrated $1.25 A noteworthy collection of short stories and poems for children, which will prove as popular with mothers as with boys and girls. =FIVE MICE IN A MOUSE TRAP= Cloth decorative, square 12mo, illustrated $1.25 The story of their lives and other wonderful things related by the Man in the Moon, done in the vernacular from the lunacular form by Laura E. 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The whole range of section railroading is covered in the story, and it contains information as well as interest."--_Chicago Post._ =THE YOUNG TRAIN DISPATCHER= "A vivacious account of the varied and often hazardous nature of railroad life, full of incident and adventure, in which the author has woven admirable advice about honesty, manliness, self-culture, good reading, and the secrets of success."--_Congregationalist._ =THE YOUNG TRAIN MASTER= "It is a book that can be unreservedly commended to anyone who loves a good, wholesome, thrilling, informing yarn."--_Passaic News._ =THE YOUNG APPRENTICE;= OR, ALLAN WEST'S CHUM. "The story is intensely interesting, and one gains an intimate knowledge of the methods and works in the great car shops not easily gained elsewhere."--_Baltimore Sun._ "It appeals to every boy of enterprising spirit, and at the same time teaches him some valuable lessons in honor, pluck, and perseverance."--_Cleveland Plain Dealer._ "The lessons that the books teach in development of uprightness, honesty and true manly character are sure to appeal to the reader."--_The American Boy._ THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS (Trade Mark) By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON _Each large 12mo, cloth, illustrated, per volume_ $1.50 =THE LITTLE COLONEL STORIES= (Trade Mark) Being three "Little Colonel" stories in the Cosy Corner Series, "The Little Colonel," "Two Little Knights of Kentucky," and "The Giant Scissors," in a single volume. =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S HOUSE PARTY= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S HOLIDAYS= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S HERO= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL AT BOARDING-SCHOOL= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL IN ARIZONA= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S CHRISTMAS VACATION= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL, MAID OF HONOR= (Trade Mark) =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S KNIGHT COMES RIDING= (Trade Mark) =MARY WARE: THE LITTLE COLONEL'S CHUM= (Trade Mark) =MARY WARE IN TEXAS= =MARY WARE'S PROMISED LAND= _These twelve volumes, boxed as a set_, $18.00. SPECIAL HOLIDAY EDITIONS _Each small quarto, cloth decorative, per volume_ $1.25 New plates, handsomely illustrated with eight full-page drawings in color, and many marginal sketches. =THE LITTLE COLONEL= (Trade Mark) =TWO LITTLE KNIGHTS OF KENTUCKY= =THE GIANT SCISSORS= =BIG BROTHER= THE JOHNSTON JEWEL SERIES _Each small 16mo, cloth decorative, with frontispiece and decorative text borders, per volume_ _Net_ $0.50 =IN THE DESERT OF WAITING:= THE LEGEND OF CAMELBACK MOUNTAIN. =THE THREE WEAVERS:= A FAIRY TALE FOR FATHERS AND MOTHERS AS WELL AS FOR THEIR DAUGHTERS. =KEEPING TRYST:= A TALE OF KING ARTHUR'S TIME. =THE LEGEND OF THE BLEEDING HEART= =THE RESCUE OF PRINCESS WINSOME:= A FAIRY PLAY FOR OLD AND YOUNG. =THE JESTER'S SWORD= =THE LITTLE COLONEL'S GOOD TIMES BOOK= Uniform in size with the Little Colonel Series $1.50 Bound in white kid (morocco) and gold _Net_ 3.00 Cover design and decorations by Peter Verberg. "A mighty attractive volume in which the owner may record the good times she has on decorated pages, and under the directions as it were of Annie Fellows Johnston."--_Buffalo Express._ * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Varied hyphenation retained as in nearby and near-by. Page 159, "fine" changed to "find" (could find safety) 
41103	----	HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA VOLUME 9 HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA VOLUME 9 Waterways of Westward Expansion THE OHIO RIVER AND ITS TRIBUTARIES BY ARCHER BUTLER HULBERT _With Maps_ [Illustration] THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY CLEVELAND, OHIO 1903 COPYRIGHT, 1903 BY THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY ALL RIGHTS RESERVED CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE 9 I. OUR FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE OHIO 15 II. THE INDIAN SIDE 48 III. "THE NAVIGATOR" 73 IV. THE EVOLUTION OF RIVER CRAFT 100 V. THREE GENERATIONS OF RIVERMEN 151 VI. THE NAVIGATION OF THE OHIO 189 ILLUSTRATIONS I. BONNÉCAMPS'S MAP OF THE OHIO RIVER; 1749 24 II. CAPTAIN GORDON'S MAP OF THE OHIO; 1766 _facing_ 48 III. RUFUS PUTNAM'S MAP OF THE OHIO RIVER AND SETTLEMENTS; 1804 71 PREFACE In the study of Waterways of Westward Expansion, the Ohio River--the "Gateway of the West"--occupies such a commanding position that it must be considered most important and most typical. Such is its situation in our geography and history that it is entitled to a most prominent place among Historic Highways of America which greatly influenced the early westward extension of the borders and the people of the United States. Not until a late period in the expansion era--the day of steam navigation--did the Great Lakes rise to importance as highways of immigration, and south of the Ohio River Basin there was no westward waterway of importance. The day of the keel-boat and barge was of moment in the broadening of the American sphere of influence on this continent, and nowhere is the study of these ancient craft made to so good advantage as on the Ohio and its tributaries. This monograph is devoted, therefore, to the part played by this waterway as a road into the West. The two introductory chapters, concerning Céloron and the first occupation of the Old Northwest, added to previous volumes of this series (iii, iv, v, and vi), complete the legendary and historical setting necessary for a proper view of the Ohio in the first momentous years of the nineteenth century. The occupation and filling of the southern shores of the Ohio was the story of Volume VI; the story of the filling of the northern shore is outlined in the second chapter of this book. With the position of the first colonies and settlements in the great valley well comprehended, and a conception of the origin of the different colonies and their varied types, the next logical step in our study is the rise of the river trade and its evolution. It is hardly necessary to point out to any reader of these volumes that the Ohio River was the highway upon which all of the great early continental routes focused. Washington's Road, Braddock's Road, Forbes's Road, and Boone's Road--like the Indian and buffalo trails they followed--had their goal on the shores of this strategic waterway. The westward movement was by river valleys (a fact perhaps never sufficiently emphasized) and not until the Tennessee, Monongahela, Kanawha, and Kentucky Rivers were reached were any waters found to run parallel with the social movement itself. When this goal of half a century was reached, then followed a half century of river travel that is being forgotten with remarkable rapidity. This cannot be realized until one marks out for himself the task, for instance, of learning how a keel-boat was made and how it was operated. The echo of the steersman's voice and the tuneful note of the bargeman's horn have faded from our valleys; and with this music has passed away a chapter of our history of vital importance and transcendant human interest. For the sum and substance of Chapter III, the author is indebted, as the title indicates, to the painstaking labor of one Zadoc Cramer, a statistical hero of a time when a man who could "earn his salt" was making a good day's wage, and when it seemed likely that Pittsburg might become one of the principal cities of the West. A. B. H. MARIETTA, OHIO, July 23, 1903. Waterways of Westward Expansion CHAPTER I OUR FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE OHIO The Ohio River is a greater and more important stream than is generally realized. It drains a vast and rich territory; its northern source is in latitude 42° 20['], while its mouth, thirteen hundred miles away, is in latitude 37° north. Its eastern tributaries are in longitude 78°, while its outlet is in longitude 89° 20[']. It thus comprises 5° 2['] of latitude and 11° 20['] of longitude. The Ohio drains a greater area than the Mississippi above the mouth of the Missouri; nearly one quarter of the waters which flow into the Gulf of Mexico come from it. The lower Mississippi and Missouri, only, drain more territory than the Ohio; but the downfall of rain in the Missouri drainage is not so great in actual water supply as that which falls within the 214,000 square miles drained by the Ohio. Moreover, in the district drained by the two heads of the Ohio, the Allegheny and the Monongahela (20,000 square miles), it has been estimated that the ratio of discharge to downfall is much greater than on any of the tributaries of the Mississippi. In 1868, 1,342,605,725,800 cubic feet of water passed Pittsburg, and in 1869, 1,634,846,499,200 cubic feet. At the same time the annual downfall of rain in the entire Ohio drainage was twenty and one-half trillion cubic feet, while the discharge of the Ohio into the Mississippi at Cairo was five trillion cubic feet. The ratio of discharge to downfall therefore was 0.24. These estimates, which undoubtedly approximate the truth, are of moment to our study. Nature cast, with a lavish hand, her waters where they would count tremendously in the opening of this continent: for the waters that fell here flowed into the West and the social movement was to be westward. The Ohio, more than any river, was to influence the flood-tides of immigration. The provision of water was, comparatively, abundant; that was the first necessity. A large proportion of the water that fell flowed away; that was the second necessity. It flowed approximately west; that was the third necessity. Thus it is that this river, of all rivers, has a place among the Historic Highways of America which were controlling forces in the early days of our national expansion westward. There are various theories concerning the name Ohio, the most popular and generally acceptable being that Ohio was the English way of spelling and pronouncing the name Oyo, "beautiful" which the Indians had given to the river. The French, who usually translated Indian names, called the Ohio River La Belle Rivière. Later came the English, and the Iroquois name Oyo was Anglicized to Ohio, the modern name of the river. This makes a very satisfactory explanation of La Belle Rivière, were it not that the Reverend John Heckewelder affirmed that the French name Belle Rivière was not a translation from the Indian, since there was no such Indian word meaning "beautiful." Mr. Heckewelder felt dissatisfied with the theory that Ohio meant "beautiful," and while yet associated with the Indians and familiar with their language, made a study of their names for the Ohio River with interesting and enlightening results. In tracing the derivation of the word Ohio he shows that, in the Miamis language, O'hui or Ohi, when prefixed, meant "very," while Ohiopeek meant "very white" (caused by froth or white caps) and Ohiopeekhanne meant "the white foaming river." He further states: "The Ohio river being in many places wide and deep and so gentle that for many miles, in some places, no current is perceivable, the least wind blowing up the river covers the surface with what the people of that country call 'white caps;' and I have myself witnessed that for days together, this has been the case, caused by southwesterly winds (which by the by are the prevailing winds in that country) so that we, navigating the canoes, durst not venture to proceed, as these white caps would have filled, and sunk our canoe in an instant. Now, in all such cases, when the river could not be navigated with canoes, nor even crossed with this kind of craft--when the whole surface of the water presented white foaming swells, the Indians would, as the case was at the time, say, 'juh Ohiopiechen, Ohiopeek Ohiopeekhanne;' and when they supposed the water very deep they would say, 'kitschi Ohiopeekhanne,' which means, 'verily this is a deep white river.'"[1] The traders who penetrated the Indian country were commonly careless of the pronunciation of names; any word which bore a fragment of similarity to the true name was satisfactory. There is, however, great excuse for this, as it was impossible for white men to acquire the "Indian ear" and pronounce the gutturals of the Indian language. Thus the abridgement of many words was carried to such an extent that nothing significant of the original Indian name remains. The newcomer learned of his predecessor and the "nick-names" were adopted and handed down leaving the true names to pass out of memory and existence. For instance Pittsburg was commonly called "Pitt" by the traders; Youghiogheny, "Yough;" Hockhocking, "Hocken." Our word Lehigh has no signification but was shortened from the original Indian name Leehauhanne. In this same manner, the traders adopted the first syllables of the word Ohiopeekhanne, thus obtaining an easier name to pronounce and remember. The Reverend Mr. Heckewelder is probably the best authority on Indian names and customs, so that, presumably, his version of the derivation and meaning of the name Ohio is the most authentic; but, the question remains, why should the French have called it La Belle Rivière? One cannot pass, however, without noting that in the Onondaga language there was a word ojoneri--the j being pronounced like our y. The Reverend David Zeisberger, who compiled a copious dictionary of the Onondaga language, asserted that ojoneri meant "beautiful" but in an adverbial sense, describing the manner in which something is done--synonymous with our word well. If the French translated an Indian name La Belle Rivière, it was the first syllables of this word, ojoneri, that they translated--about as correctly as Washington translated Illinois when he first heard it "Black Island" (Île Noire) or Lieutenant-governor Hamilton of Detroit translated Rivière d'Anguille (Eel River, as the Indians called it) as if it were Rivière d'Anglais. It is believed that the famous La Salle was the discoverer of the Ohio; three years of his life are unaccounted for at a moment when, as Fate would have it, we would like most to know where the brave explorer went. Suddenly we lose sight of La Salle near Niagara--searching earnestly for a great western river. Where he went we do not know but there is evidence that he came to what the French later knew as La Belle Rivière and descended it to "the Falls," or Louisville, Kentucky, about 1670. The earliest actual description of the Allegheny and Ohio Rivers is contained in the narratives of two men who came to the Ohio about the middle of the eighteenth century. Here we find the earliest authentic experience of travelers on this great water highway. This first glimpse of the Allegheny and Ohio is alluring in its suggestiveness; there is so much to be noted, between the lines. No story of the Ohio can be written without presenting the faintly filled-in pictures of Céloron and Bonnécamps: of the rugged hills, the rapid waters, the humorous scattering of the Loups and Renards; the solemn proclamations "in a loud voice" of sovereignty; the flotilla of canoes sweeping around the hill and out of sight. But almost all of this is left to the imagination; lacking this, the story is but a meaningless record of landings and departures, harangues and horrors. To every reader the story must appear differently, but to all it must be a first glimpse of the primeval Ohio. [Illustration: BONNÉCAMPS'S MAP OF THE OHIO RIVER (1749)] On the afternoon of the fifteenth day of June in the year 1749 a gallant company of French, with savage allies, under the direction of Monsieur Céloron de Bienville, embarked on the St. Lawrence in twenty-three canoes at La Chine near Montreal. Progress was slow for, in addition to the passengers, provisions, and camp necessities, the weight of a number of leaden plates caused the canoes to glide deeply in the clear waters. It is to the journals of Céloron and Father Bonnécamps, both of which are preserved in the archives of the Department of the Marine, in Paris, that we owe our knowledge of this first recorded voyage down La Belle Rivière, and with this expedition of 1749 begins the authentic history of the Ohio River.[2] Céloron and his detachment, with M. de Contrecoeur as captain, proceeded up the St. Lawrence and into the lakes. After coasting the southern shore of Lake Erie, he arrived at the Chautauqua portage--now known as Barcelona or Portland--on the sixteenth of July; and with the dawn of the following day began the ascent of Chautauqua Creek, called by the French Rivière aux Pommes. Much patience and labor was expended on this unnavigable stream, and it was not until the twenty-second of the following month that the band entered Chautauqua Lake, having spent six days of this time in toiling over the six-mile portage which connects Chautauqua Creek with the lake. Céloron now voyaged down the lake and on the morning of the twenty-fourth of July entered Conewango Creek. The water was low and, borrowing the words of Céloron: "On the 29th at noon I entered 'la Belle Rivière' I buried a plate of lead at the foot of a red oak on the south bank of the river Oyo and of the Chauougon, not far from the village of Kanaouagon, in latitude 42° 5['] 23['']."[3] Of this same occasion Father Bonnécamps wrote: "Finally, overcome with weariness, and almost despairing of seeing the Beautiful River, we entered it on the 29th at noon. Monsieur de Céloron buried a plate of lead on the south bank of the Ohio; and, farther down, he attached the royal coat of arms to a tree. After these operations, we encamped opposite a little Iroquois village, of 12 or 13 cabins; it is called Kananouangon.[4] It is an ancient custom of the French people to assert claim to lands in their possession by burying leaden plates at the mouths of all streams that drain that territory. When Céloron started upon his memorable journey he carried with him six leaden plates. These plates were about eleven inches long, seven and a half inches wide, and one-eighth of an inch thick. Each was engraved with an appropriate inscription, leaving a blank space for date and name of place of deposit at the mouths of the various streams.[5] A _Procès Verbal_, similar in nature to the inscription on the plate, was drawn up and signed by the officers present. To the nearest tree was tacked a plate of sheet-iron stamped with the royal arms. The officers and men of the expedition were drawn up in battle array and the chief in command shouted "Vive le Roi," declaring possession in the name of the King of France. La Salle established this custom on this continent in the latter part of the seventeenth century and now this chevalier of the order of St. Louis penetrates the half-known Central West to make good the precedent established fifty years and more ago. Although the treaty of Aix la Chapelle ended a tedious war in Europe, many points of controversy remained unsettled in the New World. At the conclusion of the war, England lost no time in taking measures to occupy the disputed territory. The Ohio Company was formed and the crown granted half a million acres to this association on the condition that settlements protected by forts be made upon the granted lands. These demonstrations on the part of their rivals had aroused the French to action. The Marquis de la Galissonière, Governor of Canada, dispatched Céloron and his company with orders to descend La Belle Rivière and take possession of all the territory drained by it and its tributaries, in the name of the King of France. In order to reach the field of action he has come a forty-four days' journey filled with bitter lessons. Today his first leaden plate has been buried, and tonight his weary "soldiers" have, for the first time, pitched their camp on the bank of the river in question. The first act of the real mission he has come to perform took place this afternoon with the interment of the plate--but that is only one of six! They rest in disputed territory and already has Céloron sent his right-hand man, M. de Joncaire, on to La Paille Coupée,[6] to reassure the suspicious savages. On the thirtieth the expedition moved on to Paille Coupée. Here a council was conducted by Joncaire whom the Indians addressed as "our child Joncaire." He had previously been adopted by the Indians and consequently had a great influence over them.[7] The "speech" of the Marquis de la Galissonière, brought and presented by Céloron to the Iroquois, is especially interesting and to the point, as it plainly shows the French attitude with reference to the English: "My children, since I have been at war with the English, I have learned that that nation has deceived you; and not content with breaking your heart, they have profited by my absence from this country to invade the land which does not belong to them and which is mine. This is what determined me to send to you Mr. Céloron, to inform you of my intentions, which are, that I will not suffer the English on my land; and I invite you, if you are my true children, to not receive them any more in your villages. I forbid, then, by this belt, the commerce which they have established lately in this part of the land, and announce to you that I will no longer suffer it. If you attack them you will make them retire and send them home; by that means you will be always peaceable in your village. I will give you all the aid you should expect from a good father. If you come to see me, next spring, you will have reason to be satisfied with the reception which I will give you. I will furnish you with traders in abundance, if you wish for them. I will even place here officers, if that will please you, to govern you and give you the good spirit, so that you will only work in good affairs. The English are more in the wrong in coming to this land, as the Five Nations have told them to fly from there to the mountains. Give serious attention, my children, to the words which I send you; listen well, follow it, it is the way to see always in your villages a haven beautiful and serene. I expect from you a reply worthy of my true children. You see the marks to be respected which I have attached along La Belle Rivière, which will prove to the English that this land belongs to me and that they cannot come here without exposing themselves to be chased away. I wish for this time to treat them with kindness and warn them; if they are wise they will profit by my advice."[8] The result of this council was not entirely satisfactory to the French. It was too plainly evident that there existed a feeling in favor of the English. Bonnécamps writes in his journal: "... and in the evening he received their reply, that every one had been satisfied--if one could believe it sincere; but we did not doubt that it was extorted with fear."[9] Such fears, however, did not alter the determination of the French. On July 31, Céloron writes: "I sojourned at this village, [Paille Coupée] having been stopped by the abundance of rain, which pleased us much. The water rose three feet during the night."[10] The expedition left Paille Coupée on the first of August and journeyed all day "between two chains of mountains, which bordered the river on the right and left." Father Bonnécamps notes that "the Ohio is very low during the first twenty leagues; but a great storm, which we had experienced on the eve of our departure, had swollen the waters, and we pursued our journey without any hindrance."[11] Under date of August 1, Father Bonnécamps, tourist-like, recounts a snake story, accompanying it by the impressions of a newcomer into the Ohio Basin: "Monsieur Chabert on that day caught seven rattlesnakes, which were the first that I had seen. This snake differs in no way from others, except that its tail is terminated by seven or eight little scales, fitting one into another, which makes a sort of clicking sound when the creature moves or shakes itself. Some have yellowish spots scattered over a brown ground, and others are entirely brown, or almost black. "There are, I am told, very large ones. None of those which I have seen exceed four feet. The bite is fatal. It is said that washing the wound which has been received, with saliva mixed with a little sea-salt, is a sovereign remedy. We have not had, thank God, any occasion to put this antidote to the test." After having marched nearly four leagues on this first day of August, the party reached a village of Loups and Renards--clans of the Delaware Nation.[12] Having been informed of the approach of this expedition, all except one man had fled. Céloron explained to this solitary individual that he did not mean to harm the Indians, and invited them "to go to the village lower down, which was but four or five leagues distant, where he would speak to them." Proceeding on down the river he passed another Loup village of about the same size, six cabins. To these inhabitants he also addressed himself and requested them also to go to the most considerable village, where he promised to "speak to them on the part of their Father Onontio." They arrived there a little after the travelers. At this "considerable village" of Loups, after having progressed eight or nine leagues in the hot August sun, the tired company rested during the night. The second of August was spent at the village, and Céloron spoke, conciliating the assembled savages. Under date of August 3, Father Bonnécamps writes: "We continued our route, and we marched, as on the first day, buried in the somber and dismal valley, which serves as the bed of the Ohio." During this day's journey, two Indian villages were passed. The first village was abandoned by its inhabitants in favor of the woods, at the approach of the expedition. The second village, Venango,[13] consisted of but nine or ten cabins. Céloron disembarked here and spoke to the inhabitants "nearly as I had spoken to the Loups, and reëmbarked immediately. This evening I buried a lead plate and the arms of the king by a tree, and drew up the Procès Verbal."[14] This second plate was buried "near" or "underneath" a large boulder upon which were numerous Indian hieroglyphics. Following the course of the river, this rock was about nine miles below the mouth of French Creek, then called Rivière aux Boeufs by the French. According to Bonnécamps: "we buried a 2nd plate of lead under a great rock, upon which were to be seen several figures roughly graven,"[15] while Céloron himself informs us: "I ... have buried on the south bank of the Ohio, four leagues below the River aux Boeufs, opposite a bald mountain and near a large stone, on which are seen several figures, rather roughly engraved, a lead plate and attached in the same place to a tree the arms of the king."[16] This plate has never been found. On the morning of the fourth, a conference was held, it being decided that Joncaire with the chiefs should precede the party to Attiqué and inform the inhabitants of the good intentions of the approaching band, and to beg them not to flee from their village. Of this day Father Bonnécamps writes: "The 4th. We continued our route, always surrounded by mountains--sometimes so high that they did not permit us to see the sun before 9 or 10 o'clock in the morning, or [after] 2 or 3 in the afternoon. This double chain of mountains stretches along the Beautiful River, at least as far as rivière à la Roche ('Rocky River'). Here and there, they fall back from the shore, and display little plains of one or two leagues in depth." Céloron seems to have had his mind too full of serious matters to notice his surroundings or, at least, to have given us the benefit of any observations; and Father Bonnécamps's eyes are the first through which we can gaze upon the primeval Ohio. On the fourth the expedition made about fifteen leagues. Camp was broken at an early hour on the fifth, and after having journeyed three or four leagues the _voyageurs_ passed a river, the confluence of which with the Allegheny, Céloron describes as "very beautiful;" a league further down they passed another. "They are both south of la Belle Rivière. On the heights there are villages of Loups and Iroquois of the Five Nations. I encamped early to give time to Mr. de Joncaire to arrive at the village Attické."[17] After having journeyed about five leagues on the sixth they reached Attiqué where they found Joncaire and his chiefs awaiting their arrival; all the inhabitants of the village had fled to the woods. "I reëmbarked and I passed the same day the ancient village of the Chaouanons [Shawanese], which has been abandoned since the departure of Chartier and his band, who were removed from this place by the orders of the Marquis de Beauharnois, and conducted to the river Vermillon, in the Wabash, in 1745."[18] At this place Céloron "encountered" six English traders with fifty horses and about one hundred and fifty packs of peltry with which they were returning to Philadelphia. Céloron warned these Englishmen against intruding upon the territory of the French king and gave them a letter to deliver to the governor of Pennsylvania at Philadelphia.[19] On the seventh they passed a village of Loups where only three men remained--"the rest of their people had gone to Chinique, not daring to remain at home. I invited these three men to come with me to Chinique to hear what I had to say to them." Céloron tells us that they reëmbarked and proceeded on down to "Written Rock" which was inhabited by the Iroquois and governed by an old woman[20] who is "entirely devoted to the English." All the savages had fled in alarm from the village and "there only remained ... six English traders, who came before me trembling.... I made them the same summons as to the others, and I wrote to their governor.... This place is one of the most beautiful that until the present I have seen on the Belle Rivière."[21] This village was commonly known throughout the pioneer period as Shannopin's Town; it was about four miles above the junction of the Allegheny and Monongahela Rivers. There could be nothing more singular than the omission of any references to the Monongahela River, but neither Céloron nor Bonnécamps refer in any wise to it. As they did not travel at night and as, from the Ohio River, the Allegheny does not now, and did not then, appear to be so important a stream as the Monongahela, there can be but one explanation for this astounding omission. As no mention whatever is made of the Monongahela, and as no plate was buried here, either Céloron's party did not see it, or, believing it took its rise in Pennsylvania and was already settled by the English, they tacitly omitted to claim it for their king. The first supposition is absurd; the formation of the country is particularly significant and would attract the attention of the most unobserving; the meeting of the river tides, the difference in the color of the waters--everything would attract the attention of the _voyageur_. The second supposition is inexplicable; the only possible shred of evidence that the French ever intended that the English should have even a chance to claim any land in the Monongahela Valley is in the Sixth Article of the capitulation signed by Washington at Fort Necessity in 1754.[22] The company spent the night of the seventh about three leagues below "Written Rock," and as Chiningué was but two leagues below the camp they easily reached this town, which was one of the "most considerable on the Belle Rivière," the following day. Céloron informs us that this village consisted of fifty cabins of Loups, Iroquois, and Shawanese, and Father Bonnécamps records that they called it Chiningué from its close proximity to a river of that name.[23] This place (a few miles below the present Economy, Pennsylvania) has figured prominently in later Indian history as Logstown. Croghan's _Journal_ under date of August, 1749, says that "Monsieur Celaroon with two hundred French soldiers" had passed through Logstown just before his arrival. Inquiring of the inhabitants the object of "Celaroon's" expedition, he was told that "it was to drive the English away, and by burying iron plates, with inscriptions on them at the mouth of each remarkable creek, to steal away their country."[24] Upon reaching Chiningué Céloron compelled several English whom he found established there to leave and sent by them a letter, similar to the one previously spoken of, to Governor Hamilton. The Indians were very suspicious of Céloron, and here his Iroquois and Abenaki allies deserted him. They treated his speech with contempt and tore down the plates which had been nailed upon the trees. Céloron left Chiningué on the eleventh and at noon of the thirteenth interred a plate of lead "at the entrance of the river and on the south bank of the Kenawah, which discharges itself to the east of the river Ohio."[25] According to Bonnécamps's journal, the plate was interred at the mouth of the Kanonouaora. This third plate was probably buried at the mouth of Wheeling Creek in West Virginia, though the descriptions of the place as given by both Céloron and Bonnécamps are so vague that it is quite impossible to identify positively the site.[26] At seven o'clock on the morning of the fourteenth, the expedition was again on its way down the river. They passed two rivers, the entrances of which, Céloron tells us, were very beautiful. On the fifteenth the route was continued, and a leaden plate was interred "at the foot of a maple, which forms a tripod with a red oak and a cone pine, at the entrance of the river Yenanguekouan, on the west shore of this river ... and in the same place attached to a tree the arms of the King."[27] Father Bonnécamps gives, as the name of this river, Jenanguékoua. This, the fourth plate, was interred at the mouth of the Muskingum River in Ohio, on the site of old Fort Harmar and within the present city of Marietta. This plate, found in 1798 by some boys bathing in the Muskingum, was presented to the Antiquarian Society of Massachusetts in the library of which it is now preserved. On the sixteenth at nine o'clock, the party resumed its journey, making nearly twelve leagues. On the seventeenth Céloron makes record of having seen two "beautiful" rivers the names of which he says he does not know. "I disembarked early to hunt, being altogether reduced to a diet of bread."[28] The journey was resumed at an early hour the next day, but the party was forced to camp at noon, as the rain prevented their continuing. On this day, the eighteenth of August, the fifth leaden plate was "buried, at the foot of a tree, on the southern shore of the Ohio and the eastern shore of Chiniondaista."[29] Father Bonnécamps gives the name of this river, the Great Kanawha, Chinodaichta. The spelling of the name on the plate, which was found in 1846 and has been preserved by the Virginia Historical Society, differs somewhat from that of the _Journal_, that on the plate being Chinodahichetha. This place, where the fifth plate was interred, was named Point Pleasant, West Virginia, by the early settlers and still bears that name. At this point the expedition was delayed on account of rain, but all reëmbarked on the twentieth, and during the day encountered a Loup, who, upon being asked how many inhabitants there were at St. Yotoc,[30] replied there were eighty or a hundred cabins. On the following day Joncaire, two chiefs of the Sault de St. Louis, three Abenakis chiefs, and M. de Niverville were sent ahead to St. Yotoc "to tranquilize the nations and restore their spirits, in case any carrier of news had troubled them." Céloron gave his envoys a start of several hours before resuming his journey. By embarking early on the morning of the twenty-second, they were enabled to reach St. Yotoc that day, and encamped opposite the village. The next three days were spent in holding councils. The Chaouanons (Shawanese) inhabitants of "St. Yotoc" were very suspicious of the French and their intentions. Bonnécamps says: "Monsieur the Commandant had great difficulty to reassure them." "The situation of the village of the Chaouanons is quite pleasant--at least, it is not masked by the mountains, like the other villages through which we had passed. The Sinhioto river, which bounds it on the West, has given it its name. It is composed of about sixty cabins. The Englishmen there numbered five. They were ordered to withdraw, and promised to do so." The expedition embarked on the morning of the twenty-sixth of August and reached Rivière la Blanche[31] that night at ten o'clock. Here they waited two days for Le Baril, the chief, and his band of Miamis, to join them and proceed to La Demoiselle to hear Céloron's speech. "Finally, on the morning of the 31st, they appeared, followed by their women, their children, and their dogs. All embarked, and about 4 o'clock in the afternoon we entered Rivière à la Roche, after having buried the 6th and last leaden plate on the western bank of that river,[32] and to the north of the Ohio."[33] "I ... have buried on the point formed by the right shore of the Ohio, and the left of the River la Roche, a plate of lead, and attached to a tree the arms of the king."[34] With the burial of this sixth and last leaden plate, which, so far as known, has never been discovered, Céloron's voyage on La Belle Rivière ended, and on the morning of the first of September the canoes began the ascent of the shallow Rivière à la Roche en route to Quebec by way of Lake Erie. Through the eyes of these travelers the Governor of New France looked upon the great valley of the Ohio and realized its extent and strategic value. The many large rivers entering it, the Indian villages which dotted its banks and, more than all else, the avidity of English traders for the fur trade of these villages, were the items in the report of these first _voyageurs_ which led quickly to the French fort-building here and precipitated the old French War. CHAPTER II THE INDIAN SIDE The campaign of General John Forbes in 1758, which ended French rule on the Ohio, gave the Ohio Valley to the English. From this time on, the entire sweep of territory between the Atlantic Ocean and the present Pittsburg may be termed English territory. While England now nominally came into possession of all of this portion of New France, the lands on either side of the Ohio River below Pittsburg were claimed by the Indian nations inhabiting them, and the Crown attempted, in the Proclamation of 1763, to preserve these lands for the Indians by prohibiting the migrations of the colonists. The Treaty of Fort Stanwix in 1768, and the expansion of Virginia into the vast tract south of the Ohio have been recounted.[35] It is sufficient to recall here that this treaty gave to Virginia the entire southern bank of the Ohio and all the territory southward to the banks of the Tennessee. The treaty was made with the Iroquois, the conquerors of half a continent, not with the Delawares and Shawanese and Southern Nations, who camped and hunted there. These dependents of the Iroquois contested the treaty stoutly and not until 1774 did the Shawanese even pretend to agree to its stipulations. This agreement was secured by what is known as Dunmore's War and was the direct result of General Andrew Lewis's bloody victory over the allied Indians at the mouth of the Great Kanawha River, October 10, 1774. It is not less than significant that this decisive battle which assured the Old Southwest to the Americans, should have been fought practically over the burial place of Céloron's fifth leaden plate which claimed the land for France. By the time of the outbreak of the Revolutionary War, the entire southern shore of the Ohio had been abandoned by Indians, though for many years they continually invaded the pleasant country which was fast filling with a scattered white population. [Illustration: CAPTAIN GORDON'S MAP OF THE OHIO RIVER (1766) _From original in Library of Congress_] The story of the conquest and occupation of the northern side of the Ohio River is as bitter and bloody a tale as that of the southern side. The artificial division of the Middle West into states has resulted in some very artificial historical distinctions; the Ohio River has perhaps never been considered a mighty boundary line on the brink of which civilization paused for many critical years. The northern bank of the Ohio was, through many years, known as the "Indian Side;" and while western Virginia and Kentucky were counting their tens of thousands, the "Indian Side" was forbidden territory. The Ohio River was the western boundary of the colonies and of the United States for seventeen years: from 1768 until 1785. When, in 1783, the United States by the Treaty of Paris came into possession of the territory between the Alleghenies and the Mississippi, the "men who wore hats" had not purchased an acre of land north and west of the Ohio River from its bareheaded inhabitants. In 1785 at the Treaty of Fort McIntosh the United States secured from its actual possessors (the Iroquois claims having been satisfied at a second treaty at Fort Stanwix, October 1784) the first grant of land north of the Ohio. The western boundary line of the United States now began on Lake Erie, ascended the Cuyahoga, descended the Tuscarawas to the site of Fort Laurens, ran west to the portage between the Miami and St. Mary Rivers; ascending the Maumee to Lake Erie it followed the lake shore to the starting point. The lands south, east, and west of this line were given to the United States so far as the Indians "formerly claimed the same." This was the first of a long series of treaties each of which gave the northwest side of the Ohio River to the United States. Thus in 1785 the Ohio Valley legally became a part of the territory of the United States. By an ordinance immediately passed by Congress, this tract of land north of the Ohio River was ordered to be surveyed, the lots to be sold by the Government in order to create a fund to pay the war debt. A geographer and surveyors were appointed to survey and plat seven ranges of townships westward from the Pennsylvania boundary. These were to be sold by townships by commissioners of the loan office of the several states after proper advertisement. Thus, at the stroke of a pen, the Ohio River became a division line between empires differing wholly from each other. The "Virginia Side" was peopled by southerners according to the Virginia system, which allowed a man to take and mark for himself unappropriated lands. Thus the entire southern shore of the Ohio had been occupied by Virginians, Pennsylvanians, and North Carolinians. By act of Congress the New England system was extended to the land lying north of the Ohio; the land was to be properly surveyed and sold. The Ohio River at once became the western projection of Mason and Dixon's Line. In some such way as Chevalier has suggested, the Ohio River became a division fence between Roundhead and Cavalier. South of the river, lands were taken up by southerners in the old Virginia way; north of the river the New England system obtained, as though prophesying that the dominant race was to be of New England stock. It was a momentous turning point in the history of the Central West when Congress made the New England system operative on the "Indian Side" of the Ohio, banishing at once and forever from that great area the strife and suffering caused by the thousand conflicts of overlapping "tomahawk claims" and incorrect and confusing "surveys." But these acts of Congress were far more easily passed than enforced. In the first place, even before the land north of the Ohio was purchased by the United States, white settlers began crossing the Ohio and settling on the "Indian Side." By the year 1780 the Indian Side of the river had been quite wrested from the savages, at least from Pittsburg down to the Scioto. Mclntosh had built Fort Laurens on the Tuscarawas and, with the help of others, the Delawares had been driven from the Muskingum Valley. Clark had captured Illinois and it was now a part of Virginia. Many invasions from Kentucky had passed up the Scioto and the Miamis, In all these campaigns the soldiery was largely made up of the border settlers of western Pennsylvania and Virginia, and they somehow conceived the notion that they were as much entitled as any one to the splendid lands from which they had driven the Indians. Heretofore the states and the Government had done everything in reason to encourage the western movement and protect it. No one perhaps realized that the Ohio River was to be considered, in any sense, a boundary line. Yet the United States recognized the Indian right and took such means as were possible to accomplish an utterly impossible thing. The lands on the northern side of the Ohio River were to be preserved to the Indians until purchased from them. It was even decreed that retaliatory raids of the whites should not cross the Ohio. As early as 1779 "trespassers" of a law as inherently impossible as the Proclamation of 1763, made settlements on the Indian Side of the Ohio "from the river Muskingum to Fort Mclntosh, and thirty miles up some of the branches of the Ohio river."[36] Colonel Brodhead at Fort Pitt immediately despatched Captain Clark to drive off the intruders. The commissioners at the Fort Mclntosh treaty (1785) were not blind to such possibilities, and took occasion to forward the following instructions to Colonel Harmar at Fort Pitt, January 24, 1785: "Surveying or settling the lands not within the limits of any particular State being forbid by the United States, in Congress assembled, the commander will employ such force as he may judge necessary in driving off persons attempting to settle on the lands of the United States."[37] The task laid upon Colonel Harmar was a most unpopular and impossible one. By this time the country south of the Ohio was teeming with a great restless population. There were, by 1785, a hundred thousand people in what we know as West Virginia and Kentucky. The first comers had fallen upon the very best lands and appropriated them. There is no doubt that all the fertile "bottoms" along the southern shore of the Ohio River had been "staked out" and more or less "improved" by this time. Washington alone, through his agents Crawford and Freeman, had secured not less than sixty thousand acres on the Ohio and Little and Great Kanawha before this time. Other far-sighted, enterprising men, like Patrick Henry, had secured other tracts of land. It must be remembered, too, that this was a day of no roads; lands lying away from the immediate river valleys could be reached and improved only with the greatest difficulty. It is therefore no wonder that the southern shore of the Ohio was crowded at this time with a swarm of pioneers whose uncouth faces and unkempt appearance suggested plainly the labor they had endured to reach and hold the river--their goal. They looked across to the fertile bottoms on the Indian Side and the splendid stretches of land in the valleys of the Muskingum, Hocking, Scioto, and Miami Rivers. They and their children had conquered that land; under a score of fierce leaders they had flung themselves upon the upper Muskingum and driven the Delawares away to the Lakes, or upon the Scioto and sent the Shawanese scurrying up the Sandusky or Maumee. Yet there on the trees on the other side were nailed proclamations from the commanding officer at Fort Pitt warning them against settling on those lands. Little wonder they defied the proclamation. In less than two months after Colonel Harmar had received the instructions to drive off all settlers from these lands of the United States, he sent a force under Ensign Armstrong down the river from Pittsburg. His report was most alarming;[38] he affirmed that there were three hundred families at the falls of the Hocking and an equal number on the Muskingum; on the Miami and Scioto Rivers the number of "intruders" was placed at fifteen hundred. "From Wheeling to that place [Miami]," he wrote, "there is scarcely one bottom on the river but has one or more families living thereon." These settlers "were equal to self-government," writes William Henry Smith, "and, if undisturbed, would soon have laid the foundations of a State on the Ohio."[39] Indeed, a call was issued by these pioneers March 12, 1785, for an election of members to a convention for the framing of a constitution for the government of a new state; elections were to be held at the mouths of the Miami, Scioto, and Muskingum Rivers and one at the house of Jonas Menzons in the present Belmont County, Ohio. The advertisement of these elections was signed by John Emerson and its final paragraph denied the right of Colonel Harmar to dispossess the settlers on the Indian Side, in the following terms: "I do certify that all mankind, agreeable to every constitution formed in America, have an undoubted right to pass into every vacant country, and there to form their constitution, and that from the confederation of the whole United States, Congress is not empowered to forbid them, neither is Congress empowered from that confederation to make any sale of uninhabited lands to pay the public debts, which is to be by a tax levied and lifted [collected] by authority of the Legislature of each State."[40] On January 31, 1786, a treaty was concluded at the mouth of the Great Miami with the Shawanese. The United States received from that dangerous nation a title to the lower Ohio Valley. But the general government was by this time at its wits' end to keep the acquired territory from the restless inhabitants of its own impoverished colonies. Colonel Harmar wrote the Secretary of War now that he had, by force of arms, driven off all intruders for a distance of seventy miles below Pittsburg, but that the number beyond "was immense" and that nothing could prevent the lands being occupied in the old Virginia way "unless Congress enters into immediate measures." Congress took the cue and resolved that if troops stationed at Pittsburg could not enforce its commands, a new garrison must be established on the lower Ohio. Accordingly Colonel Harmar was ordered to take post on the north side of the Ohio between the Muskingum and the Miami Rivers, where he could successfully keep the front ranks of the immigration army from crossing the river, and where he could also protect the surveyors of the seven ranges from any insults of the Indians.[41] Under this order Fort Harmar was erected at the mouth of the Muskingum River (Marietta, Ohio) in 1785. Fort Harmar and Fort Finney, erected at the mouth of the Miami, nominally accomplished the purposes for which they were erected; the immigration movement across the Ohio was stopped until preparations had been made for it. They were the first legal homes of Americans north of the Ohio River after the Revolutionary War. In the meantime propositions for the government of this great region north of the Ohio River were being debated in Congress; and finally it was declared to be the "Territory Northwest of the River Ohio" by the Ordinance of 1787. This famous act had been pending three years in Congress, but was passed within twelve days of the arrival in New York of Dr. Manasseh Cutler, hero-preacher and skilled diplomat; he came as the authorized agent of an Ohio Company of Associates which had been formed by Revolutionary veterans under the leadership of General Rufus Putnam in Boston in 1786 with special reference to the western land bounties promised by Congress in 1776 to faithful soldiers. The Ordinance organized from the lands ceded to the government by the several states the magnificent territory now occupied by the states of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, and Wisconsin. The act itself was conceived in a petition signed by these Revolutionary soldiers composing the Ohio Company of Associates, and forwarded by General Putnam to General Washington, praying that the Government redeem its worthless scrip by grants of western land. This a grateful government was willing to do. The difficulty was that it would be hazardous to organize a territory, to be suckled and protected at great expense, unless a considerable fraction of the area thus organized should be populated and developed by worthy citizens. The Ohio Company of Associates offered to take a million and a half acres. This was not satisfactory to the delegates in Congress. It was a mere clearing in all that vast stretch of territory between the Ohio, the Mississippi, and the Great Lakes. It was, therefore, on a momentous mission of reconciliation that Dr. Cutler hurried to New York. The "Territory Northwest of the River Ohio" could not be erected unless the Ohio Company took a considerable part of the lands. The Ohio Company, on the other hand, could not take land without the assurance that it was to be an integral part of the United States. The Ohio Company would make the Ordinance possible; the Ordinance made the Ohio Company's purchase possible. In order to realize the hopes of his clients, and, at the same time, satisfy the demands of the delegates at Congress, Dr. Cutler added to the grant of the Ohio Company an additional grant of three and a half million acres, taken by a Scioto Company on behalf of Colonel Duer and others. Thus by a stupendous speculation, unhappy in its results but compromising in no way the Ohio Company or its agent, and by shrewdly, though without dissimulation, announcing his determination to obtain lands from the individual states if Congress would not now come to terms, Dr. Cutler won a signal victory. The famed Ordinance was passed, corrected almost to the letter of his amendments, and Congress entered into the greatest private contract it had ever made. It was signed by Dr. Cutler and Major Winthrop Sargent for the Ohio Company and Samuel Osgood and Arthur Lee for the Treasury Department, October 27, 1787. Speaking in general terms, therefore, the Ohio Valley from the Pennsylvania line to the mouth of the Muskingum was, in 1785-86, surveyed into the "Seven Ranges;" southwest of this, down the valley, came the Ohio Company grant of 1787. This embraced the lands from the seventh through the seventeenth range. The earnestness of these New Englanders is suggested by the immediate payment of half a million dollars down, when the contract was signed with the United States, and by the immediate arrival on the Ohio of the Ohio Company's vanguard of settlers. These forty-eight "Pilgrims of Ohio," under the leadership of the noble Putnam, reached the Youghiogheny by way of the Old Glade Road through Pennsylvania in the midwinter of 1787-88. On the seventh of the following April they landed at the mouth of the Muskingum. Here, across the Muskingum from Fort Harmar, they built their pioneer castle, around which grew up Marietta--named in honor of Marie Antoinette, whom its founders, old Revolutionary veterans, had learned to love. In July, General Arthur St. Clair, the newly-appointed governor of the Territory Northwest of the River Ohio arrived, and with imposing ceremony, the administration of the great Territory was inaugurated. Within two years five colonies had been planted by the Ohio Company, four in the Muskingum Valley and one on the Ohio, opposite the mouth of the Little Kanawha River. The "Indian Side" of the "white foaming river" had now received its first permanent quota of white settlers.[42] In the same year, 1787, John Cleves Symmes and associates, largely from New Jersey, entered into correspondence with Congress for the purchase of a million acres of land north of the Ohio, lying between the Little and Great Miami Rivers. This "Symmes" or "Miami" purchase was achieved, and the Marietta pioneers saw the Miami settlers passing down the Ohio late in 1788 en route to their lands two hundred miles away. In point of daring no pioneer movement in America, save only the founding of Boonesborough, Kentucky, was more plucky than the founding of what is now Cincinnati. In December, Losantiville (Cincinnati) was settled, opposite the mouth of the Licking River. The Symmes company also settled Columbia, at the mouth of the Little Miami, and North Bend (Indiana) a little to the west. Each of the three settlements vied with the others for supremacy. Judge Symmes located at North Bend, but Fort Washington was erected at Losantiville and, the name being changed to Cincinnati, that settlement became the metropolis of the Ohio River below Pittsburg; the seat of government of the Northwest Territory was moved hither in 1790. Therefore in 1790, when the Indian War broke out, the northern bank of the Ohio was settled, in a certain sense, between the mouths of the Muskingum and Scioto and the mouths of the Little and the Great Miami. But these light spots in all the darkness of the Black Forest, as the West was familiarly called, were, after all, but one shade lighter than the surrounding wilderness. The population of the Ohio Company settlements was only a few score; Cincinnati, six years after its founding, could only number, garrison and all, an equal number of hundreds. The founders of Cincinnati, like those of Marietta, were of the best of colonial and revolutionary stock; but, because of the contaminations of the rough frontier, their settlements became what Pittsburg was throughout its early history. General Richard Butler, had he lived, might well have written Governor St. Clair at Cincinnati in 1800 the same words he penned General Irvine at Pittsburg in 1782--"am happy to find you can manage the d--ls of that country and the b--tes of the garrison." Of Pittsburg in 1782 General Irvine wrote his wife: "There never was, nor I hope will there ever be, such a wretched, villainous place as this." Of Marietta, equally disagreeable pictures were drawn by contemporaneous writers. It was a question whether or not the leaven of New England could leaven the whole lump. It did--with the help of good Virginian blood. The next tract of land to be opened was that lying between the Ohio Company's purchase and Judge Symmes's, a six thousand square mile tract bounded on the east by the Scioto and on the west by the Little Miami. This was the Virginia Military District. The Old Dominion had voted her soldiers upon continental and state establishment bounties in western lands. The land that was granted (practically the old Henderson purchase between the Green and Tennessee Rivers) did not prove large enough. Virginia, guarding against this very contingency, had reserved the tract between the Scioto and Little Miami for bounty lands when she ceded her county of Illinois to the Government in 1784. Therefore in 1790 Congress passed a law "directing the Secretary of War to make return to the Governor of Virginia of the names of the Virginia officers and men entitled to bounty-lands, and the amount in acres due them." The same act authorized the agents of the said troops to locate and survey for their use, between the two rivers, apparently in the wretched Virginia fashion, such a number of acres of land as, together with the number already located on the waters of the Cumberland, would make the amount to which they were entitled; these locations and surveys to be recorded, together with the names of those for whom they were made, in the office of the Secretary of State. The President was then directed to issue letters patent for these lands to the persons entitled to them, for their use or the use of their heirs, assigns, or legal representatives. The Secretary of State should forward these deeds to the executive of Virginia, to be delivered to the proper persons. It will be seen that the national Government issued the deeds, but did not make the surveys.[43] The Indian War which raged from 1790 to 1795 was fought almost wholly north of the Ohio River basin with Fort Washington as the base of supplies.[44] The conflict delayed the pioneer movement into the Ohio Valley but, after the treaty of Greenville (1795), the movement was renewed with a rush. The Virginia Military District now (1796) began filling with Virginians, and under good and great men such as General Nathaniel Massie and Duncan McArthur, subsequently governor of Ohio, became a power in the old Northwest. We have intimated that the original Ohio Company purchase and the Virginia Military District adjoined; upon the utter failure of the Scioto Company, which had been a party with the Ohio Company in its first contract, the additional lands taken by Colonel Duer came again into the possession of the United States and were known as Congress Lands. This tract embraced about four thousand square miles and stretched over the twenty odd miles on the Ohio between the Ohio Company lands and those of the Virginia Military District. Thus at the opening of the actual pioneer period, about 1800, we find both shores of the Ohio dotted with settlements. In Virginia and Kentucky there are Pittsburg, Charleston, Wheeling, Limestone (Maysville), and Louisville; and on the old-time Indian Side are Beaver (Fort Mclntosh), Wellsburg, Marietta (Fort Harmar), Gallipolis, Manchester, Columbia, Cincinnati; and Madison and Clarksville, Indiana. By 1800 there are forty-five thousand inhabitants in the entire Northwest Territory, of which probably twenty-five thousand are in the Ohio Valley. Kentucky contains a population of over two hundred thousand; not such a large fraction are on the Ohio however, as is true in the Northwest Territory. The question of conquest is past, though still for a decade the British, who have sullenly withdrawn across the Detroit River, will continue to incite the Indians until Harrison shall annihilate Tecumseh's confederacy at Tippecanoe in 1811. But so far as the Ohio Valley is concerned the question is one of occupation; and now come the streams of immigration from all easterly points of the compass to this great waterway. [Illustration: PUTNAM'S MAP OF THE OHIO RIVER AND SETTLEMENTS (1804)] CHAPTER III "THE NAVIGATOR" As the eighteenth century neared its close the great highways converging upon Pittsburg and its neighboring towns on the Youghiogheny and Monongahela became the routes of the great flood-tide of immigration which in a day filled the Middle West with towns and cities. The emigrant reached navigable waters at Pittsburg, if he came over Forbes's Road or the Pittsburg Pike; if he followed Braddock's Road he found himself on navigable waters at Brownsville, or, continuing the land journey, he reached Wheeling on the Ohio. If he came over the Genesee Road through New York he would reach the Allegheny waters at Warren or Watertown, Pennsylvania. At any of these points he would, perhaps, provide himself with a handbook of information concerning his prospective route. One of these, _The Navigator_, was published in Pittsburg in the first year of the nineteenth century by Zadok Cramer. Its title-page (fifth edition) affirms the book to be "the trader's useful guide in navigating the Monongahela, Allegheny, Ohio and Mississippi Rivers; containing an ample account of these much admired waters, from the head of the former to the mouth of the latter; a concise description of their towns, villages, harbours, settlements, &c with particular directions how to navigate them, in all stages of the water, pointing out their rocks, ripples, channels, islands, bluffs, creeks, rivers &c and the distances from place to place."[45] Perhaps the typical emigrant would not secure such a guide book but the information for which he made eager inquiry at his port of embarkation is contained here and is of great interest to the student of the times because of the variety of matters treated. Of the Ohio and its two great tributaries let us quote the following information: "MONONGAHELA "This river rises at the foot of the Laurel Mountain, in Virginia, thence meandering in a N. by E. direction, passes into Pennsylvania, and receives Cheat river from the S.S.E. Thence winding to a N. by W. direction, separates Fayette and Westmorland from Washington county, and passing into Allegheny county receives the Youghiogheny river at Pittsburgh, fifteen miles below the mouth of the former, and by land, fifty-five below Cheat. The Monongahela is about 450 yards wide at its mouth, measuring from the top of bank to bank, and in the fall and spring freshes has water enough to carry ships of 400 tons burthen; these, however, subside quickly and render the navigation for such vessels very precarious. One great difficulty attending the navigation of vessels of burden down this river arises from the almost impossibility of keeping them in the proper channel, it being in many places very narrow, and full of short turns around points of islands which are numerous. This observation will also apply to the Ohio, especially as low down as Wheelen [Wheeling], ninety miles below Pittsburgh." The waters of the Monongahela River, in those days as in these, were very muddy, and had it not been for the magnificent trees which abundantly lined the firm banks, the stream could not have been termed very beautiful. These trees were chiefly walnuts, black-oaks, hickories, maples, and button-woods, and afforded a bountiful supply of logs for the many sawmills which the pioneers had already erected along the river at the mouths of the various tributaries. Mr. Cramer tells us that the lumber obtained from these logs was floated down to Pittsburg, Wheeling, or some more remote point, and sold for a price ranging from a dollar to a dollar and a half per hundred feet. The country of the Monongahela was, even at this early day (1806), well populated; the land along the river was fertile and productive, and sold at any price from twelve to thirty dollars an acre. The "bottoms" contained many valuable sugar-maples and Cramer estimated that, if properly managed, each tree would yield four pounds of maple-sugar per annum--about one dollar a tree each season. "The mean velocity of the current of this river is about two miles an hour, and is in a middling state of the water, uninterrupted with falls, impeding the navigation, from Morgantown to its mouth, a distance of one hundred miles; thence upwards the navigation is frequently interrupted by rapids, but is navigable however for small crafts for fifty or sixty miles further. The west branch in high water is navigable for fifteen miles, and communicates with a southern branch of the Little Kenhawa, by a portage of eight miles." According to _The Navigator_, such cereals as wheat, oats, barley, rye, and buckwheat were already raised to "great perfection" in the valley of the Monongahela. It was a soil especially adapted to raising exceptional wheat crops and Mr. Cramer informs us that the flour made from Monongahela Valley wheat sold for two dollars more per barrel in New Orleans than Kentucky flour. Apples and peaches were staple fruit crops of the Monongahela country and these fruits were not infrequently made into brandy. Peach brandy was a luxury in the South and sold at a dollar a gallon. "ALLEGHENY "This is a beautiful, large and navigable river, taking its rise in Lycoming county, P. within a few miles of the head waters of Sinemahoning creek, a navigable stream that falls into the Susquehanna river, to which there is a portage of 23 miles. Thence pursuing a N. course passes into New-York state, winding to the N. W. about 20 miles, turns gradually to the S. W. enters Pennsylvania, and meandering in about that direction 180 miles, joins the Monongahela at Pittsburgh. "Few rivers and perhaps none excel the Allegheny for the transparency of its waters.... "Its mean velocity is about two miles and a half an hour. In its course it receives many large and tributary streams; among these are the Kiskimenetas, Mohulbuckitum, Tobas, French creek, &c. French creek is navigable to Waterford; thence to Lake Erie is but fifteen miles portage. To render the communication more complete the legislature of Pennsylvania have passed a law for the erection of a turnpike between Waterford and Erie. Another communication to lake Erie is by way of Chataughque creek and lake; here is a portage of only nine miles, and affording ground for an excellent waggon road. We understand a ware-house is already established at Chautaughque lake. The navigation by this route is said to be the best of the two. At the mouth of a creek, also called Chautaughque emptying into lake Erie, a town has been recently laid off called Portland nine miles from Chataughque lake. This town is about thirty miles below the town of Erie, and ten below the line between Pennsylvania and New-York, John M'Mahon proprietor." The trade between the Allegheny River and the Lakes was at this time well established and, it was predicted, would become of great importance. Pittsburg was receiving from Onondaga salt works in New York State two thousand barrels of salt annually. Immense quantities of timber were also constantly being hurried toward their destinations by the current of the Allegheny. Quite an extensive trade in salt fish from Lake Erie was carried on in 1806, and Mr. Cramer expresses an earnest hope that this trade would be encouraged to the extent of superseding the importing of fish from beyond the mountains, for the fish brought over the mountains then cost twelve cents while those from Lake Erie could be offered for four cents and perhaps less per pound. "In return we could send up whiskey, bar-iron, castings, cider, bacon, apples, glass, nails, &c. and this would be keeping trade among ourselves, which is always preferable to the sending away specie for articles of home consumption. It has been suggested that merchandize could be bro't to Pittsburgh from New-York, by way of the lake and down this river, for about three cents a pound, which is one half less than is given from Philadelphia. By this route, there would be a portage of fifteen miles from Albany on the Hudson to Schenectada on the Mohawk, 10 miles around the falls of Niagara, and fifteen between Erie and Waterford, making in all forty miles land carriage from New-York to Pittsburgh. The Pennsylvanians, however, are struggling for a turnpike road all the way over the mountains, which when compleated, will no doubt tend to lessen the very heavy carriages that are now paid on merchandize of all kinds." The current of the Allegheny River is much more rapid than that of the Monongahela; and in the days of _The Navigator_, as now, the clear, transparent waters of the Allegheny marked their course across the yellow, muddy waters of the Monongahela. And even three miles below the junction, the waters of the Allegheny were to be distinguished from the Monongahela. "Here [at the junction of the two rivers] the Allegheny is about 450 yards wide, and when an island lying to the right is completely washed away, which is accomplishing rapidly, the river here will be at least 800 yards wide. Will not the inquiring mind, on examination, have cause to entertain an opinion with us, that the bed of this river has greatly shifted its situation; and that it once washed the hill now a considerable distance to the east; and that the ground on which Pittsburgh now stands has been made by its withdrawing, through time and accident, from that hill to its present channel? "OHIO "This river commences at the junction of the two above mentioned rivers, and here also commences its beauty. It has been described, as 'beyond all competition, the most beautiful river in the universe, whether we consider it for its meandering course through an immense region of forests, for its clean and elegant banks, which afford innumerable delightful situations for cities, villages and improved farms: or for those many other advantages, which truly entitle it to the name originally given it by the French, of La Belle Rivière.' This description was penned several years since, and it has not generally been thought an exaggerated one. Now, the immense forests recede, cultivation smiles along its banks, towns every here and there decorate its shores, and it is not extravagant to suppose that the day is not far distant when its whole margin will form one continued village." Mr. Cramer further states that his reasons for such a supposition are numerous. Among those which he gives are: the large tracts of fertile lands that are connected with the Ohio River by means of the navigable waters that empty into it; the high, dry and usually healthy river bottoms of exceptional extent, fertility and beauty; and the extraordinarily superior navigation of the Ohio, by means of whose waters the abundant products of these extensive and fertile lands must eventually be distributed. "At its commencement at Pittsburgh, it takes a N.W. course for about 30 miles, then turns gradually to W.S.W. and pursuing that course for about 500 miles, winds to the S.W. for nearly 160 miles, then turns to the W. for about 276 miles, then S.W. for 160 miles, and empties into the Mississippi in a S.E. direction, about 1100 below Pittsburgh, and nearly the same distance above New-Orleans, in lat. 36. 43 m. N. It is amazingly crooked, so much so indeed, that in some places a person taking observations of the sun or stars, will find that he sometimes entirely changes his direction, and appears to be going back again; but its general course is S. 60 d. W. Its general width is from 500 to 800 yards, but at the rapids and near the mouth, it is considerably wider." We can easily agree with Mr. Cramer that the numerous islands, found in the Ohio River, added greatly to its picturesque grandeur; yet, he reminds us, they caused many shoals and sandbars and greatly embarrassed navigation. Some of these islands contain several acres of rich and fertile soil and, _The Navigator_ tells us, were covered with a luxuriant growth of timber; when cleared and planted with fruit trees the orchards thrived amazingly, bearing the choicest fruit and the crop seldom failing. This was also the case when fruit trees were planted on the river bottoms, the excellent crops, in both instances, being due to the same cause: a sandy, fertile soil. "In times of high freshes, vessels of almost any tonnage may descend, and it is never so low, but canoes and other light crafts can navigate it. Many of the impediments that are now met with while the water is low, might in a dry time be got rid of, and that at a very inconsiderable expense: at least the expense would be by no means inadequate to the advantages accruing from the undertaking, if properly managed. "Rocks that now, during the dry season, obstruct or render dangerous the navigation of the large flat bottomed, or what are called Kentucky boats, might be blown, even a considerable depth under water; channels might be made through the ripples, and the snags and the fallen timber along the banks entirely removed. "These improvements together with many others that might be enumerated will undoubtedly, sooner or later, be carried into effect, as they appear to be a national concern of the first importance. "The Ohio has on its left in descending a part of Pennsylvania, Virginia, Kentucky, and the S. W. territory; on the right, Pennsylvania, Ohio and Indiana territory. It receives in its course many large, navigable streams, the principal ones are, Big Beaver, Muskingum, Little and Great Kenhawa, Sandy, Scioto, Little and Great Miami, Licking, Kentucky, Salt, Green, Wabash, Cumberland and Tennessee; these will be more particularly mentioned in their proper places." It is of interest to note what Mr. Cramer has to say of the fish of the Ohio River. He tells us they were numerous and of various kinds: the catfish, weighing from three to eighty pounds; the buffalo, from five to thirty; the pike, from four to fifteen pounds; the sturgeon, from four to ten; the perch, from one to twenty-five; the sucker, from one-half a pound to six pounds; and occasionally a few herring were caught. A fisherman, drawing in his seine in the spring of 1805, found among other fish, it is said, a few shad of three or four pounds. These were caught at Pittsburg. A great many felt disposed to dispute that these were salt water shad considering the great distance from the sea, but all who tasted of them positively identified them, in taste and shape, as the shad which were caught in the Delaware River. Eels and soft-shell turtles, though occasionally caught, were not plentiful in 1806. The numerous and various kinds of wild ducks and the few geese which frequented the river often furnished food for pioneers descending the Ohio; for the purpose of shooting ducks and geese, turkeys, and occasionally a deer or bear, the boats were always well supplied with fire-arms. "We should be glad could some method be devised to ascertain annually the state of the trade of our rivers--could not houses for this purpose be established, say at Pittsburg and Louisville, to take an account of all cargoes that descend the Ohio? A statement of this kind published yearly would show the growing increase of our exportations, and no doubt would be interesting to the trading part of the community, and perhaps have a tendency to rouse the spirits of the more indolent and careless. "To the vast quantities of produce and articles of our own manufacture that are sent down this river, consisting of flour, whiskey, peach brandy, cider, beer, bar-iron, hollow-ware, earthern-ware, cabinet works, boots, hoes, plow-irons, mill-irons, chairs, biscuit, bread, cheese, bacon, beef, pork, lumber, linen, &c. &c. we must not forget to mention a part of the articles which are brought up in return, viz. large quantities of cotton, furs, peltries, lead and hemp. As the articles of cotton and lead can be brought up in this way much cheaper than by bringing them over the mountains, and as they are in great and constant demand in this country, we hope that those concerned will use all due exertion in pushing this part of our trade, which in time we may presume will become a very considerable object to those engaged in it." The "Instructions" in _The Navigator_ to emigrants afford a very clear idea of the nature and needs of river travel in the first half-decade of the eighteenth century: The first thing to be attended to by emigrants was to secure a boat, and be on the alert to take advantage of the first flood. Mr. Cramer speaks with emphatic indignation concerning the dishonesty often manifested by the builders of the river boats. He asserts that a great per cent of the accidents which happened on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers were due either to unpardonable carelessness or stinginess of the builder, who either slighted his work or used unfit timber. He earnestly recommends the appointment of boat-inspectors to be stationed wherever boats were built, thereby avoiding many serious accidents caused by unsafe boats. Mr. Cramer attempts to impress upon all who were purchasing Kentucky boats that those intended for navigating the Mississippi must necessarily be constructed differently and of much stronger timber; he suggests and urges that the owner have them narrowly examined, before embarkation, by one who understands the form and strength of a boat suitable for navigating the Mississippi River. "Flat and Keel boats may be procured at New-Geneva, Brownsville, Williamsport, Elizabethtown, M'Keesport, on the Monongahela, and perhaps several places on the Youghiougheny; at Pittsburgh, Beaver, Charlestown, and Wheelen, Marietta, Limestone, Cincinnati, the Falls, &c. and at most of the above places vessels of considerable burden are built and freighted to the Islands, and to different ports in Europe, their principal cargoes consisting of flour, staves, cordage, cotton, hemp, &c." The spring and autumn were the two seasons when the Ohio could be most advantageously navigated. The spring season began at the breaking up of the ice, about the middle of February, and lasted for three months. The fall season generally began in October and lasted until the advent of winter, or about the first of December. At this time the forming ice prevented navigation. These spring and fall freshets, however, could not be called periodical, as they entirely depended upon the rainfall and the earliness or tardiness of the beginning and ending of winter. Nor were these seasons of high water entirely confined to the spring and autumn. It commonly occurred that in the summer season a heavy rainfall in the Appalachian ridges, where the creeks and rivers that flow into the Monongahela take their rise, would cause a considerable freshet in the Ohio; or a swelling of the current of the Allegheny and other rivers often happened in the summer months and occasioned a sufficient amount of water, if taken immediate advantage of, to render the navigation of the Ohio perfectly possible. These out-of-season freshets, however, subsided rapidly and if the owner of a boat wished to take advantage of one and go down the river, he had to embark immediately. "When provided with a good boat and strong cable of at least 40 feet long there is little danger in descending the river in high freshes, when proper care is taken, unless at such times as when there is much floating ice in it. Much exertion with the oars is, at such times, generally speaking of no manner of use; indeed it is rather detrimental than otherwise, as such exertion frequently throws you out of the current which you ought to continue in, as it will carry you along with more rapidity, and at the same time always takes you right. By trusting to the current there is no danger to be feared in passing the islands as it will carry you past them in safety. On the other hand, if you row, and by so doing happen to be in the middle of the river on approaching an island, there is great danger of being thrown on the upper point of it before you are aware, or have time to regain the current. In case you get aground in such a situation, become entangled among the aquatic timber, which is generally abundant, or are driven by the force of the water among the tops or trunks of other trees, you may consider yourself in imminent danger; nothing but the presence of mind and great exertion can extricate you from this dilemma. "As frequent landing is attended with considerable loss of time and some hazard, you should contrive to land as seldom as possible, you need not even lie by at night, provided you trust to the current, and keep a good look out; if you have a moon, so much the better. When you bring to, the strength of your cable is a great safe-guard. A quantity of fuel and other necessaries, should be laid in at once, and every boat ought to have a canoe along side, to send on shore when necessary. "Though the labour of navigating this river in times of fresh is very inconsiderable to what it is during low water, when continual rowing is necessary, it is always best to keep a good look out, and be strong handed.--The wind will sometimes drive you too near the points of the islands, or on projecting parts of the main shore, when considerable extra exertion is necessary to surmount the difficulty. You will frequently meet with head winds, as the river is so very crooked that what is in your favour one hour, will probably be directly against you the next, and when contrary winds contend with a strong current, it is attended with considerable inconvenience, and requires careful and circumspect management, or you may be driven on shore in spite of all your efforts. One favourable circumstance is, that the wind commonly abates about sunset, particularly in summer. "Boats have frequently passed from Pittsburgh to the mouth of Ohio in 15 days, but in general 10 days from Pittsburgh to the falls is reckoned a quick passage. "Descending the river when much incommoded with floating ice, should be as much as possible avoided, particularly early in the winter, as there is a great probability of its stopping your boat; however, if the water is high, and there is an appearance of open weather, you may venture with some propriety, if the cakes are not so heavy as to impede your progress, or injure your timbers; the boat will in such case, make more way than the ice, a great deal of which will sink and get thinner as it progresses, but on the other hand, if the water is low, it is by no means safe to embark on it when anything considerable of ice is in it. "If at any time you are obliged to bring to on account of the ice, great circumspection should be used in the choice of a place to lie in; there are many places where the shore projecting to a point, throws off the cakes of ice towards the middle of the river, and forms a kind of harbour below. By bringing to in such a situation, and fixing your canoe above the boat, with one end strongly to the shore, and the other out in the stream sloping down the river, so as to drive out such masses of ice as would otherwise accumulate on the upper side of your boat, and tend to sink her and drive her from her moorings, you may lie with a tolerable degree of safety.--This is a much better method than that of felling a tree on the shore above, so as to fall partly into the river, for if in felling it, it does not adhere in some measure to the trunk, or rest sufficiently on the bank, the weight of accumulated ice will be apt to send it adrift, and bring it down, ice and all, on the boat, when no safety can be expected for it. The reflection here naturally occurs, how easy it would be, and how little it would cost, in different places on the river where boats are accustomed to land, to project a sort of pier into the river, which inclining down stream, would at all times insure a place of safety below it. The advantages accruing from such projection to the places where they might be made would be very considerable, bring them into repute as landing places, occasion many boats and passengers to stop there, who otherwise would not, and soon repay the trifling expense incurred by the erection. "The above observations are more particularly applicable to the Ohio; the following apply to the Mississippi, and point out the greatest impediments and the most imminent dangers attending the navigation of this heavy-watered and powerful river: "These are, 1st. The instability of the banks. 2. Planters, sawyers, and wooden islands.[46] "We shall endeavor to instruct the unexperienced navigator how to avoid them. The instability of the banks proceeds from their being composed of a loose sandy soil, and the impetuosity of the current against their prominent parts, which, by undermining them unceasingly, causes them to tumble into the river, taking with them everything that may be above. And if when the event happens boats should be moored there, they must necessarily be buried in the common ruin, which unfortunately has been sometimes the case. For which reason, navigators have made it an invariable rule never to land at or near a point, but always in the sinuosity or cove below it, which is generally lined with small willows of the weeping kind, whence some call them although improperly, willow points, and which being generally clear of logs and planters, the landing is easily effected, by running directly into them, the resistance of the willows destroying a part of the boat's velosity, and the rest is overcome without much exertion by holding fast to the limbs which surround you.--In those places the river generally deposits the surplus of soil, with which it is charged from the continual cavings of the points, and so forms new land on one side by destroying some on the other. "The banks of this river from where it receives the Missouri to its mouth, being with a few exceptions below high water mark, an immense country is inundated, when the river is in its highest state, by which those extensive swamps are formed and supplied, which prove the nurseries of myriades of musquitoes and other insects (to the no small inconvenience of the traveller) and the never failing source of grievous diseases to the inhabitants. There are also streams, which at all times sally forth from the main river with astonishing rapidity, and whose vortex extends some distance into the stream. Boats once sucked into such bayous are next to lost, it being almost impossible to force so unwieldy a machine as a flat bottomed boat against so powerful a current. It will therefore be safest for boats, never to keep too close to shore, but to keep some distance out in the river. To avoid planters and sawyers requires nothing more but attention, for they always occasion a small breaker whereever they are, and if your boat seems to be hurried towards them row the boat from them, else if you are dilatory you must abide by the consequence. "WOODEN-ISLANDS are more dangerous than real ones the former being an obstacle lately thrown in the way of the current, and the bed of the river not having had sufficient time to form that bar or gradual ascent from the bottom of the river to the island, which divides the current at some distance from the point of the island above water, the current will hurry you against them, unless you use timely exertion. From all this it must be evident how imprudent it is attempting to go after night, even when assisted by a clear moon; but after you are once arrived at Natchez, you may safely proceed day and night, the river from that place to its mouth being clear, and opposing nothing to your progress but a few eddies into which you may occasionally be drawn and detained for a short time." CHAPTER IV THE EVOLUTION OF RIVER CRAFT The evolution of craft on the Ohio River portrays in a remarkable manner the economic development of the Central West. Being the one practicable artery in the empire between the Appalachian uplift and the Mississippi, and the Blue Ridge and the Great Lakes, this river was, from the beginning of the eighteenth century onward, the main route of immigration and commerce, and the story of those years is contained in the story of these craft which carried the freight and fortune of the millions who came and built homes and labored here. The greater the detail with which this study is examined the more interesting and enlightening it becomes. Of the score and more of distinctive craft which regularly plied this waterway not one but is significant of some change in the social order of things, indicative of some open or secret development which, unnoticed at the time perhaps, marked a new forward movement in our social evolution. Such an indication may be thought slight but it was a straw which marked the direction of the sweeping current of advance, and the swiftness of it. Compared with the evolution of methods of travel by land, the evolution on our rivers was rapid and spectacular. The "freighter" or "Conestoga" of 1790 was practically the same as that of 1840: a half century had witnessed little change in wagons and stages, save minor improvements. But compare the craft of 1790 on the Ohio with that of 1840. The canoe, pirogue, keel-boat, "bark," barge, brig, schooner, galley-boat, batteau, and dug-out were forgotten--a consequence of the early application of steam-power to boats rather than to vehicles. When, in 1811, "The Orleans" went steaming down the Ohio from Pittsburg, and when, six years later, the "Washington" convinced a desparing public that steamboat navigation would succeed on "western waters" the new era in western history dawned. In the earliest days the primitive light canoe, the unwieldy pirogue, and the heavy batteau were the common means of navigation on the Ohio. The canoe was made from the bark of trees; quickly made and quickly worn out, if the water was low, by continually coming in contact with the bottom. The pirogue was likewise quickly made; the canoe was paddled, the pirogue pushed by oars or setting-poles. The canoe easily glided up stream; the pirogue ran easily with the current but could not ascend the stream without the expenditure of much labor. Often the words canoe and pirogue were used interchangeably of the same craft; in George Rogers Clark's famous march to Vincennes in 1779, the army, upon arriving at the Little Wabash, February 13, built a boat which in Bowman's _Journal_ is called a "canoe," and in Clark's _Memoir_, a "pirogue." The batteau, better known in the West as the barge, was a square box of any length, width, and depth. It was distinctively a downstream craft, and in the early days rarely ascended with a load any river of current. The canoe and pirogue, compared with the barge, were craft of little burden though those of generous size would carry the loads of a score of men. The barge or batteau was the freight craft and could be loaded with any burden the stage of water permitted. These three craft reigned supreme on the Ohio and its tributaries probably until the close of the Revolutionary War, or about 1785. The canoe never abdicated and never can so long as man loves the water; at numerous points along the Ohio today many a tourist may be seen enjoying the exquisite delight of "paddling his own canoe." The batteau or barge has its direct descendant in the wooden and magnificent steel barges in which thousands of tons of coal and ore are transported yearly up and down the Ohio. The pirogue has been forgotten. But in the era of exploration and conquest these boats had a story which disproves the adage that history repeats itself. The history of that last half of the eighteenth century cannot be repeated here or elsewhere. There is no other valley in the world that is to be found, explored, conquered, reconquered and settled like the Ohio Basin. What a line of daring _voyageurs_ that was from La Salle to Céloron and Washington, who feasted their eyes upon the virgin beauty of La Belle Rivière, from their heavily-loaded, long canoes; in these craft came the explorers of Ohio and Kentucky, Indiana and Illinois; they ploughed the waters of the Muskingum far back in the distant day when those waters were, as the name implies, clear as an elk's eye; they forged slowly up the Licking and Scioto, the Beaver and the Kanawhas. In the early days the canoe was the customary bearer of two significant kinds of freight: wampum and Indian goods and presents, and packs of peltry. The history of the canoe cannot be repeated, for the Indians are vanished who loved the bright presents brought to them from the East; and the fur bearing animals which once supplied the eastern markets are gone. We speak of the value of our cargoes on the Ohio today; it is great, truly; but what would be the value today of the furs brought in one season down the Wabash, Licking, Miami, Scioto, Kanawha, Muskingum, and Beaver and up the Ohio to Pittsburg, in those days when canoes bore their precious tons of freight? Compared to the number of persons engaged in it, the old trade (in today's markets) would be considered a hundred per cent more remunerative. The burdens those long canoes could bear should not be underestimated. When Washington made his journey down the Ohio in 1770 he "embarked in a large canoe," October 20, at Pittsburg, "with sufficient store of provisions and necessaries, and the following persons, besides Dr. Craik and myself, to wit: Capt. Crawford, Joseph Nicholson, Robert Bell, William Harrison, Charles Morgan and Daniel Rendon, a boy of Capt. Crawford's...." In the era of conquest the canoe played an important part in transporting small bodies of men swiftly and, which was frequently not less important, silently, to their destinations. But now it was that the heavy barge acquired importance as a factor in the making of the West. It was the quarter-master's and commissariat's sole reliance, and in these great clumsy hulks which floated with the current, sometimes with the aid of sails, were transported the armament and stores which made possible the forts that at once came into existence in the valley--Forts Mclntosh, Henry, Harmar, Finney, Washington, and others. These boats were huge boxes, covered and uncovered, square at each end, and flat-bottomed. A batteau, in distinction from a barge, was widest in the middle and tapered to a point at each end, of about fifteen hundred-weight burden and could be managed by two men with oars and setting-poles.[47] The batteau form was more or less adopted by later barges; but the ordinary early barge was much the shape of the present-day coal barge. The "canal boat" form, or batteau, was a later development. American expansion westward, as elsewhere suggested, was favored more by the Ohio River than by any and all others: it ran the right way. Throughout the earlier decades of the pioneer era the greater portion of traffic was down stream. Even in the later days of steamboating the downstream traffic was ever heaviest. In 1835 the total tonnage received and entered at the port of Pittsburg was 63,221 tons; of this, 41,533 tons was export. In 1837 the total number of boats arriving at Pittsburg from February 10 to July 1 was five hundred and ninety-three; the total number departing was five hundred and eighty-two.[48] If the upstream trade did not equal the downstream trade in the days of steamboats, it can be readily imagined how great was the difference in the days of rowed and pushed craft. Upstream traffic began to thrive with the founding of Pittsburg and other cities in the upper Ohio Valley. A market was then created, and the product of the lower valley began to ascend. Thus dawned the era of the famous keel-boat, the first craft of burden that plied to and fro on western waters. True, the name was applied to craft that came earlier. Colonel Burd, the English officer who led one of the marauding expeditions from Detroit into Kentucky in the Revolutionary War, came from the lakes and ascended the Licking in keel-boats. It is given on good authority that Tarascon, Berthoud and Company of Pittsburg introduced the use of keel-boats on the Ohio in 1792.[49] The keel-boat heralded a new era in internal development, an era of internal communication never known before in the Central West. As a craft it is almost forgotten today. Our oldest citizens can barely remember the last years of its reign; but the cry of the steersman to "lift" and "set" that once rang in our river valleys, is still one of the undying memories of their childhood days. It was a long, narrow craft perhaps averaging twelve to fifteen feet by fifty, and pointed at both prow and stern. On either side were provided what were known as "running boards," extending from end to end. The space between, the body of the boat, was enclosed and roofed over with boards or shingles. A keel-boat would carry from twenty to forty tons of freight well protected from the weather; it required from six to ten men, in addition to the captain, who was usually the steersman, to propel it upstream. Each man was provided with a pole to which was affixed a heavy socket, The crew, being divided equally on each side of the boat, "set" their poles at the head of the boat; then bringing the end of the pole to the shoulder, with bodies bent, they walked slowly along the running boards to the stern--returning quickly, at the command of the captain, to the head for a new "set." "In ascending rapids, the greatest effort of the whole crew was required, so that only one at a time could 'shift' his pole. This ascending of rapids was attended with great danger, especially if the channel was rocky. The slightest error in pushing or steering the boat exposed her to be thrown across the current, and to be brought sideways in contact with rocks which would mean her destruction. Or, if she escaped injury, a crew who had let their boat swing in the rapids would have lost caste. A boatman who could not boast that he had never swung or backed in a chute was regarded with contempt, and never trusted with the head pole, the place of honor among the keel-boat men. It required much practice to become a first rate boatman, and none would be taken, even on trial, who did not possess great muscular power."[50] Under certain circumstances it was serviceable to catch hold of the bushes and trees on a river's bank and pull a keel-boat upstream; this was commonly known as "bushwhacking" and was particularly useful in times of high water. The number of keel-boats on the Ohio was not as large, probably, as would be supposed. It is on record that from November 24, 1810 to January 24, 1811--two winter months--twenty-four of these craft descended the "falls" of the Ohio at Louisville. It is probable that at this time there were not over three or four hundred keel-boats regularly plying the Ohio and its tributaries. The narrowness of the keel-boat, it will be noted, permitted it to ply far up the larger tributaries of the Ohio and to a considerable way up its smaller tributaries--territory which the barge and flat-boat could never reach. It is probable, therefore, that the keel-boat brought much territory into touch with the world that otherwise was never reached save by the heavy freighter and the pack-saddle; indeed it is probable that this was the greatest service of the keel-boat--to reach the rich interior settlements and carry their imports and exports. The place of the keel-boat is now taken by such packets as the Greenwood and Lorena which bring to Pittsburg the produce of such valleys as the Kanawha and the Muskingum. In this connection it is proper to emphasize a fact suggested elsewhere: that the inhabitants of the Central West, from the earliest times until today, have found the favorite sites of occupation to be in the interior of the country, beside the lesser tributaries of the Ohio.[51] Thus as the pioneer settlements spread up on the Licking, Muskingum, Hockhocking, Scioto, and Miami, a boat like the keel-boat, which could ply in any season of the year and on the narrow creeks and "runs," was an inestimable boon. Again, take for instance the salt industry, which in the day of the keel-boat was one of the most important, if not the most important, in the Central West; as values were a century ago the best of men did well to "earn his salt." These salt springs and licks were found at some distance from the main artery of travel, the Ohio, and it was the keel-boat, more enduring than the canoe, and of lighter weight and draught and of lesser width than the barge, which did the greater part of the salt distribution, returning usually with loads of flour. The heyday of the keel-boat was also the day of the portage path--which played a most important part in the development of the land. These portages or carries were mostly located far in the interior where rivers flowing in opposite directions took their rise. The keel-boat was the only craft of burden that could ascend many of our streams to the carrying-place; they were also less unwieldy to carry than the old batteau which was used also in the portage carrying-trade.[52] Mention has been made of Burd's invasion of Kentucky during the Revolutionary War, in keel-boats. If this was not a misnomer it is probable that they were brought from the lakes and carried across the portage, as was done in the case of Hamilton's capture of Vincennes. The keel-boat may be considered, therefore, the first upstream boat of burden which plied the Ohio and its tributaries; its special functions: first, the upstream trade, second, to touch and connect interior settlements and do the carrying-trade of the portages. The great craft of burden on the Ohio and its larger tributaries were the barges and the flat-boats, the latter commonly known as the Kentucky "broad-horns" or Kentucky boats, and New Orleans boats. The Ohio and Mississippi barge resembled the "West Country" barges of England and the "wherries" of London. They were great, pointed, covered hulks carrying forty or fifty tons of freight and manned by almost as many men. They were the great freighters of the larger rivers, descending with the current and ascending by means of oars, poles, sails and cordelles--ropes by which the craft was often towed from the shore. The following description of a barge journey, from the pen of the famous naturalist Audubon, is perhaps one of the most accurate left to us: "We shall suppose one of these boats under way, and, having passed Natchez, entering upon what were called the difficulties of their ascent. Wherever a point projected so as to render the course or bend below it of some magnitude, there was an eddy, the returning current of which was sometimes as strong as that of the middle of the great stream. The bargemen, therefore, rowed up pretty close under the bank, and had merely to keep watch in the bow lest the boat should run against a planter or sawyer. But the boat has reached the point, and there the current is to all appearance of double strength and right against it. The men, who have rested a few minutes, are ordered to take their stations and lay hold of their oars, for the river must be crossed, it being seldom possible to double such a point and proceed along the same shore. The boat is crossing, its head slanting to the current, which is, however, too strong for the rowers, and when the other side of the river has been reached, it has drifted perhaps a quarter of a mile. The men are by this time exhausted, and, as we shall suppose it to be 12 o'clock, fasten the boat to a tree on the shore. A small glass of whiskey is given to each, when they cook and eat their dinner, and after resting from their fatigue for an hour, recommence their labors. The boat is again seen slowly advancing against the stream. It has reached the lower end of a sandbar, along the edge of which it is propelled by means of long poles, if the bottom be hard. Two men, called bowsmen, remain at the prow to assist, in concert with the steersman, in managing the boat and keeping its head right against the current. The rest place themselves on the land side of the footway of the vessel, put one end of their poles on the ground and the other against their shoulders and push with all their might. As each of the men reaches the stern, he crosses to the other side, runs along it and comes again to the landward side of the bow, when he recommences operations. The barge in the meantime is ascending at a rate not exceeding one mile in the hour. "The bar is at length passed, and as the shore in sight is straight on both sides and the current uniformly strong, the poles are laid aside, and the men being equally divided, those on the river side take to their oars, while those on the land-side lay hold of the branches of willows or other trees, and thus slowly propel the boat. Here and there, however, the trunk of a fallen tree, partly lying on the bank and partly projecting beyond it, impedes their progress and requires to be doubled. This is performed by striking into it the iron points of the poles and gaff-hooks, and so pulling around it. The sun is now quite low, and the barge is again secured in the best harbor within reach for the night, after having accomplished a distance of perhaps fifteen miles. The next day the wind proves favorable, the sail is set, the boat takes all advantages, and meeting with no accident, has ascended thirty miles--perhaps double that distance. The next day comes with a very different aspect. The wind is right ahead, the shores are without trees of any kind, and the canes on the bank are so thick and stout that not even the cordelles can be used. This occasions a halt. The time is not altogether lost, as most of the men, being provided with rifles, betake themselves to the woods and search for the deer, the hares or the turkeys that are generally abundant there. Three days may pass before the wind changes, and the advantages gained on the previous five days are forgotten. Again the boat proceeds, but in passing over a shallow place, runs on a log, swings with the current, but hangs fast with her lee-side almost under water. Now for the poles! All hands are on deck, bustling and pushing. At length, towards sunset, the boat is once more afloat, and is again taken to the shore where the wearied crew pass another night. "I could tell you of the crew abandoning the boat and cargo and of numberless accidents and perils, but be it enough to say, that advancing in this tardy manner, the boat that left New Orleans on the 1st of March, often did not reach the Falls of Ohio [Louisville] until the month of July, sometimes not until October; and after all this immense trouble, it brought only a few bags of coffee and at most one hundred hogsheads of sugar. Such was the state of things as late as 1808. The number of barges at that period did not amount to more than 25 or 30, and the largest probably did not exceed one hundred tons burden. To make the best of this fatiguing navigation, I may conclude by saying that a barge which came up in three months, had done wonders, for I believe few voyages were performed in that time."[53] This is the story of an Orleans boat in distinction from a Kentucky boat which was smaller and not so well finished.[54] The heavy up-river loads of the Orleans boats--sugar and molasses--were very important cargoes and illustrate the place the barge took in pioneer history; they were the freighters which carried on the larger rivers the heavy cargoes of a country fast filling with a new population. They plied, like the keel-boat, up and down stream but could not ascend the smaller rivers or reach portages of the larger streams because of their draught and size. There were, of course, small barges that could go wherever a keel-boat went; it was these that were common on certain portage path trades.[55] The small barge was practically a keel-boat (without running boards) save only in shape. The flat-boat was the important craft of the era of immigration, the friend of the pioneer. It was the boat that never came back, a downstream craft solely. The flat-boat of average size was a roofed craft about forty feet long, twelve feet wide and eight feet deep. It was square and flat-bottomed and was managed by six oars; two of these, about thirty feet long, on each side, were known as "sweeps" and were manned by two men each; one at the stern, forty or fifty feet long including its big blade, was called the "steering oar;" a small oar was located at the prow, known as the "gouger," which aided in steering the boat in swift water. One man only was needed at the steering oar and at the gouger. "Kentucky" and "New Orleans" were the significant names for the old-time flat-boats, for Kentucky and New Orleans were the destinations of the large majority. The nominal difference between a Kentucky and New Orleans boat was that the former was commonly roofed only half over while the latter was stronger and was entirely covered with a roof. How to buy or build a "flat" was the first query of the pioneer father as he finally arrived at one of the ports on the upper Ohio. Often several families joined together and came down the river on one flat-boat, a motley congregation of men, women, children and domestic animals surrounded by the few crude, housekeeping utensils which had been brought over the mountains or purchased at the port of embarkation. Perhaps all of the details which engrossed a prospective pioneer's attention are suggested in the previous quotations from _The Navigator_. These Kentucky "broadhorns," or "broadhorn flatboats" as they were also called, almost invariably carried a tin horn by means of which some one on board would announce their arrival or make known their whereabouts in a fog. This weird music, reverberating from hill to hill, was heard far and wide and was welcomed by the country people. The history of the flat-boat comes down within the present generation, for as late as the beginning of the Civil War flat-boating was common on the Ohio River. In the early day the flat-boat was the sign of immigration; not so in the later day. The flat-boats of the fifties bore cargoes to the southern ports, or cargoes to be retailed along the Mississippi River plantations. Any enterprising man who owned or could build a "flat," bought up the crops of his neighborhood, put them aboard, and was ready to start on the "fall rise." Flat-boats were loaded at the bow--sometimes through trapdoors in the roof--the cargo stored away in the hold. For through freight, apples and potatoes were the staples. If it was intended to "coast" (peddle the cargo to the plantations) the freight also included cider, cheese, pork, bacon, and even cabbage. Apple and peach brandy was a most profitable investment; especially if apple brandy, with a few peaches in it, could be palmed off on the thirsty darkies as peach brandy. A yellow page of an old account-book of 1858 leaves record that the proprietor of one "flat" purchased the entire product of a neighboring farm and took it south that fall. The items and their cost price on shore is interesting: 350 bu. wheat @ $1.05 per bu. $367.50 208 bbls potatoes @ 2.05 per bbl. 426.40 17 bbls seed potatoes @ 1.2 5 per bbl 21.25 20 hogs, 6086 lbs. @ 4.33 per hundred 263.52 5 bbls beans 15.25 9 bbls & 13-1/2 lbs. sauer-Kraut 66.87 Portion of a flat boat 70.00 --------- $1,230.79 A yearly cash income of $1,230.79 would make many a farmer of our day contented. The proprietor of the flat-boat left on his three thousand mile trip taking only a couple of farm hands with him as crew. They lived in the stern of the boat under the same roof that sheltered the cargo, but separated by a partition. It was all clear sailing, night and day. Almost the only work was to keep the craft in the current. Several miles above the "falls" at Louisville, pilots would be found in skiffs ready to climb aboard and steer the "flat" down the rapids for ten dollars or less. If the cargo was intended for the coasting trade, business began at the first large plantations. This was in the day of overseers who liberally patronized these "coasters," giving in payment drafts on New Orleans. The darkies were, in some cases, allowed to make their own purchases; they did not neglect the liquor, often exchanging molasses for brandy even, gallon for gallon. Upon arriving at his destination, the proprietor sold his remaining stock and boat, invested his money in sugar and molasses, and embarked with his freight on a packet for home. Thus two profits were cleared. The advent of the Civil War was evident to these latter day boatmen; watches were always kept on the outlook lest the "lines" be cut. At the opening of the war flat-boats were frequently fired upon. When the business was again revived in 1866 it was a new, sad South the flat-boat men found. The negroes were "free," the overseers gone, the coasting trade ruined; through freights were found to be the only ones that paid after 1865. Collins asserts that Captain Jacob Yoder took the first flat-boat down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers to New Orleans in 1782; "the late Capt. Jos. Pierce of Cincinnati, Ohio, had erected over the remains of his old friend Capt. Jacob Yoder, an iron tablet (the first cast west of the Alleghanies) thus inscribed: 'JACOB YODER Was born at Reading, Pennsylvania, August 11, 1758; and was | a soldier of the Revolutionary army in 1777 and 1778. | He emigrated to the West in 1780; and in May, 1782, from Fort Redstone, | on the Monongahela river, in the | FIRST FLAT BOAT. | That ever descended the Mississippi river, he landed in | New Orleans, with a cargoe of produce. | He died April 7, 1832, at his farm in Spencer County, Kentucky, and lies | here interred beneath this tablet.'" Flat-boats were, both in early and modern times, always used or sold at their destination for lumber. Thus the early bargemen and flat-boat men who made down river trips returned largely on foot, until the era of steamboats. The long journey across country from New Orleans through the low fever-infested country and into Kentucky was a dangerous and arduous experience.[56] "A large number of these boatmen were brought together at New Orleans. Their journey home could not be made in small parties, as they carried large quantities of specie, and the road was infested by robbers. The outlaws and fugitives from justice from the states resorted to this road. Some precautionary arrangements were necessary. The boatmen who preferred returning through the wilderness organized and selected their officers. These companies sometimes numbered several hundred, and a greater proportion of them were armed. They were provided with mules to carry the specie and provisions, and some spare ones for the sick. Those who were able purchased mules, or Indian ponies, for their use, but few could afford to ride. As the journey was usually performed after the sickly season commenced, and the first six or seven hundred miles was through a flat, unhealthy country, with bad water, the spare mules were early loaded with the sick. There was a general anxiety to hasten through this region of malaria. Officers would give up their horses to the sick, companions would carry them forward as long as their strength enabled; but although everything was done for their relief which could be done without retarding the progress of their journey, many died on the way or were left to the care of the Indian or hunter who settled on the road. Many who survived an attack of fever, and reached the healthy country of Tennessee, were long recovering sufficient strength to resume their journey home. One would suppose that men would have been reluctant to engage in a service which exposed them to such great suffering and mortality without extraordinary compensation; but such was the love of adventure and recklessness of danger which characterized the young men of the West, that there was no lack of hands to man the boats, although their number increased from twenty-five to fifty per cent yearly. The fact that some of these boatmen would return with fifty Spanish dollars, which was a large sum at that day, was no small incentive to others, who perhaps never had a dollar of their own."[57] The "ark" of pioneer days was, as the name implies, the earliest type of houseboat. "These boats," Mr. Harris records, "are generally called 'Arks;' and are said to have been invented by Mr. Krudger, on the Juniata, about ten years ago [1795]. They are square, and flat-bottomed; about forty feet by fifteen, with sides six feet deep; covered with a roof of thin boards; and accommodated with a fire-place. They require but four hands to navigate them, carry no sail, and are wafted down by the current."[58] Rafting logs down the Ohio was one of the great employments of the men of three-quarters of a century ago. "Our raft," testified an old _voyageur_ who went down the Allegheny and Ohio from Olean, New York in 1821, "was one hundred and twenty feet long and sixty wide and about two feet deep. It had eight oars. In the center was our cabin, which was twenty by sixteen, and contained, of course, our provisions and valuables, ... and our _stove_. This was a patent range peculiar to those days and quite wonderful in its way. It was made of a wooden box lined with clay. It had a hole in the top for a kettle, and another through which the smoke passed to an aperture in the roof of our cabin, left for that purpose.... Our crew consisted of ten persons, including a man and his wife and one child, who were going to migrate.... There are many eddies along the river and at them we tried to tie up at night in order to be out of the current.... From Pittsburg to Cincinnati, five hundred miles, the river being broad and deep and free from snags, we could travel night and day.... At one point in our trip we saw a raft stranded on an island; but the Captain did not seem to take the matter very seriously to heart, and answered our salutations by singing and dancing and lustily waving his hat as we passed by.... At Limestone, [Maysville] Ky., seventy miles east of Cincinnati, I stopped and sold some shingles, the raft and the rest of the crew going on. After I had transacted my business, I took passage on another going to C. [Cincinnati]. At L. [Limestone] I remember seeing a bell on a tavern for the first time. This raft had the misfortune to run into a flatboat loaded with coal, and also the audacity to sneak off before the damage was discovered to avoid both delay and expense.... Once there [at Cincinnati] we hired a gang of men to wash the lumber, which was covered with dirt and weeds; they then drew it to the lumber yard, where we sold it.... I was not sorry when I reached my home ... on the evening of the 10th of June. I had been away since the middle of February."[59] The galley--a model boat with covered deck impelled by oarsmen--was not an unfamiliar craft in the early river days. It was such a boat as this that General George Rogers Clark armed as a gunboat on the lower Ohio and used as a patrolling gunboat during the Revolutionary War. The famed "Adventure Galley," of the New England pilgrims to Marietta, was a craft of this pattern. It was forty-five feet long and twelve feet wide, with an estimated burden of fifty tons. Her bows were raking or curved, strongly built with heavy timbers and covered with a deck roof.[60] It is probable that the first mail boats which ran on the Ohio in 1793 were of similar design. This service, established by Jacob Myers between Cincinnati and Pittsburg, was advertised on November 16 as leaving Cincinnati at 8 A. M. every alternate Saturday, requiring one month for the round trip. The proprietor took great credit to himself, "claiming to be 'influenced by love of philanthropy and desire of being serviceable to the public.' He further stated: 'No danger need be apprehended from the [Indian] enemy, as every person on board will be under cover, made proof against rifle or musquet balls, and port holes for firing out of. Each boat is armed with six pieces carrying a pound ball; also a number of good musquets, and amply supplied with ammunition, strongly manned with choice hands, and the masters of approved knowledge. A separate cabin is partitioned off for accommodating ladies on their passage; conveniences are constructed so as to render landing unnecessary, as it might, at times, be attended with danger. Rules and regulations for maintaining order and for the good management of the boats, and tables of the rates of freightage, passage, and carrying of letters; also, of the exact time of arrival and departure at all way places, may be seen on the boat and at the printing office in Cincinnati. Passengers supplied with provisions and liquors, of first quality, at most reasonable rates possible. Persons may work their passage. An office for insuring at moderate rates the property carried, will be kept at Cincinnati, Limestone, (i. e. Maysville) and Pittsburgh.' Packet-boat promises then, like steamboat promises nowadays, were not _always_ kept; instead of on November 30th, the second boat did not leave until December 10th, 'precisely at 10 o'clock in the morning.'"[61] In the days before steamboats, sails were greatly used on almost every manner of craft, and were made of every conceivable material. The great barges of early days were moved by sails when the wind was favorable.[62] Both barges and keel-boats were "provided with a mast, a square sail...."[63] Canoes were frequently provided with sails and their progress was more or less dependent on the winds.[64] The story of the building of the first brigs and schooners on the Ohio and its tributaries, the dreams of their proprietors and masters, and the experiences of their crews, is a subject worthy of a volume. The building of these larger craft for the Mississippi and ocean trade suggests at the outset the long, conflicting story of Mississippi control which can only be hinted at here. This business of building sailing vessels in the Ohio Basin began the decade before the nineteenth century opened, and grew more and more important until steam navigation revolutionized the river trade. These brigs and schooners were, without doubt, distinctively down river craft, which never returned; they were therefore the export carriers, and the importance of their place in history may be found in the fact that their appearance marks the rise of the export business to a position of prominence, as the use of the keel-boat marked the rise of what may be called interstate commerce. In the year 1792 the company of shipbuilders previously mentioned, Tarascon, Berthoud, and Company, who put the first keel-boats into business on the Ohio, built the schooner "Amity" of one hundred and twenty tons, and the "Pittsburgh," a ship of two hundred and fifty tons. In 1793 the schooner "was sent to St. Thomas, and the ship to Philadelphia, both laden with Flour. The second summer, they built the brig 'Nanina,' of two hundred, and the ship 'Louisiana,' of 350 tons. The brig was sent direct to Marseilles; the ship was sent out ballasted with our _stone coal_, which was sold at _Philadelphia_, for 37 1-2 cents per bushel. The year after they built the ship 'Western Trader' of 400 tons."[65] By 1800, therefore, cargoes of flour, iron, beef, pork, glass-ware, furniture of black walnut, wild cherry, and yellow birch, and beverages of varying character were awaiting the great hulls of these new ships of several hundred tons. In 1803 Thaddeus Harris found several of these ships on the stocks at Pittsburg; three had been launched before April, "from 160 to 275 tons burden."[66] On May 4 he wrote at Marietta: "the schooner 'Dorcas and Sally,' of 70 tons, built at Wheeling and rigged at Marietta, dropped down the river. The following day there there passed down the schooner 'Amity,' of 103 tons, from Pittsburg, and the ship 'Pittsburg,' of 275 tons burden, from the same place, laden with seventeen hundred barrels of flour, with the rest of her cargo in flat-bottomed boats. In the evening the brig 'Mary Avery,' of 130 tons, built at Marietta, set sail. These afforded an interesting spectacle to the inhabitants of this place, who saluted the vessels as they passed with three cheers, and by firing a small piece of ordnance from the banks."[67] "The building and lading of ships is now considered as an enterprize of the greatest importance in this part of the country. The last (1802) there were launched from the ship-yard of Captain Devol, on the Muskingum river, five miles above its mouth, the ship 'MUSKINGUM,' of 204 tons, owned by Benjamin Ives Gilman, Esq. and the brigantine 'ELIZA GREENE,' of 115 tons, owned by Charles Greene, Esq. merchants at Marietta. At the spring flood of the present year, the schooner 'Indiana,' of 100 tons, the brig 'Marietta,' of 130 tons, and another of 150 tons, also built here, were launched and descended the river for New Orleans and the trade to the West Indies. Good judges of naval architecture have pronounced these vessels equal, in point of workmanship and materials, to the best that have been built in America. The firmness and great length of their planks, and the excellency of their timbers, (their frames being almost wholly composed of black walnut, a wood which, if properly selected, has nearly the strength of white oak, and the durability of the live oak of the south without its weight) it is believed will give these vessels the preference over any built of the timber commonly made use of, in any market where there are competent judges. This part of the country owes much to those gentlemen, who, in a new and experimental line, have set this example of enterprize and perseverance."[68] One ship from Marietta is said to have had the existence of her port of clearance questioned in Italy. In 1811 we learn that ship-building was not prospering as might be supposed; misfortunes and accidents "have given a damp to ships building at present."[69] On an inland river, where the winds and the amount of rainfall at any time were very uncertain, it must have been a most difficult thing to cope successfully with low water and shifting sand bars and other innumerable obstacles to navigation in the Ohio. The times were ripe for another power, one which did not require that the vessels have deep draught, as was the case with sailing vessels. The dawning of the new era of steam navigation cannot be introduced better than by quoting a unique paragraph from _The Navigator_ of 1811: "There is now on foot a new mode of navigating our western waters, particularly the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. This is with boats propelled by the power of steam. This plan has been carried into successful operation on the Hudson river at New York, and on the Delaware between New Castle and Burlington.--It has been stated that the one on the Hudson goes at the rate of four miles an hour against wind and tide on her route between New York and Albany, and frequently with 500 passengers on board. From these successful experiments there can be but little doubt of the plan succeeding on our western waters, and proving of immense advantage to the commerce of our country. A Mr. Rosewalt, a gentleman of enterprise, and who is acting it is said in conjunction with Messrs. Fulton and Livingston of New York, has a boat of this kind now on the stocks at Pittsburgh, of 138 feet keel, calculated for 300 or 400 tons burden. And there is one building at Frankfort, Kentucky, by citizens who no doubt will push the enterprise. It will be a novel sight, and as pleasing as novel to see a huge boat working her way up the windings of the Ohio, without the appearance of sail, oar, pole, or any manual labour about her--moving within the secrets of her own wonderful mechanism, and propelled by power undiscoverable!--This plan if it succeeds, must open to view flattering prospects to an immense country, an interior of not less than two thousand miles of as fine a soil and climate, as the world can produce, and to a people worthy of all the advantages that nature and art can give them, a people the more meritorious because they know how to sustain peace and live independent, among the crushing of empires, the falling of kings, the slaughter and bloodshed of millions, and the tumult, corruption and tyranny of all the world beside. The immensity of country we have yet to settle, the vast riches of the bowels of the earth, the unexampled advantages of our water courses, which wind without interruption for thousands of miles, the numerous sources of trade and wealth opening to the enterprising and industrious citizens, are reflections that must rouse the most dull and stupid.... From the canoe, we now see ships of two or three hundred tons burden, masted and rigged, descending the same Ohio, laden with the products of the country, bound to New Orleans,--thence to any part of the world.--Thus the rise and progress of the trade and the trader on the western waters, thus the progress of our country from infancy to manhood, and thus the flattering prospects of its future greatness through the channels of the Ohio and Mississippi rivers."[70] These words came true in a miraculously short space of time. Previous to the adoption of the steamboat navigation, say in 1817, the whole commerce from New Orleans to the upper country was carried in about twenty barges, averaging one hundred tons each, and making but one trip a year. The number of keel-boats employed on the Upper Ohio could not have exceeded one hundred and fifty, carrying thirty tons each, and making one trip from Pittsburg to Louisville and back in two months, or about three voyages in the season. The tonnage of all the boats ascending the Ohio and Lower Mississippi was then about sixty-five hundred. In 1811 the first steamboat was constructed at Brownsville, Pennsylvania, on the Monongahela. Several others were built soon after, but it was probably fifteen years before steamboats came into such general use as to cause any diminution in the flat-and keel-boat navigation. These first boats were built after models of ships, with deep holds. They also were constructed with low pressure engines and heavy machinery. Hence they were useless in low water, very hard to propel against the current, and their carrying capacity was greatly reduced. In order to attain greater speed, the builders soon made the boats long and narrow but it was not until they came to the decision that boats would run faster on the water than in it, and began making them flat and broad, that they finally got a boat capable of carrying a thousand tons, when drawing only four feet, and when empty only two and one-half feet. Then with a high pressure engine at each wheel they could make unprecedented speed; and these boats afforded traveling and freight accommodations equal to any. Although the prices of passages did not exceed hotel rates, yet more bountifully filled tables were not to be found on land and the boats were marvels of splendor in their appointments. The chief improvement made in the river steamboats was placing one large wheel at the stern of the boat entirely behind the hulk and with long paddles the full length of the beam, operated by double engines and quartering cranks. This had the advantage of allowing the wheel to fly in the eddy water of the boat, while it cleared the boat of the afterdraft. With these improvements rapid currents and shallow waters could be conquered. In 1832 it was calculated that the whole number of persons deriving subsistence on the Ohio, including the crews of steam- and flat-boats, mechanics and laborers employed in building and repairing boats, woodcutters, and persons employed in furnishing, supplying, loading and unloading these boats, was ninety thousand. At this time, 1832, the boats numbered four hundred and fifty and their burden ninety thousand tons. In 1843 the whole number of steamboats constructed at Cincinnati alone was forty-five; the aggregate amount of their tonnage was twelve thousand and thirty-five tons, and their cost $705,000. This gives an average of two hundred and sixty-seven tons for each boat and about $16,000 for the cost of each. The models of these 1843 boats, as well as their finish and accommodations, evinced a progressive improvement upon earlier boats. They had more length and less draught, and were faster than those of the last generation, while the hulls were more staunch, though they contained less weight of timber. The cabins were not so gaudy and expensive as those of former years but were greatly superior in comfort and convenience. In 1844 the number of steamboats employed in navigating the Mississippi and its tributaries was four hundred and fifty. The average burden of these boats was 200 tons each, making an aggregate of 90,000 tons and their aggregate value, at $80 per ton, was $7,200,000. Many of these were fine vessels, affording most comfortable accommodations for passengers, and compared favorably in all particulars with the best packets in any part of the world. The number of persons engaged in navigating the steam-boats at this time varied from twenty-five to fifty for each boat, or an average of about thirty-five persons, which gives a total of 15,750 persons employed. It appears from the reports of the Louisville and Portland Canal at this time that more than seven hundred flat-boats passed that canal in one year. There were, therefore, probably four thousand descending the Mississippi, and counting five men to a boat there were 20,000 persons employed in flat-boating. The cost of these boats was in the neighborhood of $400,000, which, as they did not return, was an annual expense; the cost of loading, navigating, and unloading them approximated $900,000, making a total annual expenditure upon this class of boats $1,300,000. If, in 1834, the number of steamboats on western waters was two hundred and thirty, and they carried 39,000 tons, the expense of running them could be estimated as follows:[71] 60 boats, over 200 tons, 108 running days, at $140. per day-- $1,512,000. 70 boats, 120-200 tons, 240 running days, at $90. per day-- 1,512,000. 100 boats, under 120 tons, 270 running days, at $60. per day-- 1,620,000. ----------- Total yearly expenses $4,645,000. In 1844 the calculation was: 110 boats, over 200 tons, 180 running days, at $140 per day-- $2,772,000. 140 boats, 120-200 tons, 240 running days, at $90 per day-- 3,024,000. 200 boats, under 120 tons, 280 running days, at $60-- 3,240,000. ----------- Total yearly expenses $9,036,000. This sum, reduced to the different items producing it, would be apportioned as follows: For wages, 36% $3,252,960. For wood, 30% 2,710,800. For provisions, 18% 1,626,480. For contingencies, 16% 1,445,760. ----------- Total $9,036,000. To this should be added: Insurance, 15% on $7,200,000 $1,080,000. Louisville and Portland Canal tolls-- 250,000. Interest on $7,200,000. Investment at 6% 432,000. Wear and tear of boats, 20% 1,440,000. ------------ Total $12,238,000. Add for flat-boats, as above, 1,380,000. ------------ Total annual cost of transportation $13,618,000. There were steadily employed at the Cincinnati shipyards, during the year 1843, in the heavier portions of the work, 320 hands at the boatyards, 200 joiners, 200 engine- and foundry-men, 50 painters, making the total number of persons employed 770. Within the same year, there were built at Louisville, New Albany, and Jeffersonville, 35 boats, of 7,406 tons, which cost $700,000. These boats cost $20,000 each, averaged 211 tons, and cost about $95 per ton. At Pittsburg, the same year, there were built 25 boats, of 4347 tons; the average tonnage of these boats was about 173 tons. The aggregate number of boats built in 1843, is about as follows: Cincinnati, 45 boats, 12,035 tons Louisville, New Albany, and Jeffersonville 35 boats, 7,406 " Pittsburg, 25 boats, 4,347 " Add for all other places, 15 boats, 3,000 " ------ Total. 26,788 tons The whole tonnage of western boats previous to 1843, being 90,000 tons, and the annual loss by destruction and superannuation being twenty per cent, the decrease by the latter cause for 1843, was 18,000 tons, and the increase 26,788 tons, making a net increase of 8,788 tons. By the official returns in 1842 it appears that the whole steamboat tonnage of the United States was 218,994 tons; this was divided as follows: _Southwest_ New Orleans, 80,993 tons St. Louis, 14,725 " Cincinnati, 12,025 " Pittsburg, 10,107 " Louisville, 4,618 " Nashville, 3,810 " ------- Total 126,278 tons. _Northwest_ Buffalo, 8,212 tons Detroit, 3,296 " Presque Isle, 2,315 " Oswego, 1,970 " Cuyahoga, 1,859 " ------ Total 17,652 tons. _Seaboard_ New York, 35,260 tons Baltimore, 7,143 " Mobile, 6,982 " Philadelphia, 4,578 " Charleston, 3,289 " Newbern, 2,854 " Perth Amboy, 2,606 " Apalachicola, 1,418 " Boston, 1,362 " Norfolk, 1,395 " Wilmington, 1,212 " Georgetown, 1,178 " Newark, 1,120 " Miscellaneous, 4,767 " ------ Total 76,064 tons. At this time the steamboat tonnage belonged to the internal commerce of the country, as, with the exception of two or three in the Gulf of Mexico, we had no steam vessels engaged in foreign commerce. Of the whole 218,994 tons, it appears that two-thirds belonged to the West; and as a portion of the other tonnage was employed on routes leading to the West and connecting with our highways, the commerce of the West no doubt amounted to more than two-thirds of the commerce of the Union. And, estimating the number of steamboats from their average tonnage, there must have been in 1842, one thousand in the United States, of which six hundred belonged to the West. The table of tonnage above given, shows where this vast commercial marine was employed; first, in the Mississippi Basin; next, in the city of New York; and then on the Lakes. From the port of New York there were some seventy or eighty steamboats constantly running--on the Lakes there were hundreds. In the valley of the Mississippi the number of steamboats they employed was equal to the whole number of those employed in England. This will appear from the following statement from McCullough's gazetteer of the steamboat tonnage of Great Britain in 1834: _Steam Ships_ _Tonnage_ England 434 43,877 Scotland 105 13,113 Ireland 84 17,674 British dependencies 49 8,032 --- ------ Total, 672 82,696 It appears then that the steamboat tonnage of the Mississippi Valley (1842) exceeded by forty thousand tons the entire steamboat tonnage of Great Britain (1834). In other words, the steamboat tonnage of Great Britain was only two-thirds that of the Mississippi Valley. The magnitude of this fact will be best appreciated by considering that the entire tonnage of the United States was but two-thirds that of Great Britain, showing that this proportion is exactly reversed in western steamboat trade. The influence of the West in pushing the steamboat to its ultimate use as a common carrier has been most remarkable. CHAPTER V THREE GENERATIONS OF RIVERMEN The history of the Ohio Basin rivermen, from those who paddled a canoe and pushed a keel-boat to those who labor today on our steamboats has never been written. The lights and shades of this life have never been pictured by any novelist and perhaps they never can be. Even the student who gleans imperfect pictures from the miscellanies preserved in local histories, must in the very nature of the case, secure but a poor focus on realities. Study as you will, you will only make yourself ridiculous when you attempt to talk to one of the old-time rivermen. Your use and even pronunciation of words will seem absurd; if the dictionary is on your side, so much the worse for the dictionary. An attempt will create in the enthusiast much the same feeling that will be felt on giving a veteran of Gettysburg a copy of an historical novel describing the battle; it may have thrilled you but your old soldier friend will say "That man never was in battle." The old riverman will, by his smile, make you conscious that you speak in unfamiliar terms, though his manner may be politeness itself. "You have never been in battle" will be the gist of his implications. The first generation of rivermen, excluding, of course the Indians, would cover the year from 1750 to 1780 and would include those whose principal acquaintance with the Ohio and its tributaries was made through the canoe and pirogue. The second generation would stretch from 1780 or 1790 to 1810, and for our purposes will include those who lived in the heyday of the keel- and flat-boat. The third generation would carry us forward from 1810 to about 1850, and in this we would count the thousands who knew these valleys before the railway had robbed the steamboat of so much of its business and pride. This classification is extremely loose; it will help us, however, to place some limits on a subject as boundless as human ambition. For, taken through the years, the human element in the historical phases of these valleys has remained practically unchanged. Greed of the great round dollar has been the commanding passion, and nowhere has it burned more fiercely. All the crimes, treacheries, deceptions, and frauds practiced under the sun have been repeated on the Ohio between Pittsburg and Cairo. Some, perhaps unknown elsewhere, have here been committed. But here, too, that old-time clear love of living for life's sake only, the thing which makes sailors sing the world over, was deeply felt. In its lower extremities the river reaches practically southern climes while its northern arms reach out into New York and Pennsylvania. On its northwestern shore settled many colonies from New England; on the south-eastern coast flocked the Virginians. Thus, from the standpoint of temperament, the Ohio offers a most remarkable field of study of human types. As said, it was the western projection of Mason and Dixon's Line; but instead of being a mere geographical technicality, it was a teeming highway where passion, hate, love, and fraternity were every day displayed until the great crisis was finally passed. For, be it remembered, there was civil war on the Ohio long before Fort Sumter belched its defiance to secessionism. True, western Virginia and Kentucky were not unbalanced by the fervor that swept the South, but this river highway between them and Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois (as loyal as Vermont or Massachusetts) was the meeting-place of hundreds who could not meet without striking fire. Brought up in this zone where issues were plain and where it was not derogatory to carry a broken nose or a blackened eye any time between 1840 and 1860, fired to fast thinking and faster action by the passionate current in which they lived, were many of the bravest leaders of the Civil War, such as Lincoln, Grant, and Sherman. Our study here has nothing to do with the history of the Civil War, but disclosures made at that time bring out most plainly the position of the Ohio Valley in the Union, and the political consequences. It has been in place elsewhere to define the various stocks of people who entered the Ohio Valley a century ago and who have been its controlling spirits since their entrance. Of these the rivermen were a part, moved by one and the same force politically. Some were of the North and some came up from the South, and they wrangled for years over the problems solved by the Civil War. But now, turning specifically to our classification, let us glance at the first generation of Ohio rivermen: those who knew these waters before and during Revolutionary days. At the outset it is clear that their tasks are as strange to us as the sights upon which their eyes feasted and the sounds which day and night were sounding in their ears. They were engaged in the only trade known in the valley then--the fur trade. At about midsummer, or a little earlier, the fur trade of the entire Ohio Basin focused at the mouth of the Monongahela for transportation to Philadelphia and Baltimore or on the lower Ohio for shipment by canoe down the Ohio and Mississippi. When the curtain of actual history arose on the Ohio River, the fur traders formed the motley background in the drama in which Céloron, Contrecoeur, Villiers, Washington, and Gist stood out clearly in the dark foreground. Céloron found them here and there in 1750 and sent them back to Virginia with a sharp letter to Governor Dinwiddie. Indeed it was these first rivermen who floated on the Ohio in canoes laden with peltry who brought on apace the Old French War. Nominally, of course, it was that quota of one hundred families with which the Ohio Company promised to people its two hundred thousand acre grant between the Monongahela and Kanawha Rivers which alarmed the Quebec government; but in reality it was the Virginia and Pennsylvania fur traders in whose canoes thousands of dollars' worth of beaver skins were being kept from the St. Lawrence. From village to village these traders passed, securing from the natives their plunder of river and forest. In their long canoes the packs were carefully deposited, and payment was made in goods, of which ammunition and fire-arms were of most worth. Though these were the first rivermen, they as frequently came by land as by water. But, when in their canoes, they were the first to ply the western rivers. They, first of white men, learned the old-time riffles--many of which became known to millions by the names these first _voyageurs_ gave them. They knew islands which have long since passed from sight; they knew the old licks and the old trails. They practiced the lost arts of the woodsman; they had eyes and ears of which their successors in these valleys do not know. They did not become white Indians for, it would seem, they did not mingle as closely with the red-men as did the French; but they became exceedingly proficient in the Indian's woodland wisdom. Browned by the sun and hardened by wind and rain and snow they were a strong race of men; they could paddle or walk the entire day with little fatigue. Yet their day's work was not such usually that it made mere brute machines of them. Not as boisterous as the French on the Great Lakes and their tributaries, these first Americans in the West were yet a buoyant crew; there were songs to be sung as the canoe glided speedily along beneath the shadows of those tremendous forest trees; dangers intensified the joys, and, as everywhere else, added a flavor to living, a romantic tinge to what otherwise might have been commonplace. There was no caste, no clique, no faction; even Virginian and Pennsylvanian eyed one another more considerately on the Ohio than elsewhere; true, the quarrel at last grew bitter, even here, but it was confined to the possession of Pittsburg and did not concern the valley as a whole. With the deepening of the struggle for the Ohio its first generation of _voyageurs_ became of great importance. Their knowledge of the river and the land through which it flowed was of moment to marching armies, scouts and spies, peace commissioners, military superintendents, commanders of forts, cohorts of surveyors, land companies, investors, promoters, and pioneers. With the passing of the fur trade, a score of remunerative openings was at the command of the rivermen who had learned well his lesson. Thus with the opening of the new era of the barge and keel-boat the old-time _voyageur_ could remain upon the scene, or, like Daniel Boone, paddle away to the West and in a new land live over again the days when the forests were fresh and green. With the filling of the Ohio Valley came the introduction of these heavy freight craft, the barge and flat-boat, and, almost immediately, the keel-boat, the first upstream craft. To row or steer a barge or flat or to pole a keel-boat was work no _voyageur_ of earlier times had undertaken. It was rougher work than had ever been demanded of men in the West and it soon developed rougher men than the West had ever seen. Social conditions, growing spasmodically complex in a new country, made them worse. Once free of savage red-men, the Ohio Valley became a famous retreat for criminals of every class from every state; horse thieves, gamblers, and men guilty of far worse crimes were comparatively safe on the Ohio by 1800; and, in the descending barge or flat, could pass on into a new career under new names in Kentucky, Ohio, or beyond. Added to this scum of the older communities must be counted the hundreds who had served in the western armies which were now disbanded, many of whom bred in roughest surroundings now sank quickly to their social level in the fast-filling West they had freed. This type of hardy but vicious manhood found hard work awaiting them on the rivers where millions of tons of freight were waiting to be moved. They laid down a heavy musket and picked up a heavier oar; but the two forms of occupation were not dissimilar, for both offered a life of alternate labor and rest. On these first freight craft in the West the work was severe in the extreme, but it was not continuous; it was often a desperate pull today and leisure tomorrow. A writer of a generation ago caught the exact spirit of this life at this transitional state: "The Ohio River being once reached, the main channel of emigration lay in the water-courses. Steamboats as yet were but beginning their invasion, amid the general dismay and cursing of the population of boatmen that had rapidly established itself along the shore of every river. The early water life of the Ohio and its kindred streams was the very romance of emigration; no monotonous agriculture, no toilsome wood-chopping could keep back the adventurous boys who found delight in the endless novelty, the alternate energy and repose of a floating existence on those delightful waters. The variety of river craft corresponded to the varied temperaments of the boatmen. There was the great barge with lofty deck requiring twenty-five men to work it up-stream; there was the long keel-boat, carrying from twenty-five to thirty tons; there was the Kentucky 'broadhorn,' compared by the emigrants of that day to a New England pig-sty set afloat, and sometimes built one hundred feet long, and carrying seventy tons; there was the 'family-boat,' of like structure, and bearing a whole household, with cattle, hogs, horses, and sheep. Other boats were floating tin shops, blacksmith's shops, whiskey shops, dry-goods shops. A few were propelled by horsepower. Of smaller vessels there were 'covered sleds,' 'ferry flats,' and 'Alleghany skiffs;' 'pirogues' made from two tree trunks, or 'dug-outs' consisting of one." "The bargemen were a distinct class of people," writes Mr. Cassedy, "whose fearlessness of character, recklessness of habits and laxity of morals rendered them a marked people. Their history will hereafter form the groundwork of many a heroic romance or epic poem. In the earlier stages of this sort of navigation, their trips were dangerous, not only on account of the Indians whose hunting-grounds bounded their track on either side, but also because the shores of both rivers were infested with organized banditti, who sought every occasion to rob and murder the owners of these boats. Beside all this the Spanish Government had forbidden the navigation of the lower Mississippi by the Americans, and thus, hedged in every way by danger, it became these boatmen to cultivate all the hardihood and wiliness of the Pioneer, while it led them also into the possession of that recklessness of independent freedom of manner, which even after the causes that produced it had ceased, still clung to and formed an integral part of the character of the Western Bargeman. It is a matter of no little surprise that something like an authentic history of these wonderful men has never been written. Certainly it is desirable to preserve such a history, and no book could have been undertaken which would be likely to produce more both of pleasure and profit to the writer and none which would meet with a larger circle of delighted readers. The traditions on the subject are, even at this recent period, so vague and contradictory that it would be difficult to procure anything like reliable or authentic data in regard to them. No story in which the bargemen figured is too improbable to be narrated, nor can one determine what particular person is the hero of an incident which is in turn laid at the door of each distinguished member of the whole fraternity."[72] "The crews were carefully chosen. A 'Kentuck,' or Kentuckian, was considered the best man at a pole, and a 'Canuck,' or French Canadian, at the oar or the 'cordelles,' the rope used to haul a boat upstream. Their talk was of the dangers of the river; of 'planters and sawyers,' meaning tree trunks imbedded more or less firmly in the river; of 'riffles,' meaning ripples; and of 'shoots,' or rapids (French _chutes_). It was as necessary to have violins on board as to have whiskey and all the traditions in song or picture of 'the jolly boatman' date back to that by-gone day. Between the two sides of the river there was already a jealousy. Ohio was called 'the Yankee State' and Flint tells us that it was a standing joke among the Ohio boatmen when asked their cargo to reply, 'Pitcoal indigo, wooden nutmegs, straw baskets, and Yankee notions.' The same authority describes this sort of questioning as being inexhaustible among the river people and asserts that from one descending boat came this series of answers all of which proved to be truthful: "'Where are you from?' 'Redstone.' 'What is your lading?' 'Millstones.' 'What's your captain's name?' 'Whetstone.' 'Where are you bound?' 'To Limestone.'" "It was the highway of emigration," a pioneer has written of the Ohio in its early years, "by the old and nearly forgotten flat-boat system.... I was familiar with the sight of these primitive navigators and their sluggish moving vessels when in the early spring days they came down.... I have seen several generations on a single flatboat, from the white haired grand-sire and his aged helpmate, seated in rude chairs of domestic manufacture, with split hickory bottoms, down to the infant babe nestled in its rough hewn cradle, made by the ax of the stalwart young man, father to a group of little 'towheads' who surrounded the parents, and their small assortment of household goods. A cow--that domesticated helpmate to the family of the emigrating poor--was generally tied near the center of the flatboat, and on the lumber or planks that were intended, when the voyage terminated, to be made into flooring, and combine with the broken up flat-boat to make a quickly constructed home at some point on the forest covered hills of Kentucky or Ohio, or on the low, flat lands that border the Mississippi.... They were going to settle in the wilderness, with a cow, a flitch of bacon, a small coop of chickens, and, generally, a large family of children." Among the heroes of the days of the keel-boat, stands Mike Fink who, in his own words, is described as follows: "I can out-run, out-hop, out-jump, throw down, drag out and lick any man in the country. I'm a Salt-river roarer; I love the wimming and I'm chock full of fight." Of this typical leader of his class an old magazine, the _Western Monthly_, gives us this description: "His weight was about 180 pounds; height about five feet, nine inches; broad, round face, pleasant features, brown skin, tanned by sun and rain; blue, but very expressive eyes, inclining to grey; broad, white teeth, and square, brawny form, well proportioned; and every muscle of his arms, thighs and legs, was fully developed, indicating the greatest strength and activity. His person, taken altogether, was a model for a Hercules, except as to size." No plucky adventure or cunning trickery performed by bargemen from the Hudson to the Mississippi but seems to have been accredited by some one at some time to Mike Fink. One of these, told of Fink et al., is sufficiently typical to represent the other ninety-nine. Voyaging down the Ohio, Fink one day noticed a flock of fine sheep on shore, and, being out of fresh provisions, he determined to secure a supply of mutton without the delay and vexation attendant upon any financial exchange. In his cargo was a number of bladders of Scotch snuff. Obtaining a quantity of this drug he caught a few sheep, rubbed it on their heads and faces, and instantly sent a messenger for the owner whose house was not far distant. By the time this man appeared the sheep Fink had dosed were deporting themselves in a manner at once disgraceful to the remainder of the flock and prodigiously marvelous to the eyes of their dazed owner. Leaping and bleating, the distracted animals were pawing their heads, rubbing them wildly on the ground and acting in general as though possessed of devils and on the point of dashing down the river bank into the water. "What's the matter with my sheep?" exclaimed the alarmed owner. "Don't you know?" said Mike, suspiciously. "No, I don't!" "Didn't you ever hear of black murrain?" "Yes," was the terrified reply. "Well, that's it--all sheep up the river's got it dreadful--dyin' like rotten dogs, hundreds daily." "You don't tell!" cried the victim; "and what's the cure?" "Nothin' but killin' 'em to prevent it's spreadin'; it's dreadful catchin', is black murrain." The riverman was at once begged to kill the infected sheep and throw their bodies into the current of the river. Mike did not at once agree, but when a couple of gallons of peach brandy was named as a consideration, he consented. And that night as his boat left the cove its freight was increased by many pounds of mutton and something less than two gallons of peach brandy. The same story is told of other bargemen in various portions of the Union but, whoever was guilty of the theft, it is typical of all so far as their attitude to the public is concerned. Such men, being constantly on the move, were hard to place, and as difficult to bring to justice as a government official. A keel-boat captain surrounded by a swarthy crew which he had treated liberally to plunder would not be attacked by any posse in its right mind. On one occasion--whether or not the story is true, the spirit of it is no misrepresentation--Mike Fink was so earnestly desired that a reward was offered for his capture. When his boat was anchored at Louisville an old friend of Mike's, a constable, approached him and expressed the desire to bring him to trial in order to obtain the promised reward. At the same time he assured the culprit that there was no evidence that could result in conviction. The keel-boat man took pity on his friend and agreed, after some consideration, to acquiesce on one condition: he would go if he could be drawn thither in his yawl, surrounded by his men. The condition was agreed to. "Accordingly a long-coupled wagon was procured, and, with oxen attached, it went down the hill, at Third Street for Mike's yawl. The road, for it was not then a street, was very steep and very muddy at this point. Regardless of this, however, the boat was set upon the wagon, and Mike and his men, with their long poles ready, as if for an aquatic excursion, were put aboard, Mike in the stern. By dint of laborious dragging, the wagon had attained half the height of the hill, when out shouted the stentorian voice of Mike calling to his men, 'Set poles!'--and the end of every long pole was set firmly in the thick mud; 'Back her!' roared Mike, and down the hill again went wagon, yawl, men, and oxen. Mike had been revolving the matter in his mind and had concluded that it was best not to go; and well knowing that each of his men was equal to a moderately strong ox, he had at once conceived and executed this retrograde movement. Once at the bottom, another parley was held and Mike was again overpowered. This time they had almost reached the top of the hill, when 'Set poles! Back her!' was again ordered and again executed. A third attempt, however, was successful, and Mike reached the court house in safety; and, as his friend, the constable, had endeavored to induce him to believe, he was acquitted for lack of sufficient evidence. Other indictments, however, were found against him, but Mike preferred not to wait to hear them tried; so, at a given signal he and his men boarded their craft and again stood ready to weigh anchor. The dread of the long poles in the hands of Mike's men prevented the posse from urging any serious remonstrance against his departure. And off they started with poles 'tossed.' As they left the court house yard Mike waved his red bandanna, which he had fixed on one of the poles, and promising to 'call again' was borne back to his element and launched once more upon the waters."[73] Our inability to believe such stories is only an additional proof that those days might as well be a cycle as a century behind us, so far as catching the genuine atmosphere of them is concerned. It was a rough day on shore, a day when, so the story goes, a Louis Phillippe could not treat an Ohio innkeeper with hauteur (after announcing that he would "be King of France") without being thrown into the street to the accompaniment of the boast: "We are all Kings over here." English travelers in the middle West have probably left truer pictures of actual social conditions in the days of the keel-boat and barge than we have elsewhere. We think many of these accounts are, like Dickens's _Notes_, exaggerated. If any of them are true, all might as well be. And, at any rate, whatever the social average, we can be very certain that the rivermen had the hardest work and were the hardest type of all laborers in the new West. A hint has been dropped some pages before about the feeling of the old-time rivermen concerning the introduction of steam navigation. In this series of monographs it has been in place now and then to refer to the anger and disgust of every class of men engaged in land transportation over the introduction of new methods. The old packhorse-men were intensely incensed at the introduction of wheeled vehicles on the great routes of trade and immigration, and even opposed the widening of Indian trails and the building of roads. The first wagons were assaulted and demolished. In turn the "waggoners" and teamsters opposed the building of canals and the improvement of the rivers. Teamsters, tow-boat men, and rivermen were foremost in opposing the railway. Something of the same spirit exists in certain parts today, in the struggle which is on, and which is growing more bitter each year, between railway and electric roads. The conflict between the new and the old was probably more fierce on the rivers than elsewhere, for the reason that one route was common to all. The canal and highway were not often contiguous, and the railway was yet further removed, because it followed the waterways which the roads frequently avoided. On the river the barge and steamboat moved side by side; they landed at the same ports, and never lost sight of each other. It was a significant repetition of history, recalling the day when the wheeled vehicle was introduced on roads never used save by the packhorse-men. In each instance improved methods of locomotion came into violent contact with the old. And, as in the case of the struggle between angry packhorse-men and wagon- and coach-drivers, the new method was a labor-saving invention. No string of ponies could bear what a great Conestoga wagon would carry. It took less "hands" to transport a given amount of freight on wagons than by the old packsaddle system. The difference in the case of barge and flat-boat and steamboat was much more marked and the struggle so much more bitter. True it is that in both cases the amount of business soon increased with improved facilities--for the wagon was as much in advance of the packsaddle as the steamer was in advance of the flat-boat--but this did not allay temporary hostility. River life at once underwent a great change with the gradual supremacy of the steamboat in the carrying trade of the Ohio and its tributaries. The sounding whistle blew away from our valleys much that was picturesque--those strenuous days when a well developed muscle was the best capital with which to begin business. Of course the flat-boat did not pass from our waters, but as a type of old-time rivermen their lusty crews have disappeared. The business interests of the new West, growing to greater proportions each year, demanded all hands "on deck." In connection with that first generation of rivermen it was observed that social equality was a general rule. There were no distinctions; every man was his own master and his own servant. In the days of keel-boats and flat-boats conditions changed, as we have observed in the case of Mike Fink who was "captain" of his boat and the leader of his own henchmen. This has been touched upon in the consideration of the evolution of river craft, and may be suggested, only in passing, here; the second generation of rivermen were accustomed to obey orders of superiors, and society was divided sharply into two classes, the serving and the served. With the supremacy of the steamboat this division is reduplicated over and again; here are found four general classes, the proprietors, navigators, operators, and deckhands. The upper ranks of the steam-packet business have furnished the West with some of its strongest types of aggressive manhood. Keen-eyed, physically strong, acquainted with men and equal to any emergency, the typical captain of the first half century of steamboating in the West was a man any one was glad to number among his friends and acquaintances. But between the pilot house and the deck lay a gulf--not impassable, for it was very frequently spanned by the worthy--deep, and significant. Until the Civil War "deckoneering" was, largely, the pursuit of whites. A few plantation owners rented out slaves to steamboat owners, but negroes did not usurp the profession until they were freed. This was contemporaneous with the general introduction of steam railways. A heterogeneous population--not touched in the foregoing generalizations--has made the waters of the Ohio Basin its home. They may be classed as vagrants, gamblers, and banditti. The first class would include both the indolent and the vicious population that has swarmed the Ohio and its tributaries from times immemorial. In all sorts of conceivable craft, resembling each other only in the sole particular of buoyancy, these vagrants have been floating our waters and mooring their boats along our shores for a hundred years or more. In house-boats of all possible sizes, shapes, heights, depths, and stenches these idlers and triflers have lived and trained their sons and daughters to live. Their staple means of existence has been fishing and filching, and, while living, are seemingly the happiest of people and no questions asked. To dig a few hills of potatoes and snatch a few ears of corn or a melon, to conciliate and lead away a watch-dog, to "run" the trot-line, to barter stolen articles in a contiguous county, makes up the happy round of their useless lives. If it is true that every man is as lazy as he dare be the Ohio River can boast the most daring set of men in the world. It is interesting to note that at the beginning of the last century those who were engaged in legitimate business on western waters were not considered as holding a respectable social position. "This voyage performed," we read in _The Navigator_ for 1818, "which generally occupies three month ... the trader returns [from New Orleans] doubly invigorated, and enabled to enlarge his vessel and cargo, he sets out again; this is repeated, until perhaps getting tired of this mode of merchandizing, he sets himself down in some town or village as a wholesale merchant, druggist or apothecary, practicing physician, or lawyer, or something else, that renders him respectable in the eyes of his neighbors, where he lives amidst wealth and comforts the remainder of his days--nor is it by any known that his fortune was founded in the paddling of a canoe, or trafficking in apples, cider-royal, peach-brandy, whiskey, &c. &c. &c." This refers to the early trader; the house-boater of the later day was not, primarily, engaged in any trade, though many were. Nearly every kind of a shop known on land has floated on the Ohio. As a class, however, the proprietors of these craft were, and are, fishermen. "Queer people you meet on the river," wrote a correspondent who recently journeyed down the Ohio by canoe, "but perhaps the most interesting of all are the 'shanty-boat' tribe. We had had a long, hard morning's pull against head winds and had made little progress, were behind time and were discouraged. We were passing the lone shanty-boat of a river tradesman, tied up on shore, waiting for the wind 'to lay.' Chris hailed him and asked leave to boil coffee on his stove. I expected a rebuff, but the trader cordially invited us to 'walk in, gentlemen; you seem ruther fagged. Set down, set down. I seen you uns a passin' us above t'other day, but this old tortus runs night and day and gits ahead of the rabbit sometimes while you're taking a nap.' And so the loquacious old chap ran on. Glad of a rest, we stayed and drifted with him some ten or twelve miles that night, bunking on a pile of bags in a corner. To be sure the wily old fox turned our visit to his profit. He proved to us plainly, by river logic, what our experience had already shown--that we had certain cumbrous baggage that ought to be disposed of, and he bought it of us for a song, 'jest to accommodate you uns, you know; I'm allers a-buyin' a lot o' no-account truck, jest to help folks out.' Very likely! But the information he gave proved so valuable, his bacon tasted so good, that night spent with him drifting and resting was so pleasant--what did I care if it was all a scheme to strike a trade. Long into the night I sat with him as he steered his clumsy craft and shouted his queerly quavered songs. Finally he lapsed into silence. The frogs took up the song and had a monopoly, except for the gurgling of the water and the distant baying of a hound. I was just ready to feel romantic and silently soliloquizing the moon, when I heard a loud whisper from the other end of the shanty-boat, as one of the trader's young hopefuls said to his brother, 'Say, Bill, let's take the skiff and go ashore and steal that hound barking.' 'Shet up, you young rascal,' said the old man, never losing his good humor. 'You've got dogs enough a'ready to start a Noah's Ark. What do yer want with any more? You roll in.' Many kinds of people inhabit these shanty-boats. These boats are built at a cost of from twenty dollars up to two or three hundred. The ground to build on is free. There is no rent to pay. There is change of air and scenery. One house serves for winter and summer residences--the current and towboat carrying you back and forth. You can always be traveling, yet always at home. Your livelihood is gained sometimes one way, sometimes another--who questions? A man builds such a home, puts his family aboard; or, if he has no family, gets a cook if he chooses.... Then he drifts lazily during the summer, fishing, trapping, stealing and making his way to warmer climes as winter approaches. Far down at New Orleans or elsewhere, spring finds him and he sells out to return, or tows back with some fleet of barges, to begin again. Or a trader will load up at Pittsburg or Cincinnati with dry-goods, trinkets, queensware, everything, and make his way trading with the farmers or trappers, until at the end of the journey he has a rich store of bartered goods to sell ere his northward return. They are a careless, happy-go-lucky tribe of migrants--caring little for the morrow. 'Do you see this little chap?' said a big rough-bearded fellow to me one day, as he squeezed between his knees a fat, freckled, chuggy, grinning little cub. 'Well, he's five year old, born on the river, and he likes it better'n any other place. Don't you, hey, Johnny?' And so they eat their day's food, sleep in their floating homes, saw their old broken fiddles or pump wheezy accordeons, and are happy. Or sometimes as we often saw, an honest mechanic will build a cozy floating house, furnish it in comfortable style and moor it near his factory, saving rent and owning his home." Several significant social changes wrought by the Civil War have been noted; it put an end to the days of the "coasting" trade of the flat-boats and to the "deckoneering" of white men. It also marked the passing of the old gambling days in the steam-boat business. The three previous decades were famous days for a swarm of recognized banditti which may be said to have almost lived upon the Ohio-Mississippi boats. The opulence and chivalry of Southern planters who traveled largely by steam-packets made gambling a source of immense revenue to such as always won. It was always cards, and the steamboat is the ideal hunting-ground of the gambler and card-sharp; here is money, and those who have it are utterly at leisure. Back in the days of the third generation of rivermen, gambling, like drinking intoxicants, was not a social disgrace; many men of national reputation "sat in" on games of chance which are now outlawed. In such a social atmosphere and in such environment little wonder that the river-boats gained most unenviable reputation, until at last boat-owners were compelled to prohibit all such pastimes. Gamblers at times took possession of steamers and captains and clerks had almost no way to protect the passengers. It is said that sometimes as high as ten thousand dollars and more has changed hands in one night in games played between sporting men and rich planters. The story of one gambler's night is probably typical of the roughest of this phase, with the exception of actual murder which was, all too frequently, the climax of a night's gaming. "Coming up on the 'Sultana' one night," a gambler leaves record, "there were about twenty-five of the toughest set of men as cabin passengers I believe I ever met. They were on their way to Napoleon, Ark. which at that time was a great town and known as the jumping off place. In those days these Napoleon fellows were looked upon as cut-throats and robbers, and thought nothing of murdering a fellow simply to make them appear big men with their gang. I had for a partner a man named Canada Bill, as game a party as ever strode the deck of a steamboat, and one of the shrewdest gamblers I ever encountered. As soon as supper was over this gang of Arkansas toughs got in the cabin and of course wanted to play cards. Bill had opened up business in the main hall, and a great crowd had gathered about him. I saw that most of these devils had been drinking, and gave Bill the nod, which he of course understood. He only played a short while and left the game, pretending to be broke. Then we fixed it up that I should do the playing and he would watch out for any trouble. Well, the result was I got about everything the twenty-five men had, including their watches, and beat some seven or eight other passengers. The men all took it apparently good-natured at the time, but as the night wore on and they kept drinking from their private flasks I made a sneak to my room and changed my clothes. By the back stairs I slipped down into the kitchen and sent a man after my partner. I had blackened my face, and looked like one of the negro rousters. I only had time to warn him, when a terrible rumpus upstairs told me the jig was up, and with their whiskey to aid them they were searching for me, and if they caught me it would be good day to me. I paid the cooks to keep mum, and Bill made himself scarce. They had their guns out, and were kicking in the state-room doors hunting for me. Some of them came down on deck, and were walking back and forth by me, cursing and threatening vengeance. I heard one of them ask a roustabout if he had noticed a well-dressed man down on deck lately. He of course had not, as Bill had gone back up the kitchen stairs, and with these devils was raising Cain, looking for me, and my disguise had not been discovered under the darkness of the night. The boat was plowing her way along up the coast. The stevedores were shouting to the darkies, hurrying them along with the freight for a landing soon to be reached. The boat's whistle blew, and soon she was heading in for the shore. A crowd of these fellows were waiting for me, as they suspected I would try and get off. They were looking, mind you, for a well-dressed man. As soon as the boat landed about ten of them, guns in hand, ran out over the stage to shore and closely scanned the face of every person that came off. There was a stock of plows to be discharged from the boat's cargo, and noting the fact, I shouldered one and with it followed the long line of 'coons' amid the curses of the mates, and fairly flew past these men who were hunting me. I kept on up the high bank and over the levee, and when I threw my plow in the pile with the others, made off for the cotton fields and laid flat on my back until the boat got again under way, and the burning pine in the torches on deck had been extinguished. It was a close call, I can assure you. Bill met me at Vicksburg the next day and brought the boodle, which we divided. He said the crowd took lights and searched the boat's hold for me after we left the landing. Bill must have played his part well, as he told me afterward that they never suspicioned him. Yes, I could tell many of my exploits. The river was for the greater portion of my gambling career my strongest hold. But it's all over now. Even should a man strike a big winning, there are always too many smart Alecks about, and you would have to whack up with so many that there would be little left for the winner." The days of gambling on the river boats are not altogether gone but the days of the inland-water pirate are days of the distant past. In the time of the keel- and flat-boat the Ohio, and its tributaries to a certain extent, were infested with gangs of cut-throats and robbers whose exploits challenge the pen of a Scott. In certain portions of the river boatmen never dared to tie up at night, but kept their craft fairly in the swiftest current in order to hasten by these haunts. It was the common tradition among boatmen that their craft floated faster at night than in daylight; whatever the ground for this belief, it is certain the fastest current was all too slow if night found a _voyageur_, for instance, in the neighborhood of the notorious Hurricane Island between Illinois and Kentucky. Near here one Wilson, according to the Kentucky historian Collins, fitted up a "home" in famed Cave-in-Rock on the Illinois shore. This great cavern measures two hundred feet in length, eighty in width, the entrance being twenty-five feet high. Wilson's "place" was known as "Liquor Vault and House of Entertainment." "Its very novelty attracted the attention of the boats descending the river, and the crews generally landed for refreshments and amusements. Idle characters after awhile gathered here, and it soon became infamous for its licentiousness and blasphemy. Wilson ... formed a band of robbers, and laid plans of the deepest villainy...."[74] Some of the gang escaped when they found public vengeance aroused against them, but some were taken prisoners; Wilson himself lost his life at the hands of one of his own gang, tempted by the large reward offered for his head. Not long after, in the upper part of this mysterious cavern, were found sixty skeletons, confirming the tale of systematic confidence, betrayal, and murder. CHAPTER VI THE NAVIGATION OF THE OHIO The neglect of the Ohio River by the United States government cannot be better suggested than by comparing the expenditures on that river with the appropriations for the great land thoroughfare--the Cumberland Road. In thirty-two years (1806-1838) the government spent $6,823,559.52 on the Cumberland Road. In seventy-five years (1827-1902) $6,752,042.04 was appropriated for the Ohio River and much of that was portioned out to the Mississippi, Missouri, and Arkansas. It is impossible to determine with absolute assurance when and where the first prominent movement looking toward the improvement of the Ohio River originated. With the burst of population into the West came the realization that the great waterway was a priceless possession. It would be interesting to know in detail the actual condition of the Ohio, say at the dawning of the eighteenth century. That it was greatly clogged with sunken logs and protruding reefs and bars, of course, goes without saying. Perhaps the average stage of water was less than it is today; and yet the vast amount of water that stood in the tangled forests and open swamps and meadows drained off so slowly as to maintain a more uniform stage of water than is true in our day of alternate flood and drought. If less water flowed in the Ohio's bed a century ago the volume was at least more uniform than it is today. As early as January 1817 a resolution was passed by the Legislature of Ohio inviting the coöperation of Virginia, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, and Indiana for the improvement of their great waterway. Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Kentucky promptly responded, and in 1819 a preliminary examination was made by General Blackburn of Virginia, General John Adair of Kentucky, General E. W. Tupper of Ohio and Walter Lowrie, Esq. of Pennsylvania who made reports to their several legislatures under the date of November 2, 1819. But during the generation following, each of these commonwealths became absorbed in internal improvements. Ohio, for instance, between 1819 and 1844, built seven hundred and sixty-five miles of canals costing nearly ten millions and almost as many miles of turnpike at a cost of four millions. Ohio also built seventy miles of railway, and in 1836 began to improve her most valuable river, the Muskingum, for slackwater navigation. Thus there was reason enough why Ohio could not undertake the improvement of the Ohio River. Her sister states were equally engaged with internal affairs, and though some steps were taken toward surveying the Ohio along the shores of several states the matter was left, as should have been the case, to the general Government. This meant a long delay, but at last, in 1825, the great work was undertaken; since 1836 there has been a continual struggle to compel the Government to do its duty by the Ohio River and its great commerce. In 1837 the Government commenced a system of surveys and an improvement of the low-water channels by means of riprap stone dams, arranged so as to prevent the spread of the water by guiding and maintaining it in comparatively narrow channels. The work was put under the direction of Captain Sanders of the War Department. This system was continued at intervals until 1844, when, the appropriation being exhausted, the work suddenly ceased, not to be resumed until 1866. Something of the difficulties of the old engineers may be estimated from the records left by them concerning the various obstructions in the Ohio River. "Thirty years ago," wrote an engineer in 1866, "there were considerable tracts of woods abounding the stream ... forming dangerous obstructions to navigation. Gradually, since that period, the number of settlers along the river valley has greatly increased, and the bottom lands ... have been cleared; so that comparatively few trees remain that are liable to fall into the stream. And the same is true of most of the principal tributaries. I refer to this to show the probability that when the present snags and logs are removed, a slight expenditure annually will keep the river clear of this character of obstructions." The snags and logs of generations had been almost untouched by the government--"left to the uncertain and unpaid-for attention of private individuals." The plan now (1866) to rid the valley entirely of these great impediments to navigation marks a new era in the history of the Ohio. It was found, upon examination, that in the six hundred odd miles between Pittsburg and Louisville there were seventy-five separate points where there were snags, forty-nine "logs and loggy places," twenty-eight wrecks and seventy-two "sunken boats &c." Between Louisville and Cairo there were some sixty additional obstructions of similar nature--a total of two hundred and eighty-five obstruction points. A schedule of these obstructions, between Pittsburg and Wheeling for instance, will be found interesting. The asterisks refer to obstructions in or near the channel at comparatively low water: _Distance_ _from_ _Snags,_ _Wrecks, etc._ _Remarks._ _Pittsburg._ _etc._ ---------------------------------------------------------------------- 2-1/2 Wreck. In the right channel of Brunot's island below the point on the left side. 3 Wreck. Same side as last, half mile below. 3-1/3 Sunken barge. Left channel Brunot's island, first below point. 4 2 wrecks.* Sunken in main channel near old pork-house; one of them has lately washed ashore. 9-3/4 Sunken barge. In shore on left side in way of good landing; above Hamilton's house, on Neville island, a large coal barge has stranded just below, but may be gotten off. 13 2 wrecks.* Above Boyle's landing; first, on right side, across channel, is very dangerous; second, in above, left. 15 Wreck. Near Shousetown, left side, close in shore. 16 Snag. Opposite Sewickley, a little below Boyle's landing. 16-1/2 Sunken barge. Right shore below Sewickley, in way of boats at high water. 18-1/2 Stranded Coal barge stranded, Logtown barge.* bar, below Economy. 19-1/2 Sunken barge.* In channel of two boats, Logtown creek. 21 Snag. Below foot of Crow island, right side. 23-2/3 Snag. One-third mile above Freedom, Penn., right side. 24 Snag. Close in shore at Freedom. 24-1/4 Snag. In main channel, very large, below landing. 30-1/3 Sunken boat. Close in to right; not dangerous below Raccoon creek. 30-1/4 Sunken boat. In channel below last; dangerous. 33-1/2 Snag. Opposite Industry, below Safe Harbor landing. 33-2/3 Sunken boat.* Left side below last. 41 Snag. Sunken barge. Left channel of Line island there is a snag. 42-1/2 Wreck. Wreck of steamer Winchester, burnt, left channel of Babb's island, Va., shore; not much in the way. 49-3/4 Sunken boat.* In channel foot of Baker's island; dangerous. 63 Snag. Foot of Brown's island; old. 63-1/4 Snag. Center of River, head of cable eddy. 67 Wreck and Left channel, pier Pittsburg cofferdam. and Steubenville railroad bridge. 67-1/2 Sunken barge. Left side above Steubenville; dangerous. 68 Sunken barge. Opposite Steubenville landing, center of river. 70-3/4 Snags.* Several in the vicinity of the Virginia and Ohio cross creeks. 73-1/4 Sunken boats.* Two, right side, above Wellsburg, Va. 76 Sunken boats.* Left, below block-house run. 76-1/2 Snag. Right side, below last; should come out. 78-3/4 Wreck. Old, opposite brick house, close on left shore. 81-1/2 Snags. Two, right of channel, above Warren. 81-3/4 Snag.* Old, right side, near white frame house. 83 Ice breaker. Head of Pike island, at coal shaft. 84 Sunken Edge of bar, not dangerous, barge.* opposite brick house. 87 Logs, Left and center, bottom of etc. river, one mile below Burlington. 88 Sunken boat. Sunken ferry-boat, close in right side, Martinsville. 89-1/4 Sunken At ship-yard, Wheeling, barge.* dangerous.[75] Captain Sanders, in the forties, had estimated that it cost about fifteen dollars to remove each ordinary snag from the Ohio. In the Mississippi the roots of snags could be thrown into the deep pools where they would soon become buried in mud; but on the Ohio such pools were not frequent and it was usually necessary to carry the roots ashore and destroy them with gunpowder. Sanders reported that up to September 1837 there had been three thousand three hundred and three obstructions removed from the Ohio. In 1839 there had been about ten thousand removed; at which time the work ceased. Some of the snags were six feet in diameter at the butt and over one hundred feet in length. In a report in 1835, on Mississippi improvement, Lieutenant Bowman stated: "It is a well-established fact that snags do not move far from where they first fall in, the weight of the earth attached to their roots serving as an anchor. It is also well established that trees which once float seldom form snags. Admitting this, it is sufficiently evident that if the banks are once cleared, there can be no subsequent formation of snags." Second only to such obstructions was the "Falls of the Ohio," the one spot in all its course of nearly a thousand miles where steamboat navigation was impossible until the construction of a canal, which followed the route of the ancient portage path two and one-half miles in length between the present sites of Louisville and Shipping-port, Kentucky. In this distance the Ohio makes a fall of about twenty-five feet caused by a ledge of rocks extending across the river. Steamboating is impracticable here save only when the river is at flood-tide. A company was incorporated by the legislature of Kentucky to cut a canal around the falls in 1804, but nothing was done until January 12, 1825, when the Louisville and Portland Canal Company was organized, with a capital of $600,000. The stock was taken by about seventy persons, residing in Kentucky, Ohio, Missouri, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania, and Maryland, the United States holding 2,335 shares, and 1,665 issued to private individuals. Many difficulties attended the construction of the work, which was not completed until December 5, 1830. During the year 1831 406 steamboats, 46 keel-boats, and 357 flat-boats, measuring 76,323 tons, passed through the locks.[76] The venture was highly successful from a financial point of view thanks to outrageous tolls that were charged. A twenty-four thousand dollar boat of three hundred tons running between Cincinnati and St. Louis expended in tolls in the Louisville and Portland Canal in five years a sum equal to her entire cost. "A boat of one hundred and ninety tons, owned at Cincinnati, has been in the habit of making her trips from this city to St. Louis and back, in two weeks, and has passed the canal _four_ times in one month. Her toll, each trip, at $60 per ton, was $114, and her toll for one month was $456, or at the rate of $5,472 per year, which is nearly half the value of such a boat."[77] From 1831 to 1843, 13,756 steamboats passed through the Canal, and 4,701 keeland flat-boats, with a total tonnage of two and a half million tons, netting a toll of $1,227,625.20.[78] On the stock owned by the United States a cash dividend (to 1843) of $258,378 was earned--$23,378 more than the Government's original investment. Other stockholders fared equally well from this systematic highway robbery. Such a drain on the public purse as was the Louisville-Portland Canal in the "good old days" would not be countenanced a moment today. The canal was rebuilt and enlarged in 1872, and in 1874 it passed into the control of the United States by the authority of Congress. Following is a synopsis of the expenditures on account of the canal previous to June 11, 1874, the date when the United States assumed complete control and management: "Expended by the canal company on original canal. $1,019,277.09 Expended by the canal company on subsequent improvements and construction 120,000.00 Expended by the canal company for enlargement of canal 1,825,403.00 Expended by the United States for enlargement of canal, from appropriations 1,463,200.00 Expended by the United States from funds derived from toll collections 150,000.00 -------------- Total cost $4,577,880.09 _Cost of the canal to the United States._ Original stock $ 233,500 Total appropriations for enlargement 1,463,200 Canal bonds paid 1,172,000 ------------- Gross cost $2,868,700 Amount of dividends paid by the canal company to the United States 257,778 ------------- Net cost $2,610,922"[79] The following table shows the traffic, in tons, of the canal since 1886: _Articles._ _1886 to 1901_ _Fiscal year_ _Total for 16_ _inclusive._ _1902._ _years._ Coal 22,365,240-3/4 1,019,947-1/2 23,385,188-1/4 Salt 124,363-3/4 5,760-1/4 130,124 Oil 60,944-1/4 1,211-1/2 62,155-3/4 Whiskey 21,442-1/4 1,117 22,559-1/4 Tobacco 90,270-1/2 1,705 91,975-1/2 Cotton 140,213 2,299-1/2 142,512-1/2 Lumber 3,401,021 85,305-1/2 3,486,326-1/2 Corn and wheat 151,621 5,933-1/2 157,554-1/2 Iron: ore and manufactured 518,642-1/2 34,634-1/2 553,277 Steel rails 685,182 183,016 868,198 Produce 84,396-1/2 4,864 89,260-1/2 Hay and straw 198,523-1/2 6,224-1/4 204,747-3/4 Flour 19,830-1/2 510-1/2 20,341 Stock 98,954 4,233-3/4 103,187-3/4 Sugar and molasses 125,746-3/4 11,022-1/2 136,769-1/4 Staves and shingles 475,310-3/4 34,405-1/2 509,716-1/4 Cement 40,568-3/4 835-3/4 41,404-1/2 Miscellaneous 1,319,552 69,518-1/2 1,389,070-1/2 -------------- ------------- -------------- Total 29,921,823-3/4 1,472,545 31,394,368-3/4[80] Since 1825, when the first step toward improving the Ohio was taken, the general plan has been to secure additional low-water depths at islands and bars by the construction of low dams across chutes, by building dikes where the river was wide and shallow, by dredging and by the removal of rocks and snags. Various plans of improvement were seriously mooted. Among these Charles Ellet's plan of supplying the Ohio with a regular flow of water by means of reservoirs was strongly urged upon the Government about 1857.[81] Near the same time Herman Haupt proposed a plan of improvement by means of a system of longitudinal mounds and cross dams so arranged as to make a canal on one side of the river some two hundred feet wide, or a greater width, and reducing the grade to nearly an average of six inches per mile between Pittsburg and Louisville.[82] A few years later Alonzo Livermore secured a patent for a combination of dams and peculiar open chutes through the dams, arranged so as to retard the flow and lessen the velocity of the water from higher to lower pools without interfering with the free passage of the boats through the chutes; chutes were substituted for locks. In 1866 the condition of the river improvements and the great change in the river trade--which loudly called for improved methods--is tersely summed up by Engineer W. Milnor Roberts as follows: "For the purpose intended, namely, the making of an improved low-water navigation, looking to a depth not exceeding two and one-half feet, the general plan designed, and in part executed, under the superintendence of Captain Sanders, was judicious; and if all the proposed dams had been finished in accordance with his plans there would have been a better navigation, especially for low-water craft, than there has been during the twenty-two years which have elapsed since the works were left, many of them, in a partly finished condition. Some of these wing dams, as might reasonably have been anticipated, have, in the course of years, been gradually injured by the action of floods, and in some cases portions of the stone have been removed by persons without authority, for their own private purposes. It is important to note the change which has taken place in the coal trade, not only on account of its great and increasing magnitude, but on account of the altered system upon which it is conducted. Formerly, and at the time when the riprap dams were constructed, the coal business was carried on by means of floating coal barges, drawing at most four feet water, which were not assisted in their descending navigation by steamers, and which never returned, but were sold as lumber at their point of destination. The increasing demand down the river for the Pittsburg coal, the increase in the value of lumber, and the general systematizing of the trade, all combine to revolutionize the mode of transportation. It is now [1866] carried on by means of large barges, each containing ten to twelve, some as high as sixteen thousand bushels of coal, which are arranged in fleets, generally of ten or twelve barges, towed by powerful steamers built and employed for that special purpose. Enough of these barges are owned by the coal operators to enable them to leave the loaded barges at their various points of coal delivery, down the Ohio, or on the Mississippi and other rivers, while they return to Pittsburg with a corresponding fleet of empty barges, to be again loaded, ready for the next coal-boat freshet. As these barges, when loaded draw from six feet to eight feet of water, it is obvious that they can only descend when there is what is now called a 'coal-boat rise' in the river--that is, a flood giving not less than eight feet water in the channels. "This coal shipment from Pittsburg, which in 1844 only amounted to about 2,500,000 bushels per annum, now amounts to about 40,000,000 bushels per annum. I have, in the special report mentioned, referred to the construction of railroads as having affected the business which was formerly carried on the Ohio river during the comparatively low water. The lower the water, the higher the rates of freight and passenger travel, when there was no railroad competition; but now, when the prices on the river during very low water approach the railroad prices, the freight, whenever it can, will of course take the railroad, on account of the saving of time and greater certainty of delivery; and thousands of passengers always prefer the railroad to the river. But in this connection it is proper to note that since 1844 a large local business between various points on the Ohio, both freight and passenger, has gradually sprung up and become important, which scarcely had existence at that time. The population along the river and in the counties in the several States bordering upon it, and tributary to the river business, has wonderfully increased. So that although a portion of the river business has been attracted to the railroad, the business of steamboats, as a whole, independently of the coal trade, has become much greater than it was in 1844. Meanwhile the coal business has more than kept pace with the increase of population and wealth along the Ohio, in consequence of a steadily augmenting demand for the Pittsburg coal on the Mississippi and other western rivers."[83] The method of inland navigation by means of slackwater formed by dams passable by locks was early proposed for the Ohio River after the first experiment made of this method on the Green River, Kentucky, in 1834-36 by Chief Engineer Roberts. The successful operation of this system on the Monongahela and Muskingum Rivers exerted a powerful influence in its favor, and for many years its adoption on the Ohio was urged patiently though unsuccessfully. At last the important matter was advocated with success, and in 1885 the first of a series of locks and movable dams was erected at Davis Island, four and one-half miles below Pittsburg. The work now is rapidly being completed, the plan being to give a minimum depth of six feet of water in the Ohio by means of thirty-eight dams and locks between Pittsburg and the mouth of the Great Miami, below Cincinnati. This form of improvement will of course be extended in time to the mouth of the Ohio. From past experience with dams in the river, the cost of locks is estimated as follows: For an average lock of six hundred feet length and one hundred and ten feet width, with navigable pass of six hundred feet length, and with weirs of two hundred and forty feet available openings, all arranged to provide six feet navigable depth in the shoalest parts of the improved channels of the pools, with an average lift at each dam of seven and two-tenths feet: Lock, including cofferdam, excavations, foundations, masonry, timber, and ironwork of fixed and movable parts, power plant, machinery, and accessories $350,000 Navigable pass; same items as above 150,000 Weirs, piers, abutments; same items as above 170,000 Miscellaneous, including local surveys, purchase of sites, embanking, retaining, riprapping, and paving of banks, lock employees' houses, storehouses, other buildings, dredging of approaches to locks and passes, dredging of shoals and removal of obstructions in pools, engineering work of location, construction, and inspection, office work of engineering and disbursements, and other contingencies 200,000 -------- Total $870,000 But the extra width and height of lock esplanade filling, extra length of weirs, and extra channel dredging, incident to the individual locations of the dams, increase the above estimates to final totals of from nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars to one million, one hundred thousand dollars at the individual dams. The expenditures of the Government on the Ohio River from 1827 to 1902 are as follows: _Act of Congress._ _Appropriation._ _Remarks._ ---------------------------------------------------------------------- March 3, 1827, $30,000.00 March 3, 1835, 50,000.00 July 2, 1836, 20,000.00 March 3, 1837, 60,000.00 July 7, 1838, 50,000.00 June 11, 1844, 100,000.00 March 3, 1847, 6,479.25 August 30, 1852, 90,000.00 June 23, 1866, 172,000.00 Allotment of money already appropriated, for improving Mississippi, Missouri, Arkansas, and Ohio Rivers. June 23, 1866, 80,000.00 Allotment for snag boats and apparatus for improving western rivers. March 2, 1867, 100,000.00 July 25, 1868, 85,000.00 Allotment for repair, preservation, extension, and completion of river and harbor works. July 11, 1870, 50,000.00 March 3, 1871, 50,000.00 June 10, 1872, 200,000.00 March 3, 1873, 200,000.00 June 23, 1874, 150,000.00 March 3, 1875, 300,000.00 August 14, 1876, 175,000.00 June 18, 1878, 300,000.00 June 18, 1878, 50,000.00 Harbor of refuge at or near Cincinnati. March 3, 1879, 250,000.00 June 14, 1880, 250,000.00 March 3, 1881, 350,000.00 March 21, 1882, 100,000.00 Continuing work on Davis Island dam. August 2, 1882, 350,000.00 August 2, 1882, 16,000.00 Harbor of refuge near Cincinnati, Ohio. July 5, 1884, 600,000.00 July 5, 1884, 17,000.00 Same. August 5, 1886, 375,000.00 August 11, 1888, 380,000.00 September 19, 1890, 300,000.00 January 19, 1891, 2,128.87 Relief of Stubbs & Lackey. Treasury settlement No. 2593. July 13, 1892, 360,000.00 August 18, 1894, 250,000.00 June 3, 1896, 250,000.00 July 1, 1898, 15,000.00 Allotment for restoring levee and banks of Ohio River at or near Shawneetown, Ill. March 3, 1899, 375,000.00 June 13, 1902, 359,000.00 Amount appropriated, $400,000; $41,000 being for Falls of Ohio River, at Louisville, Ky. ------------- Total, $6,565,608.12 Total of appropriations, 1827-1902, $6,565,608.12 Total of allotments, 1827-1898, 352,000.00 Received from sales, 1866-1893, 7,790.50 ----------- $6,925,398.62 Appropriations not drawn, 1827, 1852, 5,023.47 Allotments not drawn, 1866, 1868, 43,134.60 Returned by Treasury settlements, 30.07 Amounts transferred to other works, 125,168.44 -------------- 173,356.58 ------------- Total, $6,752,042.04[84] FOOTNOTES: [1] _Transactions American Philosophical Society_ (new series), vol. iv, pp. 369-370. [2] Bonnécamps's journal was accompanied by a MS. map drawn by himself upon which were marked all the places mentioned in his journal of this expedition (1749). This map was preserved in the archives of the Department of the Marine with his journal but disappeared between 1892 and 1894 and its location today is unknown. [3] Warren, Pennsylvania; O. H. Marshall's "Céloron's Expedition," _Magazine of American History_, vol. 2, no. 3, (March 1878). [4] _Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents_, vol. lxix, p. 165. [5] _Historic Highways of America_, vol. iii, pp. 71-72. [6] Brokenstraw Creek. [7] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, p. 17. [8] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, pp. 18-19. [9] _Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents_, vol. lxix, p. 165. [10] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, p. 21. [11] _Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents_, vol. lxix, p. 167. [12] For a sketch of Indian occupation of the Allegheny Valley see _Historic Highways of America_, vol. iii, pp. 59-62. [13] Franklin, Pennsylvania. [14] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, p. 24. [15] _Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents_, vol. lxix, p. 169. [16] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, p. 25. [17] _Id._, p. 25. Parkman places Attiqué on the site of Kittanning, Pennsylvania (See Parkman's _Montcalm and Wolfe_, vol. i, p. 45). This view is supported by Lambing (_Catholic Historical Researches_, January 1886, pp. 105-107, note 6). [18] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, p. 26. [19] This letter, dated August 6, with two others, all bearing the signature of Céloron, has been preserved in the archives of the State of Pennsylvania. For copy of translation see Rupp's _Early History of Western Pennsylvania_, p. 36. [20] Queen Alliquippa. [21] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, p. 27. [22] Toner's _Journal of Colonel George Washington, 1754_, pp. 157-158. In this article it was demanded that the English should not return across the Alleghenies _for one year_. [23] Shenango, in English accounts. [24] O. H. Marshall's 14 Céloron's Expedition,' _Magazine of American History_, vol. 2, no. 3, (March 1878). [25] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, p. 39. [26] The location of the burial places of Céloron's leaden plates as given in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, which would naturally be considered authoritative, are inexplicably contradictory. [27] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, p. 40. [28] _Id._, p. 40. [29] _Id._, pp. 40, 41. [30] St. Yotoc was probably a corruption of Scioto. Father Bonnécamps calls it Sinhioto. It was near the present site of Alexandria, Ohio, at the mouth of the Scioto River. [31] Rivière Blanche was a name given by the French to several streams which contained unusually clear waters. From distances mentioned this was probably the Little Miami. Dunn (_History of Indiana_, p. 65, note 1) thinks it was the present White Oak Creek. [32] Rivière à la Roche (Rocky River) was the present Great Miami. It was called the "Rocky River" because of its numerous rapids. [33] _Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents_, vol. lxix, p. 183. [34] Céloron's Journal in Darlington's _Fort Pitt_, p. 52. [35] _Historic Highways of America_, vol. vi, ch. i. [36] _The St. Clair Papers_, vol. ii, p. 1. [37] _Id._, p. 3, note 1. [38] _Id._, vol. ii, p. 4, note. [39] _Id._, p. 5, note. [40] _Id._, p. 5, note. Legally John Emerson had no rights northwest of the Ohio River; but as an exponent of the American idea he had a sort of justification; see Professor Frederick J. Turner's studies, _American Historical Review_, vol. 1, pp. 70-87, 251-268. [41] _The MS. Harmar Papers_; _St. Clair Papers_, vol. ii, p. 7, note 1. [42] The rights to certain lands on the upper Muskingum Valley, where David Zeisberger had located the Moravian towns in 1773, were vested in the Moravian Church. Gnadenhutten, Ohio, was, technically, the first white settlement in Ohio after the French locations along the Lakes. King's _Ohio_, p. 119. [43] Hinsdale's _Old Northwest_ (1888), pp. 290-292. [44] _Historic Highways of America_, vol. viii. [45] _The Navigator_ (fifth edition), Pittsburg, 1806. [46] "Planters are large bodies of trees firmly fixed by their roots in the bottom of the river, in a perpendicular manner, and appearing no more than about a foot above the surface of the water in its middling state. So firmly are they rooted, that the largest boat running against them, will not move them, but they frequently injure the boat. "Sawyers, are likewise bodies of trees fixed less perpendicularly in the river, and rather of a less size, yielding to the pressure of the current, disappearing and appearing by turns above water, similar to the motion of a saw-mill saw, from which they have taken their name. "Wooden-Islands, are places where by some cause or other, large quantities of drift wood, has through time, been arrested and matted together in different parts of the river." [47] Harris's _Tour_ (1805), p. 38. [48] Harris's _Pittsburgh Business Directory for the year 1837_, pp. 178, 287. [49] _Id._, p. 277. [50] _The American Pioneer_, vol. ii, p. 271. [51] _Historic Highways of America_, vol. i, p. 57. [52] See note 55. [53] Cassedy's _History of Louisville_, pp. 64-67. [54] _American Pioneer_, vol. ii, p. 63. [55] _Wisconsin Historical Collections_, vol. iv, p. 183; xii, p. 400; vii, p. 371. [56] An itinerary of the route from New Orleans northward is given in _The Navigator_ (1817), p. 306. For a description of the journey see _American Pioneer_, March, 1842. [57] _American Pioneer_, vol. ii, pp. 163-164. [58] Harris: _Tour_, pp. 30-31; cf. p. 139 where the author states the historical succession of river craft as: canoe, pirogue, keel-boat, barge, and ark. [59] Interview with William DeForest published in the Cincinnati _Commercial Gazette_, May, 1883. [60] Dr. S. P. Hildreth's _Pioneer History_, p. 205. [61] Collins's _History of Kentucky_, vol. ii, pp. 113-114. [62] Burner's _Notes_, p. 400. [63] Cassedy's _History of Louisville_, p. 64. [64] Butler's Journal for October 9, 1785, _The Olden Time_, vol. ii, p. 442. Cf. _Wisconsin Historical Collections_, vol. xi, p. 13, note. [65] Harris's _Pittsburgh Business Directory (1837)_, pp. 276-277. [66] Harris: _Tour_, p. 43. [67] _Id._, pp. 52-53. [68] _Id._, pp. 140-141. [69] _The Navigator_ (1811), p. 69. [70] _The Navigator_, (1811), pp. 31-33. [71] The authority for these and many of the following facts is derived from a _Memorial of the Citizens of Cincinnati to the Congress of the United States Relative to the Navigation of the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers_, Cincinnati, 1844. [72] Cassedy's _History of Louisville_, pp. 62-63. [73] Cassedy's _History of Louisville_, pp. 78-79. [74] Collins's _History of Kentucky_, vol. ii. p. 147. [75] _Id._, p. 251. [76] _House Reports_ 39th Congress, Second Session, Ex. Doc. 56, part 2, p. 323. [77] _Memorial of the Citizens of Cincinnati to the Congress of the United States_, 1844, p. 39. [78] _Id._, p. 38. [79] _Annual Report of the Chief of Engineers, U. S. Army_, 1902, Appendix H. H., p. 1978. [80] _Id._, p. 1980. [81] _House Records_, 41st Congress, Third Session, Ex. Doc. no. 72, p. 4. [82] _Id._, p. 5. [83] House Reports 39th Congress, Second Session, Ex. Doc. 56. Part II, p. 262. [84] _Report of the Chief of Engineers U. S. Army_, 1902, Appendix D. D., p. 1846. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: 1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. 2. Obvious errors in spelling and punctuation have been corrected. 3. Footnotes have been moved to the end of the main text body. 4. Images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest paragraph break. 5. Certain words use an oe ligature in the original. 6. For longtitude and latitude, the minutes and seconds are placed as single quotes within brackets. For example: 38° 47['] 20['']. 
5686	----	This eBook was produced by Bruce Miller FOUR MONTHS IN A SNEAK-BOX. A BOAT VOYAGE OF 2600 MILES DOWN THE OHIO AND MISSISSIPPI RIVERS, AND ALONG THE GULF OF MEXICO. BY NATHANIEL H. BISHOP AUTHOR OF "A THOUSAND MILES' WALK ACROSS SOUTH AMERICA," AND "VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE." TO THE OFFICERS AND EMPLOYEES OF THE LIGHT HOUSE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE UNITED STATES This Book is Dedicated BY ONE WHO HAS LEARNED TO RESPECT THEIR HONEST, INTELLIGENT AND EFFICIENT LABORS IN SERVING THEIR GOVERNMENT, THEIR COUNTRYMEN, AND MANKIND GENERALLY. INTRODUCTION. EIGHTEEN months ago the author gave to the public his "VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE:--A GEOGRAPHICAL JOURNEY OF 2500 MILES FROM QUEBEC TO THE GULF OF MEXICO, DURING THE YEARS 1874-5." The kind reception by the American press of the author's first journey to the great southern sea, and its republication in Great Britain and in France within so short a time of its appearance in the United States, have encouraged him to give the public a companion volume,-- "FOUR MONTHS IN A SNEAK-BOX,"--which is a relation of the experiences of a second cruise to the Gulf of Mexico, but by a different route from that followed in the "VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE." This time the author procured one of the smallest and most comfortable of boats--a purely American model, developed by the bay-men of the New Jersey coast of the United States, and recently introduced to the gunning fraternity as the BARNEGAT SNEAK-BOX. This curious and stanch little craft, though only twelve feet in length, proved a most comfortable and serviceable home while the author rowed in it more than 2600 miles down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, and along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, until he reached the goal of his voyage--the mouth of the wild Suwanee River--which was the terminus of his "VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE." The maps which illustrate the contours of the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, like those in the other volume, are the most reliable ever given to the public, having been drawn and engraved, by contract for the work, by the United States Coast and Geodetic Survey Bureau. LAKE GEORGE, WARREN CO., NEW YORK STATE, SEPTEMBER 1st, 1879. CONTENTS CHAPTER I. THE BOAT FOR THE VOYAGE. CANOES FOR SHALLOW STREAMS AND FREQUENT PORTAGES.-- SNEAK-BOXES FOR DEEP WATERCOURSES.-- HISTORY AND DESCRIPTION OF THE BARNEGAT SNEAK- BOX.-- A WALK DOWN EEL STREET TO MANAHAWKEN MARSHES.-- HONEST GEORGE, THE BOAT-BUILDER.-- THE BUILDING OF THE SNEAK-BOX "CENTENNIAL REPUBLIC."-- ITS TRANSPORTATION TO THE OHIO RIVER. CHAPTER II. SOURCES OF THE OHIO RIVER. DESCRIPTION OF THE MONONGAHELA AND ALLEGHANY RIVERS.-- THE OHIO RIVER.-- EXPLORATION OF CAVELIER DE LA SALLE.-- NAMES GIVEN BY ANCIENT CARTOGRAPHERS TO THE OHIO.-- ROUTES OF THE ABORIGINES FROM THE GREAT LAKES TO THE OHIO RIVER. CHAPTER III. FROM PITTSBURGH TO BLENNERHASSET'S ISLAND. THE START FOR THE GULF.-- CAUGHT IN THE ICE-RAFT.-- CAMPING ON THE OHIO.-- THE GRAVE CREEK MOUND.-- AN INDIAN SEPULCHRE.-- BLENNERHASSET'S ISLAND.-- AARON BURR'S CONSPIRACY.-- A RUINED FAMILY. CHAPTER IV. FROM BLENNERHASSET'S ISLAND TO CINCINNATI. RIVER CAMPS.-- THE SHANTY-BOATS AND RIVER MIGRANTS.-- VARIOUS EXPERIENCES.-- ARRIVAL AT CINCINNATI.-- THE SNEAK-BOX FROZEN UP IN PLEASANT RUN.-- A TAILOR'S FAMILY.-- A NIGHT UNDER A GERMAN COVERLET. CHAPTER V. FROM CINCINNATI TO THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER. CINCINNATI.-- MUSIC AND PORK IN PORKOPOLIS.-- THE BIG BONE LICK OF FOSSIL ELEPHANTS.-- COLONEL CROGHAN'S VISIT TO THE LICK.-- PORTAGE AROUND THE "FALLS," AT LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY.-- STUCK IN THE MUD.-- THE FIRST STEAMBOAT OF THE WEST.-- VICTOR HUGO ON THE SITUATION.-- A FREEBOOTER'S DEN.-- WHOOPING AND SAND-HILL CRANES.-- THE SNEAK-BOX ENTERS THE MISSISSIPPI. CHAPTER VI. DESCENT OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER. LEAVE CAIRO, ILLINOIS.-- THE LONGEST RIVER IN THE WORLD.-- BOOK GEOGRAPHY AND BOAT GEOGRAPHY.-- CHICKASAW BLUFF.-- MEETING WITH THE PARAKEETS.-- FORT DONALDSON.-- EARTHQUAKES AND LAKES.-- WEIRD BEAUTY OF REELFOOT LAKE.-- JOE ECKEL'S BAR.-- SHANTY-BOAT COOKING.-- FORT PILLOW.-- MEMPHIS.-- A NEGRO JUSTICE.-- "DE COMMON LAW OB MISSISSIPPI." CHAPTER VII. DESCENT OF THE MISSISSIPPI TO NEW ORLEANS. A FLATBOAT BOUND FOR TEXAS.-- A FLAT-MAN ON RIVER PHYSICS.-- ADRIFT AND ASLEEP.-- SEEKING THE EARTH'S LITTLE MOON.-- VICKSBURGH.-- JEFFERSON DAVIS'S COTTON PLANTATION, AND ITS NEGRO OWNER.-- DYING IN HIS BOAT.-- HOW TO CIVILIZE CHINESE.-- A SWIM OF ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY MILES ON THE MISSISSIPPI.-- TWENTY-FOUR HOURS IN THE WATER.-- ARRIVAL IN THE CRESCENT CITY. CHAPTER VIII. NEW ORLEANS. BIENVILLE AND THE CITY OF THE PAST.-- FRENCH AND SPANISH RULE IN THE NEW WORLD.-- LOUISIANA CEDED TO THE UNITED STATES.-- CAPTAIN EADS AND HIS JETTIES.-- TRANSPORTATION OF CEREALS TO EUROPE.-- CHARLES MORGAN.- - CREOLE TYPES OF CITIZENS.-- LEVEES AND CRAWFISH.-- DRAINAGE OF THE CITY INTO LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN. CHAPTER IX. ON THE GULF OF MEXICO. LEAVE NEW ORLEANS.-- THE ROUGHS AT WORK.-- DETAINED AT NEW BASIN.-- SADDLES INTRODUCES HIMSELF.-- CAMPING AT LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN.-- THE LIGHT-HOUSE OF POINT AUX HERBES.-- THE RIGOLETS.-- MARSHES AND MOSQUITOES.-- IMPORTANT USE OF THE MOSQUITO AND BLOW-FLY.-- ST. JOSEPH'S LIGHT.-- AN EXCITING PULL TO BAY ST. LOUIS.-- A LIGHT-KEEPER LOST IN THE SEA.-- BATTLE OF THE SHARKS.-- BILOXI.-- THE WATER-CRESS GARDEN.-- LITTLE JENNIE. CHAPTER X. FROM BILOXI TO CAPE SAN BLAS. POINTS ON THE GULF COAST.-- MOBILE BAY.-- THE HERMIT OF DAUPHINE ISLAND.-- BON SECOURS BAY.-- A CRACKER'S DAUGHTER.-- THE PORTAGE TO THE PERDIDO.-- THE PORTAGE FROM THE PERDIDO TO BIG LAGOON.-- PENSACOLA BAY.-- SANTA ROSA ISLAND.-- A NEW LONDON FISHERMAN.-- CATCHING THE POMPANO.-- A NEGRO PREACHER AND WHITE SINNERS.-- A DAY AND A NIGHT WITH A MURDERER.-- ST. ANDREW'S SOUND.-- ARRIVAL AT CAPE SAN BLAS. CHAPTER XI. FROM CAPE SAN BLAS TO ST. MARKS. A PORTAGE ACROSS CAPE SAN BLAS.-- THE COW-HUNTERS.-- A VISIT TO THE LIGHT-HOUSE.-- ONCE MORE ON THE SEA.-- PORTAGE INTO ST. VINCENT'S SOUND.-- APALACHICOLA.-- ST. GEORGE'S SOUND AND OCKLOCKONY RIVER.-- ARRIVAL AT ST. MARKS.-- THE NEGRO POSTMASTER.-- A PHILANTHROPIST AND HIS NEIGHBORS.-- A CONTINUOUS AND PROTECTED WATER-WAY FROM THE MISSISSIPPI TO THE ATLANTIC COAST. CHAPTER XII. FROM ST. MARKS TO THE SUWANEE RIVER. ALONG THE COAST.-- SADDLES BREAKS DOWN.-- A REFUGE WITH THE FISHERMEN.-- CAMP IN THE PALM FOREST.-- PARTING WITH SADDLES.-- OUR NEIGHBOR THE ALLIGATOR.-- DISCOVERY OF THE TRUE CROCODILE IN AMERICA.- - THE DEVIL'S WOOD-PILE.-- DEADMAN'S BAY.-- BOWLEGS POINT.-- THE COAST SURVEY CAMP.-- A DAY ABOARD THE "READY."-- THE SUWANEE RIVER.-- THE END. ILLUSTRATIONS DRAWN BY F. T. MERRILL. ENGRAVED BY JOHN ANDREW & SON. SHANTY-BOATS--THE CHAMPION FLOATERS OF THE WEST....... FRONTISPIECE. DIAGRAM OF PARTS OF BOAT...14 INDIAN IN CANOE...28 THE START--HEAD OF THE OHIO RIVER ...31 COAL-STOVE. . .39 INDIAN MOUND AT MOUNDSVILLE, WEST VIRGINIA...54 A NIGHT UNDER A GERMAN COVERLET...78 POPULAR IDEA OF THE NESTING OF CRANES...111 STERN-WHEEL WESTERN TOW-BOAT PUSHING FLATBOATS...114 MEETING WITH THE PARAKEETS...125 DYING IN HIS BOAT...177 BOYTON DESCENDING THE MISSISSIPPI...187 NEW ORLEANS ROUGHS AMUSING THEMSELVES...214 ARRIVAL AT THE GULF OF MEXICO--CAMP MOSQUITO...239 THE PORTAGE ACROSS CROOKED ISLAND...269 SADDLES BREAKS DOWN...292 PARTING WITH SADDLES...302 LAST NIGHT ON THE GULF OF MEXICO...322 LIST OF MAPS DRAWN AND ENGRAVED BY THE UNITED STATES COAST AND GEODETIC SURVEY BUREAU TO ILLUSTRATE N. H. BISHOP'S BOAT VOYAGES. 1. GENERAL MAP OF ROUTES FOLLOWED BY THE AUTHOR DURING HIS TWO VOYAGES MADE TO THE GULF OF MEXICO, IN THE YEARS 1874-6.....OPPOSITE PAGE 1 GUIDE MAPS OF ROUTE FOLLOWED IN DUCK-BOAT "CENTENNIAL REPUBLIC," ALONG THE GULF OF MEXICO, IN 1876 2. FROM NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA, TO MOBILE BAY, ALABAMA. . . .OPPOSITE 209 3. FROM MOBILE BAY, ALABAMA, TO CAPE SAN BLAS, FLORIDA. . . .OPPOSITE 247 4. FROM CAPE SAN BLAS, FLORIDA, TO CEDAR KEYS, FLORIDA. . . .OPPOSITE 273 MAP SHOWING RIVER AND PORTAGE ROUTES ACROSS FLORIDA FROM THE GULF OF MEXICO TO THE ATLANTIC OCEAN. 5. ROUTE FOLLOWED BY THE AUTHOR IN PAPER CANOE "MARIA THERESA," IN 1875. . . . OPPOSITE 319 [MAP OF ROUTES FOLLOWED BY N. H. BISHOP IN PAPER CANOE "MARIA THERESA" AND DUCK-BOAT "CENTENNIAL REPUBLIC" 1874-1876] Four Months in a Sneak-Box CHAPTER I. THE BOAT FOR THE VOYAGE CANOES FOR SHALLOW STREAMS AND FREQUENT PORTAGES.-- SNEAK-BOXES FOR DEEP WATERCOURSES.-- HISTORY AND DESCRIPTION OF THE BARNEGAT SNEAK- BOX.-- A WALK DOWN EEL STREET TO MANAHAWKEN MARSHES.-- HONEST GEORGE, THE BOAT-BUILDER.-- THE BUILDING OF THE SNEAK-BOX "CENTENNIAL REPUBLIC."-- ITS TRANSPORTATION TO THE OHIO RIVER. THE READER who patiently followed the author in his long "VOYAGE OF THE PAPER CANOE," from the high latitude of the Gulf of St. Lawrence to the warmer regions of the Gulf of Mexico, may desire to know the reasons which impelled the canoeist to exchange his light, graceful, and swift paper craft for the comical-looking but more commodious and comfortable Barnegat sneak-box, or duck-boat. Having navigated more than eight thousand miles in sail-boats, row-boats, and canoes, upon the fresh and salt watercourses of the North American continent (usually without a companion), a hard-earned experience has taught me that while the light, frail canoe is indispensable for exploring shallow streams, for shooting rapids, and for making long portages from one watercourse to another, the deeper and more continuous water- ways may be more comfortably traversed in a stronger and heavier boat, which offers many of the advantages of a portable home. To find such a boat--one that possessed many desirable points in a small hull--had been with me a study of years. I commenced to search for it in my boyhood--twenty-five years ago; and though I have carefully examined numerous small boats while travelling in seven foreign countries, and have studied the models of miniature craft in museums, and at exhibitions of marine architecture, I failed to discover the object of my desire, until, on the sea-shore of New Jersey, I saw for the first time what is known among gunners as the Barnegat sneak-box. Having owned, and thoroughly tested in the waters of Barnegat and Little Egg Harbor bays, five of these boats, I became convinced that their claims for the good-will of the boating fraternity had not been over-estimated; so when I planned my second voyage from northern America to the Gulf of Mexico, and selected the great water-courses of the west and south (the Ohio and Mississippi rivers) as the route to be explored and studied, I chose the Barnegat sneak-box as the most comfortable model combined with other advantages for a voyager's use. The sneak-box offered ample stowage capacity, while canoes built to hold one person were not large enough to carry the amount of baggage necessary for the voyage; for I was to avoid hotels and towns, to live in my boat day and night, to carry an ample stock of provisions, and to travel in as comfortable a manner as possible. In fact, I adopted a very home-like boat, which, though only twelve feet long, four feet wide, and thirteen inches deep, was strong, stiff, dry, and safe; a craft that could be sailed or rowed, as wind, weather, or inclination might dictate,--the weight of which hardly exceeded two hundred pounds,--and could be conveniently transported from one stream to another in an ordinary wagon. A Nautilus, or any improved type of canoe, would have been lighter and more easily transported, and could have been paddled at a higher speed with the same effort expended in rowing the heavier sneak-box; but the canoe did not offer the peculiar advantages of comfort and freedom of bodily motion possessed by its unique fellow-craft. Experienced canoeists agree that a canoe of fourteen feet in length, which weighs only seventy pounds, if built of wood, bark, canvas, or paper, when out of the water and resting upon the ground, or even when bedded on some soft material, like grass or rushes, cannot support the sleeping weight of the canoeist for many successive nights without becoming strained. Light indeed must be the weight and slender and elastic the form of the man who can sleep many nights comfortably in a seventy-pound canoe without injuring it. Cedar canoes, after being subjected to such use for some time, generally become leaky; so, to avoid this disaster, the canoeist, when threatened with wet weather, is forced to the disagreeable task of troubling some private householder for a shelter, or run the risk of injuring his boat by packing himself away in its narrow, coffin-like quarters and dreaming that he is a sardine, while his restless weight is every moment straining his delicate canoe, and visions of future leaks arise to disturb his tranquillity. The one great advantage possessed by a canoe is its lightness. Canoeists dwell upon the importance of the LIGHT WEIGHT of their canoes, and the ease with which they can be carried. If the canoeist is to sleep in his delicate craft while making a long journey, she must be made much heavier than the perfected models now in use in this country, many of which are under seventy-five pounds' weight. This additional weight is at once fatal to speed, and becomes burdensome when the canoeist is forced to carry his canoe upon his OWN shoulders over a portage. A sneak-box built to carry one person weighs about three times as much as a well-built cedar canoe. This remarkable little boat has a history which does not reach very far back into the present century. With the assistance of Mr. William Errickson of Barnegat, and Dr. William P. Haywood of West Creek, Ocean County, New Jersey, I have been able to rescue from oblivion and bring to the light of day a correct history of the Barnegat sneak-box. Captain Hazelton Seaman, of West Creek village, New Jersey, a boat- builder and an expert shooter of wild-fowl, about the year 1836, conceived the idea of constructing for his own use a low-decked boat, or gunning-punt, in which, when its deck was covered with sedge, he could secrete himself from the wild-fowl while gunning in Barnegat and Little Egg Harbor bays. It was important that the boat should be sufficiently light to enable a single sportsman to pull her from the water on to the low points of the bay shores. During the winter months, when the great marshes were at times incrusted with snow, and the shallow creeks covered with ice,--obstacles which must be crossed to reach the open waters of the sound,--it would be necessary to use her as a sled, to effect which end a pair of light oaken strips were screwed to the bottom of the sneak-box, when she could be easily pushed by the gunner, and the transportation of the oars, sail, blankets, guns, ammunition, and provisions (all of which stowed under the hatch and locked up as snugly as if in a strong chest) became a very simple matter. While secreted in his boat, on the watch for fowl, with his craft hidden by a covering of grass or sedge, the gunner could approach within shooting-distance of a flock of unsuspicious ducks; and this being done in a sneaking manner (though Mr. Seaman named the result of his first effort the "Devil's Coffin" the bay-men gave her the sobriquet of "SNEAK-BOX"; and this name she has retained to the present day. Since Captain Seaman built his "Devil's Coffin," forty years ago, the model has been improved by various builders, until it is believed that it has almost attained perfection. The boat has no sheer, and sets low in the water. This lack of sheer is supplied by a light canvas apron which is tacked to the deck, and presents, when stretched upward by a stick two feet in length, a convex surface to a head sea. The water which breaks upon the deck, forward of the cockpit, is turned off at the sides of the boat in almost the same manner as a snow-plough clears a railroad track of snow. The apron also protects the head and shoulders of the rower from cold head winds. The first sneak-box built by Captain Seaman had a piece of canvas stretched upon an oaken hoop, so fastened to the deck that when a head sea struck the bow, the hoop and canvas were forced upward so as to throw the water off its sides, thus effectually preventing its ingress into the hold of the craft. The improved apron originated with Mr. John Crammer, Jr., a short time after Captain Seaman built the first sneak-box. The second sneak-box was constructed by Mr. Crammer; and afterwards Mr. Samuel Perine, an old and much respected bay-man, of Barnegat, built the third one. The last two men have finished their voyage of life, but "Uncle Haze,"--as he is familiarly called by his many admirers,--the originator of the tiny craft which may well be called multum in parvo, and which carried me, its single occupant, safely and comfortably twenty-six hundred miles, from Pittsburgh to Cedar Keys, still lives at West Creek, builds yachts as well as he does sneak-boxes, and puts to the blush younger gunners by the energy displayed and success attained in the vigorous pursuit of wildfowl shooting in the bays which fringe the coast of Ocean County, New Jersey. A few years since, this ingenious man invented an improvement on the marine life-saving car, which has been adopted by the United States government; and during the year 1875 he constructed a new ducking-punt with a low paddle-wheel at its stern, for the purpose of more easily and secretly approaching flocks of wild-fowl. The peculiar advantages of the sneak-box were known to but few of the hunting and shooting fraternity, and, with the exception of an occasional visitor, were used only by the oystermen, fishermen, and wild-fowl shooters of Barnegat and Little Egg Harbor bays, until the New Jersey Southern Railroad and its connecting branches penetrated to the eastern shores of New Jersey, when educated amateur sportsmen from the cities quickly recognized in the little gunning-punt all they had long desired to combine in one small boat. Mr. Charles Hallock, in his paper the "Forest and Stream," of April 23, 1874, gave drawings and a description of the sneak-box, and fairly presented its claims to public favor. The sneak-box is not a monopoly of any particular builder, but it requires peculiar talent to build one,--the kind of talent which enables one man to cut out a perfect axe-handle, while the master- carpenter finds it difficult to accomplish the same thing. The best yacht-builders in Ocean County generally fail in modelling a sneak- box, while many second-rate mechanics along the shore, who could not possibly construct a yacht that would sail well, can make a perfect sneak-box, or gunning-skiff. All this may be accounted for by recognizing the fact that the water-lines of the sneak-box are peculiar, and differ materially from those of row-boats, sailboats, and yachts. Having a spoon-shaped bottom and bow, the sneak-box moves rather over the water than through it, and this peculiarity, together with its broad beam, gives the boat such stiffness that two persons may stand upright in her while she is moving through the water, and troll their lines while fishing, or discharge their guns, without careening the boat; a valuable advantage not possessed by our best cruising canoes. The boat sails well on the wind, though hard to pull against a strong head sea. A fin-shaped centre-board takes the place of a keel. It can be quickly removed from the trunk, or centre-board well, and stored under the deck. The flatness of her floor permits the sneak-box to run in very shallow water while being rowed or when sailing before the wind without the centre-board. Some of these boats, carrying a weight of three hundred pounds, will float in four to six inches of water. The favorite material for boat-building in the United States is white cedar (Cupressus thyoides), which grows in dense forests in the swamps along the coast of New Jersey, as well as in other parts of North America. The wood is both white and brown, soft, fine-grained, and very light and durable. No wood used in boat-building can compare with the white cedar in resisting the changes from a wet to a dry state, and vice versa. The tree grows tall and straight. The lower part of the trunk with the diverging roots furnish knee timbers and carlines for the sneak-box. The ribs or timbers, and the carlines, are usually 1 1/4 x 1 1/4 inches in dimension, and are placed about ten inches apart. The frame above and below is covered with half-inch cedar sheathing, which is not less than six inches in width. The boat is strong enough to support a heavy man upon its deck, and when well built will rank next to the seamless paper boats of Mr. Waters of Troy, and the seamless wooden canoes of Messrs. Herald, Gordon & Stephenson, of the province of Ontario, Canada, in freedom from leakage. During a cruise of twenty-six hundred miles not one drop of water leaked through the seams of the Centennial Republic. Her under planking was nicely joined, and the seams calked with cotton wicking, and afterwards filled with white-lead paint and putty. The deck planks, of seven inches width, were not joined, but were tongued and grooved, the tongues and grooves being well covered with a thick coat of white-lead paint. The item of cost is another thing to be considered in regard to this boat. The usual cost of a first-class canoe of seventy pounds' weight, built after the model of the Rob Roy or Nautilus, with all its belongings, is about one hundred and twenty-five dollars; and these figures deter many a young man from enjoying the ennobling and healthful exercise of canoeing. A first-class sneak-box, with spars, sail, oars, anchor, &c., can be obtained for seventy-five dollars, and if several were ordered by a club they could probably be bought for sixty-five dollars each. The price of a sneak-box, as ordinarily built in Ocean County, New Jersey, is about forty dollars. The Centennial Republic cost about seventy-five dollars, and a city boat-builder would not duplicate her for less than one hundred and twenty-five dollars. The builders of the sneak-boxes have not yet acquired the art of overcharging their customers; they do not expect to receive more than one dollar and fifty cents or two dollars per day for their labor; and some of them are even so unwise as to risk their reputation by offering to furnish these boats for twenty-five dollars each. Such a craft, after a little hard usage, would leak as badly as most cedar canoes, and would be totally unfit for the trials of a long cruise. [Diagram of Sneak-Box "Centennial Republic"] The diagram given of the Centennial Republic will enable the reader of aquatic proclivities to understand the general principles upon which these boats are built. As they should be rated as third-class freight on railroads, it is more economical for the amateur to purchase a first-class boat at Barnegat, Manahawken, or West Creek, in Ocean County, New Jersey, along the Tuckerton Railroad, than to have a workman elsewhere, and one unacquainted with this peculiar model, experiment upon its construction at the purchaser's cost, and perhaps loss. One bright morning, in the early part of the fall of 1875, I trudged on foot down one of the level roads which lead from the village of Manahawken through the swamps to the edge of the extensive salt marshes that fringe the shores of the bay. This road bore the euphonious name of Eel Street,--so named by the boys of the town. When about half-way from its end, I turned off to the right, and followed a wooded lane to the house of an honest surf-man, Captain George Bogart, who had recently left his old home on the beach, beside the restless waves of the Atlantic, and had resumed his avocation as a sneak-box builder. The house and its small fields of low, arable land were environed on three sides by dense cedar and whortleberry swamps, but on the eastern boundary of the farm the broad salt marshes opened to the view, and beyond their limit were the salt waters of the bay, which were shut in from the ocean by a long, narrow, sandy island, known to the fishermen and wreckers as Long Beach,--the low, white sand-dunes of which were lifted above the horizon, and seemed suspended in the air as by a mirage. Across the wide, savanna-like plains came in gentle breezes the tonic breath of the sea, while hundreds, aye, thousands of mosquitoes settled quietly upon me, and quickly presented their bills. In this sequestered nook, far from the bustle of the town, I found "Honest George," so much occupied in the construction of a sneak-box, under the shade of spreading willows, as to be wholly unconscious of the presence of the myriads of phlebotomists which covered every available inch of his person exposed to their attacks. The appropriate surroundings of a surf-man's house were here, scattered on every side in delightful confusion. There were piles of old rigging, iron bolts and rings, tarred parcelling, and cabin-doors,--in fact, all the spoils that a treacherous sea had thrown upon the beach; a sea so disastrous to many, but so friendly to the Barnegat wrecker,--who, by the way, is not so black a character as Mistress Rumor paints him. A tar-like odor everywhere prevailed, and I wondered, while breathing this wholesome air, why this surf-man of daring and renown had left his proper place upon the beach near the life-saving station, where his valuable experience, brave heart, and strong, brawny arms were needed to rescue from the ocean's grasp the poor victims of misfortune whose dead bodies are washed upon the hard strand of the Jersey shores every year from the wrecks of the many vessels which pound out their existence upon the dreaded coast of Barnegat? A question easily answered,--political preferment. His place had been filled by a man who had never pulled an oar in the surf, but had followed the occupation of a tradesman. Thus Honest George, rejected by "the service," had left the beach, and crossing the wide bays to the main land, had taken up his abode under the willows by the marshes, but not too far from his natural element, for he could even now, while he hammered away on his sneak-boxes, hear the ceaseless moaning of the sea. A verbal contract was soon made, and George agreed to build me for twenty-five dollars the best boat that had ever left his shop; he to do all the work upon the hull and spars, while the future owner was to supply all the materials at his own cost. The oars and sail were not included in the contract, but were made by other parties. In November, when I settled all the bills of construction, cost of materials, oar- locks, oars, spars, sail, anchor, &c., the sum-total did not exceed seventy-five dollars; and when the accounts of more than twenty boats and canoes built for me had been looked over, I concluded that the little craft, constructed by the surf-man, was, for the amount it cost and the advantages it gave me, the best investment I had ever made in things that float upon the water. Without a name painted upon her hull, and, like the "Maria Theresa" paper canoe, without a flag to decorate her, but with spars, sail, oars, rudder, anchor, cushions, blankets, cooking-kit, and double-barrelled gun, with ammunition securely locked under the hatch, the Centennial Republic, my future travelling companion, was ready by the middle of November for the descent of the western rivers to the Gulf of Mexico. Captain George Bogart, attentive to the last to his pet craft, affectionately sewed her up in a covering of burlap, to protect her smooth surface from scratches during the transit over railroads. The two light oaken strips, which had been screwed to the bottom of the boat, kept the hull secure from injury by contact with nails, bolt- heads, &c., while she was being carried in the freight-cars of the Tuckerton, New Jersey, Southern and Pennsylvania railroads to Philadelphia, where she was delivered to the freight agent of the Pennsylvania Railroad, to be sent to Pittsburgh, at the head of the Ohio River. Here I must speak of a subject full of interest to all owners of boats, hoping that when our large corporations have their attention drawn to the fact they will make some provision for it. There appears to be no fixed freighting tariff established for boats, and the aquatic tourist is placed at the mercy of agents who too frequently, in their zeal for the interests of their employers, heavily tax the owner of the craft. The agent of the Pennsylvania Railroad in Philadelphia was sorely puzzled to know what to charge for a BOAT. He had loaded thousands of cars for Pittsburgh, but could find only one precedent to guide him. "We took a boat once to Pittsburgh," he said, "for twenty-five dollars, and yours should be charged the same." The shipping-clerk of a mercantile house, who had overheard the conversation, interrupted the agent with a loud laugh. "A charge of twenty-five dollars freight on a little thing like that! WHY, MAN, THAT SUM IS NEARLY HALF HER VALUE! How LARGE was the boat you shipped last fall to Pittsburgh for twenty-five dollars?" "Oh, about twice the size of this one," answered the agent; "but, size or no size, a boat's a boat, and we handle so few of them that we have no special tariff on them." "But," said the clerk, "you can easily and honestly establish a tariff if you will treat a boat as you do all other freight of the same class. Now, for instance, how do common boats rank, as first or third class freight?" "Third class, I should think," slowly responded the agent. "Ease your conscience, my friend," continued the clerk, "by weighing the boat, and charging the usual tariff rate for third class freight." The boat, with its cargo still locked up inside, was put upon the scales, and the total weight was three hundred and ten pounds, for which a charge of seventy-two cents per one hundred pounds was made, and the boat placed on some barrels in a car. Thus did the common- sense and business-like arrangement of the friendly clerk secure for me the freight charge of two dollars and twenty-three cents, instead of twenty-five dollars, on a little boat for its carriage three hundred and fifty-three miles to Pittsburgh, and saved me not only from a pecuniary loss, but also from the uncomfortable feeling of being imposed upon. In these days of canoe and boat voyages, when portages by rail are a necessary evil, a fixed tariff for such freight would save dollars and tempers, and some action in the matter is anxiously looked for by all interested parties. I gave a parting look at my little craft snugly ensconced upon the top of a pile of barrels, and smiled as I turned away, thinking how precious she had already become to me, and philosophizing upon the strange genus, man, who could so readily twine his affections about an inanimate object. Upon consideration, it did not seem so strange a thing, however, for did not this boat represent the work of brains and hands for a generation past? Was it not the result of the study and hard-earned experiences of many men for many years? Men whose humble lives had been spent along the rough coast in daily struggles with the storms of ocean and of life? Many of them now slept in obscure graves, some in the deep sea, others under the tender, green turf; but here was the concentration of their ideas, the ultimatum of their labors, and I inwardly resolved, that, since to me was given the enjoyment, to them should be the honor, and that it should be through no fault of her captain if the Centennial Republic did not before many months reach her far-distant point of destination, twenty-six hundred miles away, on the white strands of the Gulf of Mexico. CHAPTER II. SOURCES OF THE OHIO RIVER DESCRIPTION OF THE MONONGAHELA AND ALLEGHANY RIVERS.-- THE OHIO RIVER.-- EXPLORATION OF CAVELIER DE LA SALLE.-- NAMES GIVEN BY ANCIENT CARTOGRAPHERS TO THE OHIO.-- ROUTES OF THE ABORIGINES FROM THE GREAT LAKES TO THE OHIO RIVER. THE southerly branch of the Ohio River, and one of its chief affluents, is made by the union of the West Fork and Tygart Valley rivers, in the county of Marion, state of Virginia, the united waters of which flow north into Pennsylvania as the Monongahela River, and is there joined by the Cheat River, its principal tributary. The Monongahela unites with the Alleghany to form the Ohio, at Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The length of the Monongahela, without computing that of its tributaries, is about one hundred and fifty miles; but if we include its eastern fork, the Tygart Valley River, which flows from Randolph County, Virginia, the whole length of this tributary of the Ohio may exceed three hundred miles. It has a width at its union with the Alleghany of nearly one-fourth of a mile, and a depth of water sufficient for large steamboats to ascend sixty miles, to Brownsville, Pennsylvania, while light-draught vessels can reach its head, at Fairmont, Virginia. The northern branch of the Ohio, known as the Alleghany River, has a length of four hundred miles, and its source is in the county of Potter, in northern Pennsylvania. It takes a very circuitous course through a portion of New York state, and re-enters Pennsylvania flowing through a hilly region, and at the flourishing city of Pittsburgh mingles its waters with its southern sister, the Monongahela. The region traversed by the Alleghany is wild and mountainous, rich in pine forests, coal, and petroleum oil; and the extraction from its rocky beds of the last-named article is so enormous in quantity, that at the present time more than four million barrels of oil are awaiting shipment in the oil districts of Pennsylvania. The smaller steamboats can ascend the river to Olean, about two hundred and fifty miles above Pittsburgh. At Olean, the river has a breadth of twenty rods. In consequence of its high latitude, the clear waters of the Alleghany usually freeze over by the 25th of December, after having transported upon its current the season's work, from the numerous saw-mills of the great wilderness through which it flows, in the form of rafts consisting of two hundred million feet of excellent lumber. The Ohio River has a width of about half a mile below Pittsburgh, and this is its medial breadth along its winding course to its mouth at Cairo; but in places it narrows to less than twenty-five hundred feet, while it frequently widens to more than a mile. A geographical writer says, that, "In tracing the Ohio to its source, we must regard the Alleghany as its proper continuation. A boat may start with sufficient water within seven miles of Lake Erie, in sight sometimes of the sails which whiten the approach to the harbor of Buffalo, and float securely down the Conewango, or Cassadaga, to the Alleghany, down the Alleghany to the Ohio, and thence uninterruptedly to the Gulf of Mexico." There are grave reasons for doubting that part of the statement which refers to a boat starting from a point within seven miles of Lake Erie. It is to be hoped that some member of the New York Canoe Club will explore the route mentioned, and give the results of his investigations to the public. He would need a canoe light enough to be easily carried upon the shoulders of one man, with the aid of the canoeist's indispensable assistant--the canoe-yoke. It will be seen that the Ohio with its affluents drains an immense extent of country composed of portions of seven large states of the Union, rich in agricultural wealth, in timber, iron, coal, petroleum, salt, clays, and building-stone. The rainfall of the Ohio Valley is so great as to give the river a mean discharge at its mouth (according to the report of the United States government engineers) of one hundred and fifty-eight thousand cubic feet per second. This is the drainage of an area embracing two hundred and fourteen thousand square miles. The head of the Ohio River, at Pittsburgh, has an elevation of eleven hundred and fifty feet above the sea, while in the long descent to its mouth there is a gradual fall of only four hundred feet; hence its current, excepting during the seasons of freshets, is more gentle and uniform than that of any other North American river of equal length. During half the year the depth of water is sufficient to float steamboats of the largest class along its entire length. Between the lowest stage of water, in the month of September, and the highest, in March, there is sometimes a range of fifty feet in depth. The spring freshets in the tributaries will cause the waters of the great river to rise twelve feet in twelve hours. During the season of low water the current of the Ohio is so slow, as flatboat-men have informed me, that their boats are carried by the flow of the stream only ten miles in a day. The most shallow portion of the river is between Troy and Evansville. Troy is twelve miles below the historic Blennerhasset's Island, which lies between the states of Ohio and Virginia. Here the water sometimes shoals to a depth of only two feet. Robert Cavelier de la Salle is credited with having made the discovery of the Ohio River. From the St. Lawrence country he went to Onondaga, and reaching a tributary of the Ohio River, he descended the great stream to the "Fa1ls," at Louisville, Kentucky. His men having deserted him, he returned alone to Lake Erie. This exploration of the Ohio was made in the winter of 1669-70, or in the following spring. The director of the Dpt des Cartes of the Marine and Colonies, at Paris, in 1872 possessed a rich mass of historical documents, the collection of which had covered thirty years of his life. This material related chiefly to the French rule in North America, and its owner had offered to dispose of it to the French government on condition that the entire collection should be published. The French government was, however, only willing to publish parts of the whole, and the director retained possession of his property. Through the efforts of Mr. Francis Parkman, the truthful American historian, supported by friends, an appropriation was made by Congress, in 1873, for the purchase and publication of this valuable collection of the French director; and it is now the property of the United States government. All that relates to the Sieur de la Salle--his journals and letters--has been published in the original French, in three large volumes of six hundred pages each. La Salle discovered the Ohio, yet the possession of the rich historical matter referred to throws but little light upon the details of this important event. The discoverer- -of the great west, in an address to Frontenac, the governor of Canada, made in 1677, asserted that he had discovered the Ohio, and had descended it to a fall which obstructed it. This locality is now known as the "Falls of the Ohio," at Louisville, Kentucky. The second manuscript map of Galine'e, made about the year 1672, has upon it this inscription: "River Ohio, so called by the Iroquois on account of its beauty, which the Sieur de la Salle descended." It was probably the interpretation of the Iroquois word Ohio which caused the French frequently to designate this noble stream as "La belle rivire." A little later the missionary Marquette designed a map, upon which he calls the Ohio the "Ouabouskiaou." Louis Joliet's first map gives the Ohio without a name, but supplies its place with an inscription stating that La Salle had descended it. In Joliet's second map he calls the Ohio "Ouboustikou." After the missionaries and other explorers had given to the world the knowledge possessed at that early day of the great west, a young and talented engineer of the French government, living in Quebec, and named Jean Baptiste Louis Franquelin, completed, in 1684, the most elaborate map of the times, a carefully traced copy of which, through the courtesy of Mr. Francis Parkman, I have been allowed to examine. The original map of Franquelin has recently disappeared, and is supposed to have been destroyed. This map is described in the appendix to Mr. Parkman's "Discovery of the Great West," as being "six feet long and four and a half wide." On it, the Ohio is called "Fleuve St. Louis, ou Chucagoa, ou Casquinampogamou;" but the appellation of "River St. Louis" was dropped very soon after the appearance of Franquelin's map, and to the present time it justly retains the Iroquois name given it by its brave discoverer La Salle. It would be interesting to know by which of the routes used by the Indians in those early days La Salle travelled to the Ohio. After the existence of the Ohio was made known, the first route made use of in reaching that river by the coureurs de bois and other French travellers from Canada, was that from the southern shore of Lake Erie, from a point near where the town of Westfield now stands, across the wilderness by portage southward about nine miles to Chautaugue Lake. These parties used light bark canoes, which were easily carried upon the shoulders of men whenever a "carry" between the two streams became necessary. The canoes were paddled on the lake to its southern end, out of which flowed a shallow brook, which afforded water enough in places to float the frail craft. The shoal water, and the obstructions made by fallen trees, necessitated frequent portages. This wild and tortuous stream led the voyagers to the Alleghany River, where an ample depth of water and a propitious current carried them into the Ohio. The French, finding this a laborious and tedious route, abandoned it for a better one. Where the town of Erie now stands, on the southern shore of the lake of the same name, a small stream flows from the southward into that inland sea. Opposite its mouth is Presque Isle, which protects the locality from the north winds, and, acting as a barrier to the turbulent waves, offers to the mariner a safe port of refuge behind its shores. The French ascended the little stream, and from its banks made a short portage to the Rivire des boeuf, or some tributary of French Creek, and descended it to the Alleghany and the Ohio. This Erie and French River route finally became the military highway of the Canadians to the Ohio Valley, and may be called the second route from Lake Erie. The third route to the Ohio from Lake Erie commenced at the extreme southwestern end of that inland sea. The voyagers entered Maumee Bay and ascended the Maumee River, hauling their birch canoes around the rapids between Maumee City and Perrysburgh, and between Providence and Grand Rapids. Surmounting these obstacles, they reached the site of Fort Wayne, where the St. Joseph and St. Mary rivers unite, and make, according to the author of the "History of the Maumee Valley," the "Maumee," or "Mother of Waters," as interpreted from the Indian tongue. At this point, when ninety-eight miles from Lake Erie, the travellers were forced to make a portage of a mile and a half to a branch called Little River, which they descended to the Wabash, which stream, in the early days of French exploration, was thought to be the main river of the Ohio system. The Wabash is now the boundary line for a distance of two hundred miles between the states of Indiana and Illinois. Following the Wabash, the voyager would enter the Ohio River about one hundred and forty miles above its junction with the Mississippi. The great Indian diplomatist, "Little Turtle," in making a treaty speech in 1795, when confronting Anthony Wayne, insisted that the Fort Wayne portage was the "key or gateway" of the tribes having communication with the inland chain of lakes and the gulf coast. It is now claimed by many persons that this was the principal and favorite route of communication between the high and low latitudes followed by the savages hundreds of years before Europeans commenced the exploration of the great west. There was a fourth route from the north to the tributaries of the Ohio, which was used by the Seneca Indians frequently, though rarely by the whites. It was further east than the three already described. The Genesee River flows into Lake Ontario about midway between its eastern shores and the longitude of the eastern end of Lake Erie. In using this fourth route, the savages followed the Genesee, and made a portage to some one of the affluents of the Alleghany to reach the Ohio River. [Indian in canoe] CHAPTER III. FROM PITTSBURGH TO BLENNERHASSET'S ISLAND THE START FOR THE GULF.-- CAUGHT IN THE ICE-RAFT.-- CAMPING ON THE OHIO.-- THE GRAVE CREEK MOUND.-- AN INDIAN SEPULCHRE.-- BLENNERHASSET'S ISLAND.-- AARON BURR'S CONSPIRACY.-- A RUINED FAMILY. UPON arriving at Pittsburgh, on the morning of December 2d, 1875, after a dreary night's ride by rail from the Atlantic coast, I found my boat--it having preceded me--safely perched upon a pile of barrels in the freight-house of the railroad company, which was conveniently situated within a few rods of the muddy waters of the Monongahela. The sneak-box, with the necessary stores for the cruise, was transported to the river's side, and as it was already a little past noon, and only a few hours of daylight left me, prudence demanded an instant departure in search of a more retired camping-ground than that afforded by the great city and its neighboring towns, with the united population of one hundred and eighty thousand souls. There was not one friend to give me a cheering word, the happy remembrance of which might encourage me all through my lonely voyage to the Gulf of Mexico. The little street Arabs fought among themselves for the empty provision-boxes left upon the bank as I pushed my well-freighted boat out upon the whirling current that caught it in its strong embrace, and, like a true friend, never deserted or lured it into danger while I trusted to its vigorous help for more than two thousand miles, until the land of the orange and sugar-cane was reached, and its fresh, sweet waters were exchanged for the restless and treacherous waves of the briny sea. Ah, great river, you were indeed, of all material things, my truest friend for many a day! The rains in the south had filled the gulches of the Virginia mountains, the sources of the Monongahela, and it now exhibited a great degree of turbulence. I was not then aware of the tumultuous state of the sister tributary, the Alleghany, on the other side of the city. I supposed that its upper affluents, congealed during the late cold weather, were quietly enjoying a winter's nap under the heavy coat in which Jack Frost had robed them. I expected to have an easy and uninterrupted passage down the river in advance of floating ice; and, so congratulating myself, I drew near to the confluence of the Monongahela and Alleghany, from the union of which the great Ohio has its birth, and rolls steadily across the country a thousand miles to the mightier Mississippi. The current of the Monongahela, as it flowed from the south, covered with mists rising into the wintry air,--for the temperature was but a few degrees above zero,--had not a particle of ice upon its turbid bosom. I rowed gayly on, pleased with the auspicious beginning of the voyage, hoping at the close of the month to be at the mouth of the river, and far enough south to escape any inconvenience from a sudden freezing of its surface, for along its course between its source at Pittsburgh and its debouchure at Cairo the Ohio makes only two hundred and twelve miles of southing,--a difference of about two and a half degrees of latitude. It is not surprising, therefore, that this river during exceedingly cold winters sometimes freezes over for a few days, from the state of Pennsylvania to its junction with the Mississippi. In a few minutes my boat had passed nearly the whole length of the Pittsburgh shore, when suddenly, upon looking over my shoulder, I beheld the river covered with an ice-raft, which was passing out of the Alleghany, and which completely blocked the Ohio from shore to shore. French Creek, Oil Creek, and all the other tributaries of the Alleghany, had burst from their icy barriers, thrown off the wintry coat of mail, and were pouring their combined wrath into the Ohio. This unforeseen trouble had to be met without much time for calculating the results of entering the ice-pack. A light canoe would have been ground to pieces in the multitude of icy cakes, but the half-inch skin of soft but elastic white swamp-cedar of the decked sneak-box, with its light oaken runner-strips firmly screwed to its bottom, was fully able to cope with the difficulty; so I pressed the boat into the floating ice, and by dint of hard work forced her several rods beyond the eddies, and fairly into the steady flow of the strong current of the river. [The start--head of the Ohio River.] There was nothing more to be done to expedite the journey, so I sat down in the little hold, and, wrapped comfortably in blankets, watched the progress made by the receding points of interest upon the high banks of the stream. Towards night some channel-ways opened in the pack, and, seizing upon the opportunity, I rowed along the ice-bound lanes until dusk, when happily a chance was offered for leaving the frosty surroundings, and the duck-boat was soon resting on a shelving, pebbly strand on the left bank of the river, two miles above the little village of Freedom. The rapid current had carried me twenty-two miles in four hours and a half. Not having slept for thirty-six hours, or eaten since morning, I was well prepared physically to retire at an early hour. A few minutes sufficed to securely stake my boat, to prevent her being carried off by a sudden rise in the river during my slumbers; a few moments more were occupied in arranging the thin hair cushions and a thick cotton coverlet upon the floor of the boat. The bag which contained my wardrobe, consisting of a blue flannel suit, &c., served for a pillow. A heavy shawl and two thin blankets furnished sufficient covering for the bed. Bread and butter, with Shakers' peach-sauce, and a generous slice of Wilson's compressed beef, a tin of water from the icy reservoir that flowed past my boat and within reach of my arm, all contributed to furnish a most satisfactory meal, and a half hour afterwards, when a soft, damp fog settled down upon the land, the atmosphere became so quiet that the rubbing of every ice-cake against the shore could be distinctly heard as I sank into a sweeter slumber than I had ever experienced in the most luxurious bed of the daintiest of guest-chambers, for my apartment, though small, was comfortable, and with the hatch securely closed, I was safe from invasion by man or beast, and enjoyed the well-earned repose with a full feeling of security. The owl softly winnowed the air with his feathery pinions as he searched for his prey along the beach, sending forth an occasional to-hoot! as he rested for a moment on the leafless branches of an old tree, reminding me to take a peep at the night, and to inquire "what its signs of promise" were. All was silence and security; but even while I thought that here at least Nature ruled supreme, Art sent to my listening ear, upon the dense night air, the shrill whistle of the steam-freighter, trying to enter the ice-pack several miles down the river. So the peaceful night wore away, and in the early dawn, enveloped in a thick fog, I hastily dispatched a cold breakfast, and at half-past eight o'clock pushed off into the floating ice, which became more and more disintegrated and less troublesome as the day advanced. The use of the soft bituminous coal in the towns along the river, and also by the steamboats navigating it, filled the valley with clouds of smoke. These clouds rested upon everything. Your five senses were fully aware of the presence of the disagreeable, impalpable something surrounding you. Eyes, ears, taste, touch, and smell, each felt the presence. Smoky towns along the banks gave smoky views. Smoky chimneys rose high above the smoky foundries and forges, where smoke-begrimed men toiled day and night in the smoky atmosphere. Ah, how I sighed for a glimpse of God's blessed sunlight! and even while I gazed saw in memory the bright pure valleys of the north-east; the sparkling waters of lakes George and Champlain, and the majestic scenery, with the life-giving atmosphere, of the Adirondacks. The contrast seemed to increase the smoke, and no cheerfulness was added to the scene by the dismal- looking holes in the mountain-sides I now passed. They were the entrances to mines from which the bituminous coal was taken. Some of them were being actively worked, and long, trough-like shoots were used to send the coal by its own gravity from the entrance of the mine to the hold of the barge or coal-ark at the steam-boat landing. Some of these mines were worked by three men and a horse. The horse drew the coal on a little car along the horizontal gallery from the heart of the mountain to the light of day. During the second day the current of the Ohio became less violent. I fought a passage among the ice-cakes, and whenever openings appeared rowed briskly along the sides of the chilly raft, with the intent of getting below the frosty zone as soon as possible. About half-past eight o'clock in the evening, when some distance above King's Creek, the struggling starlight enabled me to push my boat on to a muddy flat, destined soon to be overflowed, but offering me a secure resting-place for a few hours. Upon peeping out of my warm nest under the hatch the next day, it was a cause of great satisfaction to note that a rise in the temperature had taken place, and that the ice was disappearing by degrees. An open-air toilet, and a breakfast of about the temperature of a family refrigerator, with sundry other inconveniences, made me wish for just enough hot water to remove a little of the begriming results of the smoky atmosphere through which I had rowed. At eleven o'clock, A. M., the first bridge that spans the Ohio River was passed. It was at Steubenville, and the property of the Pan-Handle Railroad. Soon after four o'clock in the afternoon the busy manufacturing city of Wheeling, West Virginia, with its great suspension bridge crossing the river to the state of Ohio, loomed into sight. This city of Wheeling, on the left bank of the river, some eighty miles from Pittsburgh, was the most impressive sight of that dreary day's row. Above its masses of brick walls hung a dense cloud of smoke, into which shot the flames emitted from the numerous chimneys of forges, glass-works, and factories, which made it the busy place it was. Ever and anon came the deafening sound of the trip-hammer, the rap-a-tap-tap of the rivet-headers' tools striking upon the heavy boiler-plates; the screeching of steam-whistles; the babel of men's voices; the clanging of deep-toned bells. Each in turn striking upon my ear, seemed as a whole to furnish sufficient noise-tonic for even the most ardent upholder of that remedy, and to serve as a type for a second Inferno, promising to vie with Dante's own. Yet with all this din and dirt, this ever-present cloud of blackness settling down each hour upon clean and unclean in a sooty coating, I was told that hundreds of families of wealth and refinement, whose circumstances enabled them to select a home where they pleased, lingered here, apparently well satisfied with their surroundings. We are, indeed, the children of habit, and singularly adaptable. It is, perhaps, best that it should be so, but I thought, as I brushed off the thin layer of soot with which the Wheeling cloud of enterprise had discolored the pure white deck of my little craft, that if this was civilization and enterprise, I should rather take a little less of those two commodities and a little more of cleanliness and quiet. At Wheeling I left the last of the ice-drifts, but now observed a new feature on the river's surface. It was a floating coat of oil from the petroleum regions, and it followed me many a mile down the stream. The river being now free from ice, numerous crafts passed me, and among them many steam-boats with their immense stern-wheels beating the water, being so constructed for shallow streams. They were ascending the current, and pushing their "tows" of two, four, and six long, wide coal-barges fastened in pairs in front of them. How the pilots of these stern-wheel freighters managed to guide these heavily loaded barges against the treacherous current was a mystery to me. It suddenly grew dark, and wishing to be secure from molestation by steamboats, I ran into a narrow creek, with high, muddy banks, which were so steep and so slippery that my boat slid into the water as fast as I could haul her on to the shore. This difficulty was overcome by digging with my oar a bed for her to rest in, and she soon settled into the damp ooze, where she quietly remained until morning. [Coal-oil stove.] During this part of my journey particularly, the need of a small coal- oil stove was felt, as the usual custom of making a camp-fire could not be followed for many days on the upper Ohio River. The rains had wet the fire-wood, which in a settled and cultivated country is found only in small quantities on the banks of the stream. The driftwood thrown up by the river was almost saturated with water, and the damp, wild trees of the swamp afforded only green wood. In a less settled country, or where there is an old forest growth, as along the lower Ohio and upon the banks of the Mississippi, fallen trees, with resinous, dry hearts, can be found; and even during a heavy fall of rain a skilful use of the axe will bring out these ancient interiors to cheer the voyager's heart by affording him excellent fuel for his camp-fire. The recently perfected coal-oil stove does not give out disagreeable odors when the petroleum used is refined, like that known in the market as Pratt's Astral Oil. This brand of oil does not contain naphtha, the existence of which in the partially refined oils is the cause of so many dangerous explosions of kerosene lamps. Recent experiences with coal-oil burners lead me to adopt, for camp use, the No.0 single-wick stove of the "Florence Machine Co.," whose excellent wares attracted so much attention at the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia. The No. 0 Florence stove will sustain the weight of one hundred and fifty pounds, and is one of the few absolutely safe oil stoves, with perfect combustion, and no unpleasant odor or gas. This statement presupposes that the wicks are wiped along the burnt edges after being used, and that a certain degree of cleanliness is observed in the care of the oil cistern. I do not stand alone in my appreciation of this faithful little stove, for the company sold forty thousand of them in one year. In Johnson's Universal Cyclopdia, Dr. L. P. Brockett, of Brooklyn, N.Y., expresses himself in the most enthusiastic terms in regard to this stove. He says: "For summer use it will be a great boon to the thousands of women whose lives have been made bitter and wretched by confinement in close and intensely heated kitchens; in many cases it will give health for disease, strength for weakness, cheerfulness for depression, and profound thankfulness in place of gloom and despair." Boatmen and canoeists should never travel without one of these indispensable comforts. Alcohol stoves are small, and the fuel used too expensive, as well as difficult to obtain, while good coal-oil can now be had even on the borders of the remote wilderness. The economy of its use is wonderful. A heat sufficient to boil a gallon of water in thirty minutes can be sustained for ten hours at the cost of three cents. For lack of one of these little blessings--which the prejudice of friends had influenced me to leave behind--my daily meals for the first two or three weeks generally consisted of cold, cooked canned beef, bread and butter, canned fruits, and cold river water. The absence of hot coffee and other stimulants did not affect my appetite, nor the enjoyment of the morning and evening repasts, cold and untempting as they were. The vigorous day's row in the open air, the sweet slumbers that followed it at night in a well-ventilated apartment, a simple, unexciting life, the mental rest from vexatious business cares, all proved superior to any tonic a physician could prescribe, and I became more rugged as I grew accustomed to the duties of an oarsman, and gained several pounds avoirdupois by the time I ended the row of twenty-six hundred miles and landed on the sunny shores of the Gulf of Mexico. Sunday broke upon me a sunless day. The water of the creek was too muddy to drink, and the rain began to fall in torrents. I had anticipated a season of rest and quiet in camp, with a bright fire to cheer the lonely hours of my frosty sojourn on the Ohio, but there was not a piece of dry wood to be found, and it became necessary to change my position for a more propitious locality; so I rowed down the stream twelve miles, to Big Grave Creek, below which, and on the left bank of the Ohio, is the town of Moundsville. One of the interesting features of this place is its frontage on a channel possessing a depth of fifteen feet of water even in the dryest seasons. Wheeling, at the same time of the year, can claim but seven feet. Here, also, is the great Indian mound from which it derives its name. The resting-place of my craft was upon a muddy slope in the rear of a citizen's yard which faced the river; but when the storm ended, on Monday morning, my personal effects were hidden from the gaze of idlers by securely locking the hatch, which was done with the same facility with which one locks his trunk--and the former occupant was at liberty to visit the "Big Grave." I walked through the muddy streets of the uninteresting village to the conspicuous monument of the aboriginal inhabitant of the river's margin. It was a conical hill, situated within the limits of the town, and known to students of American pre-historic races as the "Grave Creek Mound." This particular creation of a lost race is the most important of the numerous works of the Mound Builders which are found throughout the Ohio Valley. Its circumference at the base is nine hundred feet, and its height seventy feet. In 1838 the location was owned by Mr. Tomlinson, who penetrated to the centre of the mound by excavating a passage on a level with the foundation of the structure. He then sank a shaft from the apex to intercept the ground passage. Mr. Tomlinson's statement is as follows: "At the distance of one hundred and eleven feet we came to a vault which had been excavated before the mound was commenced, eight by twelve feet, and seven in depth. Along each side, and across the ends, upright timbers had been placed, which supported timbers thrown across the vault as a ceiling. These timbers were covered with loose unhewn stone common to the neighborhood. The timbers had rotted, and had tumbled into the vault. In this vault were two human skeletons, one of which had no ornaments; the other was surrounded by six hundred and fifty ivory (shell) beads, and an ivory (bone) ornament six inches long. In sinking the shaft, at thirty-four feet above the first, or bottom vault, a similar one was found, enclosing a skeleton which had been decorated with a profusion of shell beads, copper rings, and plates of mica." Dr. Clemmens, who was much interested in the work of exploration here, says: "At a distance of twelve or fifteen feet were found numerous layers composed of charcoal and burnt bones. On reaching the lower vault from the top, it was determined to enlarge it for the accommodation of visitors, when ten more skeletons were discovered. This mound was supposed to be the tomb of a royal personage." At the time of my visit, the ground was covered with a grassy sod, and large trees arose from its sloping sides. The horizontal passage was kept in a safe state by a lining of bricks, and I walked through it into the heart of the Indian sepulchre. It was a damp, dark, weird interior; but the perpendicular shaft, which ascended to the apex, kept up an uninterrupted current of air. I found it anything but a pleasant place in which to linger, and soon retraced my steps to the boat, where I once more embarked upon the ceaseless current, and kept upon my winding course, praying for even one glimpse of the sun, whose face had been veiled from my sight during the entire voyage, save for one brief moment when the brightness burst from the surrounding gloom only to be instantly eclipsed, and making all seem, by contrast, more dismal than ever. It would not interest the general reader to give a description of the few cities and many small villages that were passed during the descent of the Ohio. Few of these places possess even a local interest, and the eye soon wearies of the air of monotony found in them all. Even the guide-books dispose of these villages with a little dry detail, and rarely recommend the tourist to visit one of them. One feature may be, however, remarked in descending the Ohio, and that is the ambition displayed by the pioneers of civilization in the west in naming hamlets and towns--which, with few exceptions, are still of little importance--after the great cities of the older parts of the United States, and also of foreign lands. These names, which occupy such important positions on the maps, excite the imagination of the traveller, and when the reality comes into view, and he enters their narrow limits, the commonplace architecture and generally unattractive surroundings have a most depressing effect, and he sighs, "What's in a name?" We find upon the map the name and appearance of a city, but it proves to be the most uninteresting of villages, though known as Amsterdam. We also find many towns of the Hudson duplicated in name on the Ohio, and pass Troy, Albany, Newburg, and New York. The cities of Great Britain are in many instances perpetuated by the names of Aberdeen, Manchester, Dover, Portsmouth, Liverpool, and London; while other nations are represented by Rome, Carthage, Ghent, Warsaw, Moscow, Gallipolis, Bethlehem, and Cairo. Strangely sandwiched with these old names we find the southern states represented, as in Augusta, Charleston, &c.; while the Indian names Miami, Guyandot, Paducah, Wabash, and Kanawha are thrown in for variety. In the evening I sought the shelter of an island on the left side of the river, about three miles above Sisterville, which proved to be a restful camping-place during the dark night that settled down upon the surrounding country. Tuesday being a rainy day, I was forced by the inclemency of the weather to seek for better quarters in a retired creek about three miles above the thriving town of Marietta, so named in honor of Maria Antoinette of Austria. The country was now becoming more pleasing in character, and many of the islands, as I floated past them on the current, gave evidence of great fertility where cultivation had been bestowed upon them. Some of these islands were connected to one shore of the river by low dams, carelessly constructed of stones, their purpose being to deepen the channel upon the opposite side by diverting a considerable volume of water into it. When the water is very low, the tops of these dams can be seen, and must, of course, be avoided by boatmen; but when the Ohio increases its depth of water, these artificial aids to navigation are submerged, and even steamboats float securely over them. On Wednesday the river began to rise, in consequence of the heavy rains; so, with an increased current, the duck-boat left her quarters about eleven o'clock in the forenoon. Early in the afternoon, Parkersburgh, situated at the mouth of the Little Kanawha River, in Virginia, came into view. This is the outlet of the petroleum region of West Virginia, and is opposite the little village of Belpr, which is in the state of Ohio. These towns are connected by a massive iron bridge, built by the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad Company. Two miles below Belpr lay the beautiful island, formerly the home of Blennerhasset, an English gentleman of Irish descent, of whom a most interesting account was given in a late number of Harper's Magazine. Mr. Blennerhasset came to New York in 1797, with his wife and one child, hoping to find in America freedom of opinion and action denied him at home, as his relations and friends were all royalists, and opposed to the republican principles he had imbibed. Here, on this sunny island, under the grand old trees, he built a stately mansion, where wealth and culture, combined with all things rich and rare from the old world, made an Eden for all who entered it. Ten negro servants were bought to minister to the daily needs of the household. Over forty thousand dollars in gold were spent upon the buildings and grounds. A telescope of high power to assist in his researches, books of every description, musical instruments, chemical and philosophical apparatus, everything, in fact, that could add to the progress and comfort of an intellectual man, was here collected. Docks were built, and a miniature fleet moored in the soft waters of the ever-flowing Ohio. Nature had begun, Blennerhasset finished; and we cannot wonder when we read of the best families in the neighboring country going often thirty and forty miles to partake of the generous hospitality here offered them. Mrs. Blennerhasset, endowed by nature with beauty and winsome manners, was always a charming and attractive hostess, as well as a true wife and mother. For eight years Blennerhasset lived upon his island, enjoying more than is accorded to the lot of most mortals; but the story of his position, his intelligence, his wealth, his wonderful social influence upon those around him, reached at length the ear of one who marked him for his prey. Aaron Burr had been chosen vice-president of the United States in 1800, with Thomas Jefferson as president; but in 1804, when Jefferson was re-elected, Burr was not. The brain of this brilliant but ill- balanced and unprincipled man was ever rife with ambitious schemes, and the taste of political power in his position as vice-president of the United States seemed to have driven him towards the accomplishment of one of the boldest and most extravagant dreams he ever imagined. Mexico he thought could be wrested from Spain, and the then almost unpeopled valleys of the Ohio and Mississippi taken from the United States. This fair region, with its fertile soil and varied climate, should be blended into one empire. On the north, the Great Lakes should be his boundary line, while the Gulf of Mexico should lave with its salt waters his southern shores. The high cliffs of the Rocky Mountains should protect the western boundary, and on the east the towering Alleghanies form a barrier to invading foe. Such was the dream, and a fair one it was. Of this new empire, Aaron Burr would of course be Imperator; and the ways and means for its establishment must be found. The distant Blennerhasset seemed to point to the happy termination of at least some of the difficulties. His wealth, if not his personal influence, must be gained, and no man was better suited to win his point than the fascinating Aaron Burr. We will not enter into the plans of the artful insinuator made to enlist the sympathies of the unsuspecting Englishman, but we must ever feel sure that the cloven foot was well concealed until the last, for Blennerhasset loved the land of his adoption, and would not have listened to any plan for its impoverishment. His means were given lavishly for the aid of the new colony, as Burr called it, and his personal influence made use of in enlisting recruits. Arms were furnished, and the Indian foe given as an excuse for this measure. Burr during this time resided at Marietta, on the right bank of the river, fifteen miles above Blennerhasset's Island. He occupied himself in overseeing the building of fifteen large bateaux in which to transport his colony. Ten of these flat-bottomed boats were forty feet long, ten feet wide, and two and a half feet deep. The ends of the boats were similar, so that they could be pushed up or down stream. One boat was luxuriously fitted up, and intended to transport Mr. Blennerhasset and family, proving most conclusively that he knew nothing of any treasonable scheme against the United States. The boats were intended to carry five hundred men, and the energy of Colonel Burr had engaged nearly the whole number. The El Dorado held out to these young men was painted in the most brilliant hues of Burr's eloquence. He told them that Jefferson, who was popular with them all, approved the plan. That they were to take possession of the immense grant purchased of Baron Bastrop, but that in case of a war between the United States and Spain, which might at any time occur, as the Mexicans were very weary of the Spanish yoke, Congress would send an army to protect the settlers and help Mexico, so that a new empire would be founded of a democratic type, and the settlers finding all on an equality, would be enabled to enrich themselves beyond all former precedent. About this time rumors were circulated that Aaron Burr was plotting some mischief against the United States. Jefferson himself became alarmed, knowing as he so well did the ambition of Burr and his unprincipled character. A secret agent was sent to make inquiries in regard to the doings at Blennerhasset's Island and Marietta. This agent, Mr. John Graham, was assured by Mr. Blennerhasset that nothing was intended save the peaceful establishment of a colony on the banks of the Washita. Various reports still continued to greet the public ear, and of such a nature as to make Blennerhasset's name disliked. Some said treason was lurking, and blamed him for it. He was openly spoken of as the accomplice of Burr. The legislature of Ohio even made a law to suppress all expeditions found armed, and to seize all boats and provisions belonging to such expeditions. The governor was ready at a moment's notice to call out the state militia. A cannon was placed on the river-bank at Marietta, and strict orders given to examine every boat that descended the stream. Mr. Blennerhasset had no idea of resisting the authorities, and gave up the whole scheme, determined to meet his heavy losses as best he might. Four boats, with about thirty men, had been landed upon Blennerhasset's Island a short time before these rigorous measures had been taken. They were under the care of Mr. Tyler, one of Burr's agents from New York, and he did all in his power to urge Blennerhasset not to retire at so critical a moment. It was, however, too late to avert calamity, and the unfortunate family was doomed to misfortune. The alarming intelligence now reached the island that the Wood County militia was en route for that place, that the boats would be seized, the men taken prisoners, and probably the mansion burned, as the most desperate characters in the surrounding country had volunteered for the attack. Urged by his friends, Blennerhasset and the few men with him escaped by the boats. His flight was not a moment too soon, for having been branded as a traitor, no one knows what might have befallen him had the lawless men who arrived immediately after his departure found him in their power. Colonel Phelps, the commander of the militia, started in pursuit, and the remainder of his men, with no one to restrain them, gave full play to their savage feelings. Seven days of riot followed. They took possession of the house, broke into the cellars, and drank the choice wines, until, more like beasts than men, they made havoc of the rich accumulation of years. Everything was destroyed. The paintings, the ornaments, rare glass and china, family silver, furniture, and, worst vandalism of all, the flames were fed with the choicest volumes, many of which never could be duplicated, for the value of Blennerhasset's library was known through all the country. Mrs. Blennerhasset had remained upon the island during this week of terror, hoping by her presence to restrain the lawless band, but the brave woman was at last obliged to fly with her two little sons, taking refuge on one of the flat river boats sent by a friend to afford her a way of escape. Mr. Blennerhasset was afterwards arrested for treason, but no evidence could be found against him, and he was never brought to trial. He invested the little means left him in a cotton plantation near Natchez, where, with his devoted wife, he tried to retrieve his fallen fortunes. The second war with England rendered his plantation worthless, and returning by way of Montreal to his native land, he died a broken-hearted man, leaving his wife in destitute circumstances. An attempt was made by her friends to obtain some return for the destruction of their property from the United States government, but all proved of no avail, and she who had always been surrounded by wealth and luxury, was, during her last hours, dependent upon the charity of a society of Irish ladies in New York city, who with tenderness nursed her unto the end, and then took upon themselves the expenses of her interment. Such is the sad story of Blennerhasset and his wife; and I thought, as I quietly moored my boat in a little creek that mingled its current with the great river, near the lower end of the island which was once such a happy home, of the uncertainty of all earthly prosperity, and the necessity there was for making the most of the present,--which last idea sent a sleepy sailor hastily under his hatch. [Indian mound, at Moundsville, West Virginia.] CHAPTER IV. FROM BLENNERHASSET'S ISLAND TO CINCINNATI RIVER CAMPS.-- THE SHANTY-BOATS AND RIVER MIGRANTS.-- VARIOUS EXPERIENCES.-- ARRIVAL AT CINCINNATI.-- THE SNEAK-BOX FROZEN UP IN PLEASANT RUN.-- A TAILOR'S FAMILY.-- A NIGHT UNDER A GERMAN COVERLET. ABOUT this time the selection of resting places for the night became an important feature of the voyage. It was easy to draw the little craft out of the water on to a smooth, shelving beach, but such places did not always appear at the proper time for ending the day's rowing. The banks were frequently precipitous, and, destitute of beaches, frowned down upon the lonely voyager in anything but a hospitable manner. There were also present two elements antagonistic to my peace of mind. One was the night steamer, which, as it struggled up stream, coursing along shore to avoid the strong current, sent swashy waves to disturb my dreams by pitching my little craft about in the roughest manner. A light canoe could easily have been carried further inland, out of reach of the unwelcome waves, and would, so far as that went, have made a more quiet resting-place than the heavy duck-boat; but then, on the other hand, a sleeping-apartment in a canoe would have lacked the roominess and security of the sneak-box. After the first few nights' camping on the Ohio, I naturally took to the channelless side of one of the numerous islands which dot the river's surface, or, what was still better, penetrated into the wild- looking creeks and rivers, more than one hundred of which enter the parent stream along the thousand miles of its course. Here, in these secluded nooks, I found security from the steamer's swash. The second objectionable element on the Ohio was the presence of tramps, rough boatmen, and scoundrels of all kinds. In fact, the Ohio and Mississippi rivers are the grand highway of the West for a large class of vagabonds. One of these fellows will steal something of value from a farm near the river, seize the first bateau, or skiff, he can find, cross the stream, and descend it for fifty or a hundred miles. He will then abandon the stolen boat if he cannot sell it, ship as working-hand upon the first steamer or coal-ark he happens to meet, descend the river still further, and so escape detection. To avoid these rough characters, as well as the drunken crews of shanty-boats, it was necessary always to enter the night's camping- ground unobserved; but when once secreted on the wooded shore of some friendly creek, covered by the dusky shades of night, I felt perfectly safe, and had no fear of a night attack from any one. Securely shut in my strong box, with a hatchet and a Colt's revolver by my side, and a double-barrelled gun, carefully charged, snugly stowed under the deck, the intruder would have been in danger, and not the occupant of the sneak-box. The hatch, or cover, which rested upon the stern of the boat during rowing-hours, was at night dropped over the hold, or well, in such a way as to give plenty of ventilation, and still, at the same time, to be easily and instantly removed in case of need. I must not fail here to mention one characteristic feature possessed by the sneak-box which gives it an advantage over every other boat I have examined. Its deck is nowhere level, and if a person attempts to step upon it while it is afloat, his foot touches the periphery of a circle, and the spoon-shaped, keelless, little craft flies out as if by magic from under the pressure of the foot, and without further warning the luckless intruder falls into the water. At the summer watering-places in Barnegat Bay it used to be a great source of amusement to the boatmen to tie a sneak-box to a landing, and wait quietly near by to see the city boys attempt to get into her. Instead of stepping safely and easily into the hold, they would invariably step upon the rounded deck, when away would shoot the slippery craft, and the unsuccessful boarder would fall into two feet of water, to the great amusement of his comrades. When once inside of the sneak-box, it becomes the stiffest and steadiest of crafts. Two men can stand upright upon the flooring of the hold and paddle her along rapidly, with very little careening to right or left. By far the most interesting and peculiar features of a winter's row down the Ohio are the life-studies offered by the occupants of the numerous shanty-boats daily encountered. They are sometimes called, and justly too, family-boats, and serve as the winter homes of a singular class of people, carrying their passengers and cargoes from the icy region of the Ohio to New Orleans. Their annual descent of the river resembles the migration of birds, and we invariably find those of a feather flocking together. It would be hard to trace these creatures to their lair; but the Alleghany and Monongahela region, with the towns of the upper Ohio, may be said to furnish most of them. Let them come from where they may (and we feel sure none will quarrel for the honor of calling them citizens), the fall of the leaf seems to be the signal for looking up winter-quarters, and the river with its swift current the inviting path to warmer suns and an easy life. The shanty-boatman looks to the river not only for his life, but also for the means of making that life pleasant; so he fishes in the stream for floating lumber in the form of boards, planks, and scantling for framing to build his home. It is soon ready. A scow, or flatboat, about twenty feet long by ten or twelve wide, is roughly constructed. It is made of two-inch planks spiked together. These scows are calked with oakum and rags, and the seams are made water-tight with pitch or tar. A small, low house is built upon the boat, and covers about two- thirds of it, leaving a cockpit at each end, in which the crews work the sweeps, or oars, which govern the motions of the shanty-boat. If the proprietor of the boat has a family, he puts its members on board,--not forgetting the pet dogs and cats,--with a small stock of salt pork, bacon, flour, potatoes, molasses, salt, and coffee. An old cooking-stove is set up in the shanty, and its sheet-iron pipe, projecting through the roof, makes a chimney a superfluity. Rough bunks, or berths, are constructed for sleeping-quarters; but if the family are the happy possessors of any furniture, it is put on board, and adds greatly to their respectability. A number of steel traps, with the usual double-barrelled gun, or rifle, and a good supply of ammunition, constitute the most important supplies of the shanty-boat, and are never forgotten. Of these family-boats alone I passed over two hundred on the Ohio. This rude, unpainted structure, with its door at each end of the shanty, and a few windows relieving the barrenness of its sides, makes a very comfortable home for its rough occupants. If the shanty-man be a widower or a bachelor, or even if he be a married man laboring under the belief that his wife and he are not true affinities, and that there is more war in the house than is good for the peace of the household, he looks about for a housekeeper. She must be some congenial spirit, who will fry his bacon and wash his shirts without murmuring. Having found one whom he fondly thinks will "fill the bill," he next proceeds to picture to her vivid imagination the delights of "drifting." "Nothing to do," he says, "but to float with the current, and eat fresh pork, and take a hand at euchre." The woods, he tells her, are full of hogs. They shall fall an easy prey to his unfailing gun, and after them, when further south, the golden orange shall delight her thirsty soul, while all the sugar-cane she can chew shall be gathered for her. Add to these the luxury of plenty of snuff with which to rub her dainty gums, with the promise of tobacco enough to keep her pipe always full, and it will be hard to find among this class a fair one with sufficient strength of mind to resist such an offer; so she promises to keep house for him as long as the shanty-boat holds together. Her embarkation is characteristic. Whatever her attire, the bonnet is there, gay with flowers; a pack of cards is tightly grasped in her hand; while a worn, old trunk, tied with a cord and fondly called a "saratoga," is hoisted on board; and so, for better or for worse, she goes forth to meet her fate, or, as she expresses it, "to find luck." More than one quarrel usually occurs during the descent of the Mississippi, and by the time New Orleans is reached the shanty-boatman sets his quondam housekeeper adrift, where, in the swift current of life, she is caught by kindred spirits, and being introduced to city society as the Northern Lily, or Pittsburgh Rose, is soon lost to sight, and never returns to the far distant up-river country. Another shanty-boat is built by a party of young men suffering from impecuniosity. They are "out of a job," and to them the charms of an independent life on the river is irresistible. Having pooled their few dollars to build their floating home, they descend to New Orleans as negro minstrels, trappers, or thieves, as necessity may demand. Cobblers set afloat their establishments, calling attention to the fact by the creaking sign of a boot; and here on the rushing river a man can have his heel tapped as easily as on shore. Tin-smiths, agents and repairers of sewing machines, grocers, saloon- keepers, barbers, and every trade indeed is here represented on these floating dens. I saw one circus-boat with a ring twenty-five feet in diameter upon it, in which a troop of horsemen, acrobats, and flying trapze artists performed while their boat was tied to a landing. The occupants of the shanty-boats float upon the stream with the current, rarely doing any rowing with their heavy sweeps. They keep steadily on their course till a milder climate is reached, when they work their clumsy craft into some little creek or river, and securely fasten it to the bank. The men set their well-baited steel traps along the wooded watercourse for mink, coons, and foxes. They give their whole attention to these traps, and in the course of a winter secure many skins. While in the Mississippi country, however, they find other game, and feast upon the hogs of the woods' people. To prevent detection, the skin, with the swine-herd's peculiar mark upon it, is stripped off and buried. When engaged in the precarious occupation of hog-stealing, the shanty- man is careful to keep a goodly number of the skins of wild animals stretched upon the outside walls of his cabin, so that visitors to his boat may be led to imagine that he is an industrious and legitimate trapper, of high-toned feelings, and one "who wouldn't stick a man's hog for no money." If there be a religious meeting in the vicinity of the shanty-boat, the whole family attend it with alacrity, and prove that their BELIEF in honest doctrines is a very different thing from their daily PRACTICE of the same. They join with vigor in the shoutings, and their "amens" drown all others, while their excitable natures, worked upon by the wild eloquence of the backwoods' preacher, seem to give evidence of a firm desire to lead Christian lives, and the spectator is often deceived by their apparent earnestness and sincerity. Such ideas are, however, quickly dispelled by a visit to a shanty-boat, and a glimpse of these people "at home." The great fleet of shanty-boats does not begin to reach New Orleans until the approach of spring. Once there, they find a market for the skins of the animals trapped during the winter, and these being sold for cash, the trapper disposes of his boat for a nominal sum to some one in need of cheap firewood, and purchasing lower-deck tickets for Cairo, or Pittsburgh, at from four to six dollars per head, places his family upon an up-river steamer, and returns with the spring birds to the Ohio River, to rent a small piece of ground for the season, where he can "make a crop of corn," and raise some cabbage and potatoes, upon which to subsist until it be time to repeat his southern migration. In this descent of the river, many persons, who have clubbed together to meet the expenses of a shanty-boat life for the first time, and who are of a sentimental turn of mind, look upon the voyage as a romantic era in their lives. Visions of basking in the sunlight, feasting, and sleeping, dance before their benighted eyes; for they are not all of the low, ignorant class I have described. Professors, teachers, musicians, all drift at times down the river; and one is often startled at finding in the apparently rough crew men who seem worthy of a better fate. To these the river experiences are generally new, and the ribald jokes and low river slang, with the ever-accompanying cheap corn-whiskey and the nightly riots over cutthroat euchre, must be at first a revelation. Hundreds of these low fellows will swear to you that the world owes them a living, and that they mean to have it; that they are gentlemen, and therefore cannot work. They pay a good price for their indolence, as the neglect of their craft and their loose ideas of navigation seldom fail to bring them to grief before they even reach the Mississippi at Cairo. Their heavy, flat-bottomed boat gets impaled upon a snag or the sharp top of a sawyer; and as the luckless craft spins round with the current, a hole is punched through the bottom, the water rushes in and takes possession, driving the inexperienced crew to the little boat usually carried in tow for any emergency. Into this boat the shanty-men hastily store their guns, whiskey, and such property as they can save from the wreck, and making for the shore, hold a council of war. There, in the swift current, lies the centre of their hopes, quickly settling in the deep water, soon to be seen no more. The fact now seems to dawn upon them for the first time that a little seamanship is needed even in descending a river, that with a little care their Noah's Ark might have been kept afloat, and the treacherous "bob sawyer" avoided. This trap for careless sailors is a tree, with its roots held in the river's bottom, and its broken top bobbing up and down with the undulations of the current. Boatmen give it the euphonious title of "bob sawyer" because of the bobbing and sawing motions imparted to it by the pulsations of the water. Destitute of means, these children of circumstance resolve never to say die. Their ship has gone down, but their pride is left, and they will not go home till they have "done" the river; and so, repairing to the first landing, they ship in pairs upon freighters descending the stream. Some months later they return to their homes with seedy habiliments but an enlarged experience, sadder but wiser men. And so the great flood of river life goes on, and out of this annual custom of shanty-boat migration a peculiar phase of American character is developed, a curious set of educated and illiterate nomads, as restless and unprofitable a class of inhabitants as can be found in all the great West. After leaving my camp near Blennerhasset's Island, on December 9, the features of the landscape changed. The hills lost their altitude, and seemed farther back from the water, while the river itself appeared to widen. Snow squalls filled the air, and the thought of a comfortable camping-ground for the night was a welcome one. About dusk I retired into the first creek above Letart's Landing, on the left bank of the Ohio, where I spent the night. The next forenoon I entered a region of salt wells, with a number of flourishing little towns scattered here and there upon the borders of the stream. One of these, called Hartford City, had a well eleven hundred and seventy feet in depth. From another well in the vicinity both oil and salt-water were raised by means of a steam-pump. These oil-wells were half a mile back of the river. Coal-mines were frequently passed in this neighborhood on both sides of the Ohio. After dark I was fortunate enough to find a camping-place in a low swamp on the right bank of the stream, in the vicinity of which was a gloomy-looking, deserted house. I climbed the slippery bank with my cooking kit upon my back, and finding some refuse wood in what had once been a kitchen, made a fire, and enjoyed the first meal I had been able to cook in camp since the voyage was commenced. Cold winds whistled round me all night, but the snug nest in my boat was warm and cheerful, for I lighted my candle, and by its dear flame made up my daily "log." There were, of course, some inconveniences in regard to lighting so low-studded a chamber. It was important to have a candle of not more than two inches in length, so that the flame should not go too near the roof of my domicile. Then the space being small, my literary labors were of necessity performed in a reclining position; while lying upon my side, my shoulder almost touched the carlines of the hatch above. Saturday was as raw and blustering as the previous day, so hastily breakfasting upon the remains of my supper,--COLD chocolate, COLD corned beef, and COLD crackers,--I determined to get into a milder region as soon as possible. As I rowed down the stream, the peculiar appearance of the Barnegat sneak-box attracted the attention of the men on board the coal-barges, shanty-boats, &c., and they invariably crowded to the side I passed, besieging me with questions of every description, such as, "Say, stranger, where did you steal that pumpkin-seed looking boat from?" "How much did she cost, any way?" "Ain't ye afeard some steamboat will swash the life out of her?" On several occasions I raised the water- apron, and explained how the little sneak-box shed the water that washed over her bows, when these rough fellows seemed much impressed with the excellent qualities of the boat, and frankly acknowledged that "it might pay a fellow to steal one if there was a good show for such a trick." At three o'clock P. M. I passed the town of Guyandot, which is situated on the left bank of the Ohio, at its junction with the Big Guyandot. Three miles below Guyandot is the growing city of Huntington, the Ohio River terminus of the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, which has a total length of four hundred and sixty-five miles, exclusive of six private branches. The Atlantic coast terminus is on the James River, Chesapeake Bay. The snow squalls now became so frequent, and the atmosphere was so chilly and penetrating, that I was driven from the swashy waves of the troubled Ohio, and eagerly sought refuge in Fourfold Creek, about a league below Huntington, where the high, wooded banks of the little tributary offered me protection and rest. At an early hour the next morning I was conscious of a change of temperature. It was growing colder. A keen wind whistled through the tree-tops. I was alarmed at the prospect of having my boat fastened in the creek by the congealing of its waters, so I pushed out upon the Ohio and hastened towards a warmer climate as fast as oars, muscles, and a friendly current would carry me. The shanty-boatmen had informed me that the Ohio might freeze up in a single night, in places, even as near its mouth as Cairo. I did not, however, feel so much alarmed in regard to the river as I did about its tributaries. The Ohio was not likely to remain sealed up for more than a few days at a time, but the creeks, my harbors of refuge, my lodging-places, might remain frozen up for a long time, and put me to serious inconvenience. About ten o'clock A. M. the duck-boat crossed the mouth of the Big Sandy River, the limit of Virginia, and I floated along the shores of the grand old state of Kentucky on the left, while the immense state of Ohio still skirted the right bank of the river. The agricultural features of the Ohio valley had been increasing in attractiveness with the descent of the stream. The high bottom-lands of the valley exhibited signs of careful cultivation, while substantial brick houses here and there dotted the landscape. Interspersed with these were the inevitable log-cabins and dingy hovels, speaking plainly of the poverty and shiftlessness of some of the inhabitants. At four P. M. I could endure the cold no longer, and when a beautiful creek with wooded shores, which divided fine farms, opened invitingly before me on the Kentucky side, I quickly entered it, and moored the sneak-box to an ancient sycamore whose trunk rose out of the water twelve feet from shore. I was not a moment too soon in leaving the wide river, for as I quietly supped on my cold bread and meat, which needed no better sauce than my daily increasing appetite to make it tempting, the wind increased to a tempest, and screeched and howled through the forest with such wintry blasts that I was glad to creep under my hatch before dark. On Monday, December 13, the violent wind storm continuing, I remained all day in my box, writing letters and watching the scuds flying over the tops of high trees. At noon a party of hunters, with a small pack of hounds, came abruptly upon my camp. Though boys only, they carried shot-guns, and expectorated enough tobacco-juice to pass for the type of western manhood. They chatted pleasantly round my boat, though each sentence that fell from their lips was emphasized by its accompanying oath. I asked them the name of the creek, when one replied, "Why, boss, you don't call this a CREEK, do you? Why, there is twenty foot of water in it. It's the Tiger River, and comes a heap of a long way " Another said, "Look here, cap'n, I wouldn't travel alone in that 'ere little skiff, for when you're in camp any feller might put a ball into you from a high bank." "Yes," added another, "there is plenty o' folks along the river that would do it, too." As my camp had become known, I acted upon the friendly hint of the boy-hunters, and took my departure the next day at an early hour, following the left bank of the river, which afforded me a lee shore. As I dashed through the swashy waves, with the apron of the boat securely set to keep the water from wetting my back, the sun in all its grandeur parted the clouds and lighted up the landscape until everything partook of its brightness. This was the second time in two weeks that the God of Day had asserted his supremacy, and his advent was fully appreciated. Two miles below Portsmouth, Ohio, I encountered a solitary voyager in a skiff, shooting mallards about the mouths of the creeks, and having discovered that he was a gentleman, I intrusted my mail to his keeping, and pushed on to a little creek beyond Rome, where, thanks to good fortune, some dry wood was discovered. A bright blaze was soon lighting up the darkness of the thicket into which I had drawn my boat, and the hot supper, now cooked in camp, and served without ceremony, was duly relished. The deck of the boat was covered with a thin coating of ice, and as the wind went down the temperature continued to fall until six o'clock in the morning, when I considered it unsafe to linger a moment longer in the creek, the surface of which was already frozen over, and the ice becoming thicker every hour. An oar served to break a passage-way from the creek to the Ohio, which I descended in a blustering wind, being frequently driven to seek shelter under the lee afforded by points of land. At sunset I reached Maysville, where the celebrated Daniel Boone, the pioneer of Kentucky backwoods life, once lived; and as the wind began to fall, I pulled into a fine creek about four miles below the village, having made twenty-nine miles under most discouraging circumstances. The river was here, as elsewhere, lighted by small hand-lanterns hung upon posts. The lights were, however, so dull, and, where the channel was not devious, at such long intervals, that they only added to the gloom. As the wind generally rose and fell with the sun, it became necessary to adopt a new plan to expedite my voyage, and the river being usually smooth at dawn of day, an early start was an imperative duty. At four o'clock in the morning the duck-boat was under way, her captain cheered by the hope of arriving in Cincinnati, the great city of the Ohio valley, by sunset. I plied my oars vigorously all day, and when darkness settled upon the land, was rewarded for my exertions by having my little craft shoot under the first bridge that connects Cincinnati with Kentucky. Here steamers, coal-barges, and river craft of every description lined the Ohio as well as the Kentucky shore. Iron cages filled with burning coals were suspended from cranes erected upon flatboats for the purpose of lighting the river, which was most effectually done, the unwonted brilliancy giving to the busy scene a strange weirdness, and making a picture never to be forgotten. The swift current now carried me under the suspension-bridge which connects Cincinnati and Covington, and my boat entered the dark area below, when suddenly the river was clouded in snow, as fierce squalls came up the stream, and I eagerly scanned the high, dark banks to find some inlet to serve as harbor for the night. It was very dark, and I hugged the Kentucky shore as closely as I dared. Suddenly a gleam of light, like a break in a fog-bank, opened upon my craft, and the dim outlines of the sides of a gorge in the high coast caught my eye. It was not necessary to row into the cleft in the hillside, for a fierce blast of the tempest blew me into the little creek; nor was my progress stayed until the sneak-box was driven several rods into its dark interior, and entangled in the branches of a fallen tree. In the blinding snowfall it was impossible to discern anything upon the steep banks of the little creek which had fairly forced its hospitality upon me; so, carefully fastening my painter to the fallen tree, I hastily disappeared below my hatch. During the night the mercury fell to six degrees above zero, but my quarters were so comfortable that little inconvenience from the cold was experienced until morning, when I attempted to make my toilet with an open hatch. Then I discovered the unpleasant fact that my boat was securely frozen up in the waters of the creek! Being without a stove, and finding that my canned provisions--not having been wrapped in several coverings like their owner, and having no power to convert oxygen into fuel for warmth--were solidifying, I locked my hatch, and scrambled up the high banks to seek the comforts of that civilization which I had so gladly left behind when I embarked at a point five hundred miles further up the river, thinking as I went what a contrary mortal man was, myself among the number, for I was as eager now to find my human brother as I had been to turn my back upon him a short time before. The poetry of solitude was frozen into prose, and the low temperature around me made life under a roof seem attractive for the time being, though, judging from the general aspect of things, there was not much to look forward to, in either a social or comfortable light, in my immediate vicinity. I was, however, too cold and too hungry to be dainty, and felt like Dickens's Mrs. Bloss, that I "must have nourishment." A turnpike crossed the ravine a few rods from my boat, and the tollgate-keeper informed me that I was frozen up in Pleasant Run, near which were several small houses. Upon application for "boarding" accommodations I discovered that breakfast at Pleasant Run was a movable feast, that some had already taken it at seven A. M., and that others would not have it ready till three P. M. This was anything but encouraging to a cold and hungry man; but I at length obtained admission to the house of a German tailor, and, explaining my condition, offered to pay him liberally for the privilege of becoming his guest until the cold snap was over. He examined me closely, and having made, as it were, a mental inventory of my features, dress, &c., exclaimed, "Mine friend, in dese times nobody knows who's which. I say, sar, nobody knows who's what. Fellers land here and eats mine grub, and den shoves off dere poats, and nevar says 'tank you, sar,' for mine grub. Since de confederate war all men is skamps, I does fully pelieve. I fights twenty-doo pattles for de Union, nots for de monish, but because I likes de free government; but it is imbossible to feeds all de beebles what lands at Pleasant Run." I assured this patriotic tailor and adopted citizen that I would pay him well for the trouble of boarding me, but he answered in a surly way: "Dat's vat dey all says. It's to be all pay, but dey eats up de sour- crout and de fresh pork, and drinks de coffee, and ven I looks for de monish, de gentlemens has disappeared down de rivver. Now you don't looks as much rascal as some of dem does, and as it ish cold to-day, I vill make dish corntract mid you. You shall stay here till de cold goes away, and you shall hab de pest I've got for twenty-five cents a meal, but you shall pays me de twenty-five cents a meal down in advance, beforehand." "Here is a character," I thought, "a new type to study, and perhaps, after all, being frozen up in Pleasant Run may not be a fact to regret." My landlord's proposition was at once accepted, and I offered to pay him for three meals in advance, to which he replied, "Dat dree pays at one time was not in de corntract." "You have forgotten one point," I said, addressing him as he led me to the kitchen, where "mine frau" was up to her elbows in work. "And what ish dat?" he asked, rather suspiciously eying me. "You have not fixed a price for my lodgings." "De use of de peddothes costs me notting, so I never charges for de lodgings wen de boarder WASHES himself every day," answered mine host. Having settled this point, and ordered his wife, in commanding terms, "to gib dish man his breakfast," he withdrew. The woman treated me very kindly, apologizing for her husband's exacting demands by assuring me that "Nobody knows WHO'S when nowadays. Seems as if everybody had got 'moralized by de war." The coffee the good lady made me, though thoroughly boiled, was excellent, and I complimented her upon it. "Yes," she replied, "my coffee IS coffee. De 'Merican beeble forgets de coffee wen dey makes it, and puts all water. Oh, wishy- washy is 'Merican coffee. It's like peas and beans ground up. De German beebles won't drink de stuff." A generous repast of sausage, fresh pork, good bread, butter, and coffee, was placed before me, when the tailor returned with darkened brow, and rudely demanded the whereabouts of my boat. "I looks everywhere," he said, "and don't finds de poat. Hab you one poat, or hab you not?" I carefully described the exact location of the sneak- box in the rear of the tollgate-house, when he hastily disappeared. The old lady and I had fully discussed the wishy-washy coffee question, when mine host returned. This time he wore a pleasant countenance, and took me into his shop, where he introduced me to three of his apprentices. At night I was given a bed in an unfinished attic, under a shingled roof, which was not even ceiled, so the constant draughts of air whistling through the interstices overhead and at the sides of my apartment, kept up a ventilation more perfect than was desirable; and I should have suffered from the cold had it not been for my German coverlet, which was a feather-bed about twenty inches in thickness. It, of course, half smothered me, but there seemed no choice between that and freezing to death, so I patiently accepted my fate. [A night under a German coverlet.] CHAPTER V. FROM CINCINNATI TO THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER CINCINNATI.-- MUSIC AND PORK IN PORKOPOLIS.-- THE BIG BONE LICK OF FOSSIL ELEPHANTS.-- COLONEL CROGHAN'S VISIT TO THE LICK.-- PORTAGE AROUND THE "FALLS," AT LOUISVILLE, KENTUCKY.-- STUCK IN THE MUD.-- THE FIRST STEAMBOAT OF THE WEST.-- VICTOR HUGO ON THE SITUATION.-- A FREEBOOTER'S DEN.-- WHOOPING AND SAND-HILL CRANES.-- THE SNEAK-BOX ENTERS THE MISSISSIPPI.-- THE next day being Saturday, and the mercury still standing at seven degrees above zero, I walked to Covington, and crossed the suspension- bridge to Cincinnati. It was the season of the year when the vast pork-packing establishments were in full blast, and the amount of work done spoke well for western enterprise. Pork-raising and pork-packing is one of the great industries of the Ohio valley, and the Cincinnati and Louisville merchants have control of the largest portion of the business growing out of it. When a stranger visits the pork-packing establishments of Cincinnati he marvels at the immensity and celerity of the various manipulations, which commence with the killing of a squealing pig, and the transformation of his hogship, in a few minutes, into a well-cleaned animal, hanging up to cool in a store-room, from which he is taken a little later and immediately cut up and packed in barrels for market. The reader may have a distaste for statistics, but I cannot impress upon him the magnitude of this great industry without giving a few reliable figures. The number of hogs packed in Cincinnati during the past twenty-one years, from 1853 to 1875, was 9,242,972. While Cincinnati was at work on one season's crop of pork of 632,302 pigs, her rival, Chicago, on the shore of Lake Michigan, killed and packed in the same time her crop of 2,501,285 animals. The "Twenty-ninth Annual Report of the Cincinnati Price Current," published while the author has been writing this chapter, shows what our country can do in supplying meat for foreign as well as home markets. The states of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin, Michigan, Minnesota, Nebraska, Missouri, Kansas, Kentucky, and Tennessee, contributed to the packing establishments between November 1, 1877, and March 1, 1878, during the winter season of six months, 6,505,446 hogs; and during the summer season, from March 1 to November 1, 2,543,120 animals,--making a one year's total of 9,048,566 pigs, which averaged a net weight, when dressed, of two hundred and twenty- six pounds. Thus the weight of meat alone packed in one year was 2,044,975,916 pounds. Add to this the crop of California, Oregon, and Canada of the same year, and the total swells to 12,301,589 hogs, duly registered as having been killed by the pork-packers, and there still remain uncounted all the pigs killed in thirty-eight states by farmers for their own and neighbors' consumption. This annual crop of pork a jocund professor once described as "a prodigious mass of heavy carburetted hydrogen gas and scrofula;" but the chemists of our day would more properly stigmatize it as a vast quantity of Luzic, Myristic, Palmitic, Margaric, and Stearic acids in combination with glycerine and fibre. A western savant, having investigated the parasites existing in hogs, affirms that in western pork, eight animals out of every one hundred are affected by that muscle-boring pest so dangerous to those who have eaten the infected meat, and so well known to all students as the Trichina spiralis. The distinguished writer Letheby says of this parasite: "As found in the human subject (after death) it is usually in the encysted state, when it has passed beyond its dangerous condition, and has become harmless. In most cases, when thus discovered, there is no record of its action, and therefore it was once thought to be an innocent visitor; but we now know that while it was free, (that is, before nature had barricaded it up in the little cyst,) its presence was the cause of frightful disorders, killing about fifty per centum of its victims in terrible agony. The young worms having hatched in the body of man, migrate to the numerous muscles, causing the most excruciating pain, so that the patient, fearing to move his inflamed muscles, would lie motionless upon his back, and if he did not die in this state of the disorder, nature came to the rescue and imprisoned the creature by surrounding it with a fibrous cyst, where it lives for years, being ready at any moment to acquire activity when it is swallowed and released from its cell." Another parasite found in the muscles of the pig is known as the Cysticercus cellulosus, and the animals afflicted by it are said to have the measles. This larva of the tapeworm exists in the pig in little sacs not larger than a pin's head, and can be seen by the naked eye. The strong brine of the packer does not kill them, and I have known them to be taken alive from a boiled ham. The great heat of frying alone renders them harmless. When partially-cooked, measly pork is eaten by man, the gastric juice of the stomach dissolves the membranous sac which contains the living larva, and the animal soon passes into the intestines, where, clinging by its hooks, it holds on with wonderful tenacity, rapidly sending out joint after joint, until the perfect tapeworm sometimes attains a length of thirty feet. Let us hope, for the credit of humanity, that these facts are not generally known, for man has ills enough without incurring the risks of such a diet. If pork must form a staple, let the genealogical tree of his pigship be carefully sought after, and let the would-be consumer ask the question considered so important in a certain river- bounded city of Pennsylvania, "Who was his grandfather?" In the year 1800 Cincinnati was a little pioneer settlement of seven hundred and fifty men, women, and children. Her census of 1880 will not fall far short of a quarter of a million. She contributes more than her share to feed the world, and is, strange to say, as celebrated for the terpsichorean art as for her pork. Even Boston must yield her the palm as a musical centre, and give to the inhabitants of the once rough western city the credit due them for their versatility of talent, and the ease with which they render Beethoven, or "take a turn in pork," as occasion may demand, many of the music-loving citizens being engaged at times in a commercial way with this staple. Having obtained at a bookstore a copy of Lloyd's Map of the Mississippi River, I returned to the tailor's, where I was greeted in the most kindly manner, and informed that the young lady of the house, the only daughter of my host, had voluntarily left home to visit some city relations, that I might occupy her comfortably furnished room, with the open fireplace, which was now filled with blazing wood, and sending forth a genial glow into the heavily-curtained apartment. When I protested against this promotion in the social scale, and refused to deprive the young lady of her room, I was informed that she knew "WHO WAS WHO," and had insisted upon leaving her room that a gentleman might be properly entertained in it. From this time my now agreeable host stoutly refused to accept payment in advance for my daily rations, while, with his family and apprentices, he took up his quarters each evening in my new room, relating his experiences during the war, and giving me many original ideas. It grew warmer, but the ice of the creek in which my boat lay did not melt. The water was, however, falling, and it became necessary to cut out the sneak-box, and slide her over the ice into the unfrozen Ohio. My host had become alarmed, and kept an anxious eye upon the boat. "De peoples knows de poat is here, and some of dem hab told others about it. If you don't hide her down de rivver to-night, she will be stolen by de rivver thieves." I was thus forced to leave these kind people, who about noon escorted me to the duck-boat, and showered upon me their best wishes for a prosperous voyage. It was a glorious afternoon, and the sun poured all his wealth of light and cheerfulness upon the valley. Late in the day I passed the mouth of the Big Miami River. Indiana was on the right, while Kentucky still skirted the left bank of the river. The state of Ohio had furnished the Ohio River with a margin for four hundred and seventy-five miles. The Little Miami River joins the Ohio six miles above Cincinnati; the Big Miami enters it twenty miles below the city. These streams flow through rich farming regions, but they are not navigable. After passing the town of Aurora, which is six miles below the Big Miami, I caught sight of the mouth of a creek, whose thickets of trees, in the gloom of the fast approaching night, almost hid from view the outlines of a forlorn-looking shanty-boat. Clouds of smoke, with the bright glare of the fire, shot out of the rusty stove-pipe in the roof, but I soon discovered that it was the abode of one who attended strictly to his own business, and expected the same behavior from his neighbors. So, saying good evening to this man of solitary habits, I quickly rowed past his floating hermitage into the darkness of the neighboring swamp. I soon put my own home in order, ate my supper, and retired, feeling happy in the thought that I should before long reach a climate where my out-door life would not be attended with so many inconveniences. The next day a milder but damper atmosphere greeted me. By noon I had rowed twenty-two miles, and was off the mouth of Big Bone Lick Creek, in Kentucky. Two miles from the mouth of this creek are some springs, the waters of which are charged with sulphur and salt. The most interesting feature of this locality was the fact that here were buried in one vast bed the fossil bones of "The Mastodon and the Arctic Elephant." Formerly these prehistoric relics of a departed fauna were scattered over the surface of the earth. The first mention of this locality was made, I think, by a French explorer in 1649. It is again referred to by a British subject in 1765. A rare copy of a private journal kept by this early explorer of the Ohio, Colonel George Croghan, was published in G. W. Featherstonhaugh's "American Journal of Geology," of December, 1831. This monthly publication ended with its first year's existence. Only five copies of this number were known to be in print three years since, when Professor Thomas, of Mount Holly, New Jersey, encouraged the issue of a reprint of one hundred copies, from which some of our public libraries have been supplied. This Colonel George Croghan, in company with deputies from the Seneca, Shawnesse, and Delaware nations, left Fort Pitt (Pittsburgh), in two bateaux, on the 15th of May, 1765, bound on a mission to the Indian tribes of the Ohio valley. On the 29th of the month the expedition reached the Little Miami River. Colonel Croghan there commences his account of the Big Bone Lick region. He says: "May 30th we passed the Great Miami River, about thirty miles from the little river of that name, and in the EVENING arrived at the place WHERE THE ELEPHANTS' BONES ARE FOUND, when we encamped, intending to take a view of the place next morning. This day we came about seventy miles. The country on both sides level, and rich bottoms, well watered. May 31st. Early in the morning we went to the great Lick, where those bones are only found, about four miles from the river, on the south-east side. In our way we passed through a fine-timbered, clear wood: we passed into a large road, which the buffaloes have beaten, spacious enough for two wagons to go abreast, and leading straight into the Lick. It appears that there are vast quantities of these bones lying five or six feet under ground, which we discovered in the bank at the edge of the Lick. We found here two tusks above six feet long; we carried one, with some other bones, to our boat, and set off." In relation to the aboriginal inhabitants of the country of the Ohio valley, it is interesting to note that the "Six Nations" held six of the gates to New York, and were strong because they were united, for Colonel Croghan's enumeration of them shows that they had only two thousand one hundred and twenty fighting-men, and were never supported by more than about two thousand warriors from tributary tribes, when at war with the whites. That the Iroquois, with their adopted children, have not lost in numbers up to the present day, is a curious fact. About six thousand of the descendants of the "Six Nations" are at Forestville, Wisconsin, on government reservations; and the official agent reports that nearly two thousand of them can read and write; that they have twenty-nine day schools, and two manual-labor schools; that they cultivate their lands so diligently that they pay all the expenses of their living. They are reported as advancing in church discipline, growing in temperance; and are making rapid progress towards a complete civilization. These six thousand, with other descendants of the Iroquois in Canada, will no doubt make up a total equal in number to the members of the old "Indian Confederacy," so graphically pictured in the glowing pages of Mr. Francis Parkman, the reliable historian, who has given us such vivid descriptions of the French rule in America as have called forth the unqualified praise of students of American history on both sides of the Atlantic. Having rowed forty-three miles in twelve hours, I reached the town of Vevay, Indiana, which was first settled by a Swiss colony, to whom Congress granted lands for the purpose of encouraging grape-culture. Keeping close under the banks of the river, I entered a little creek a mile below the village, where a night, restful as usual, was passed. On Tuesday I rose with the moon, though it was as late as five o'clock in the morning; but, although fertile farms were stretched along the river's bank, and the land gave every sign of careful culture, it was anything but an enjoyable day, as the rain fell in almost uninterrupted showers from eight o'clock A. M. until dusk, when I was glad to find an inviting creek on the Kentucky shore, about one mile below Bethlehem, and had the great satisfaction of logging thirty- eight miles as the day's run. It was necessary to make an early start the next day, as I must run the falls of the Ohio at Louisville, Kentucky, or make a portage round them. The river was enveloped in fog; but I followed the shore closely, hour after hour, until the sun dispelled the mists, and my little duck-boat ran in among the barges at the great Kentucky city. Here, at Louisville, is the only barrier to safe navigation on the Ohio River. These so-called Falls of the Ohio are in fact rapids which almost disappear when the river is at its full height. At such times, steam-boats, with skilful pilots aboard, safely follow the channel, which avoids the rocks of the river. During the low stage of the water, navigation is entirely suspended. The fall of the current is twenty-three feet in two miles. To avoid this descent, in low water, and to allow vessels to ascend the river at all times, a canal was excavated along the left shore of the rapids from Louisville to Shippingsport, a distance of two miles and a half. It was a stupendous enterprise, as the passage was cut almost the entire distance through the solid rock, and in some places to the great depth of forty feet. On the 25th of September, 1816, when Louisville had a population of three thousand inhabitants, her first steamboat, the Washington, left the young city for New Orleans. A second trip was commenced by the Washington on March 3, 1817. The whole time consumed by the voyage from Louisville to New Orleans, including the return trip, was forty- one days. The now confident Captain Shreve, of the Washington, predicted that steamboats would be built which could make the passage to New Orleans in ten days. I have been a passenger on a steamboat which ascended the strong currents of the river from New Orleans to Louisville in five days; while the once pioneer hamlet now boasts a population exceeding one hundred thousand souls. As the bow of my little craft grounded upon the city levee, a crowd of good-natured men gathered round to examine her. From them I ascertained that the descent of the rapids could not be made without a pilot; and as the limited quarters of the sneak-box would not allow any addition to her passenger-list, a portage round the falls became a necessity. The canal was not to be thought of as it would have been a troublesome matter, without special passes from some official, to have obtained the privilege of passing through with so small a boat. The crowd cheerfully lifted the sneak-box into an express-wagon, and fifteen minutes after reaching Louisville I was en route for Portland, mailing letters as I passed through the city. The portage was made in about an hour. At sunset the little boat was launched in the Ohio, and I felt that I had returned to an old friend. The expressman entered with entire sympathy into the voyage, and could not be prevailed upon to accept more than a dollar and a half for transporting the boat and her captain four miles. When night came on, and no friendly creek offered me shelter, I pushed the boat into a soft, muddy flat of willows, which fringed a portion of the Kentucky shore, where there was just enough water to float the sneak-box. The passing steamers during the night sent swashy waves into my lair, which kept me in constant fear of a ducking, and gave me anything but a peaceful night. This was, however, all forgotten the next morning, when the startling discovery was made that the river had fallen during the night and left me in a quagmire, from which it seemed at first impossible to extricate myself. The boat was imbedded in the mud, which was so soft and slimy that it would not support my weight when I attempted to step upon it for the purpose of pushing my little craft into the water, which had receded only a few feet from my camp. I tried pushing With my oak oar; but it sunk into the mire almost out of sight. Then a small watch-tackle was rigged, one block fastened to the boat, the other to the limb of a willow which projected over the water. The result of this was a successful downward movement of the willow, but the boat remained in statu quo, the soft mud holding it as though it possessed the sucking powers of a cuttlefish. I could not reach the firm shore, for the willow brush would not support my weight. There was no assistance to be looked for from fellow-voyagers, as the river-craft seemed to follow the channel of the opposite shore; and my camp could not be seen from the river, as I had taken pains to hide myself in the thicket of young willows from all curious eyes. There was no hope that my voice would penetrate to the other side of the stream, neither could I reach the water beyond the soft ooze. Being well provisioned, however, it would be an easy matter to await the rise of the river; and if no friendly freshet sent me the required assistance, the winds would harden the ooze in a few days so that it would bear my weight, and enable me to escape from my bonds of mud. While partaking of a light breakfast, an idea suddenly presented itself to my mind. I had frequently built crossways over treacherous swamps. Why not mattress the muddy flat? Standing upon the deck of my boat, I grasped every twig and bough of willow I could reach, and making a mattress of them, about two feet square and a few inches thick, on the surface of the mud at the stern of my craft, I placed upon it the hatch-cover of my boat. Standing upon this, the sneak-box was relieved of my weight, and by dint of persevering effort the after part was successful]y lifted, and the heavy burden slowly worked out of its tenacious bed, and moved two or three feet nearer the water. By shifting the willow mattress nearer the boat, which was now ON the surface of the mud, and not IN it, my floating home was soon again upon the current, and its captain had a new experience, which, though dearly bought, would teach him to avoid in future a camp on a soft flat when a river was falling. A foggy day followed my departure from the unfortunate camp of willows; but through the mist I caught glimpses of the fine lands of the Kentucky farmers, with the grand old trees shading their comfortable homes. In the drizzle I had passed French's Creek, and after dark ran upon a stony beach, where, high and dry upon the bank, was a shanty-boat, which had been converted into a landing-house, and was occupied by two men who received the freight left there by passing steamers. The locality was six miles below Brandenburg, Kentucky, and was known as "Richardson's Landing." Having rowed forty miles since morning, I "turned in" soon after drawing my boat upon the shelving strand, anticipating a quiet night. At midnight a loud noise, accompanied with bright flashes of light, warned me of the approach of a steamboat. She soon after ran her bow hard on to the beach, within a few feet of my boat. Though the rain was falling in torrents, the passengers crowded upon the upper deck to examine the snow-white, peculiarly shaped craft, or "skiff" as they called it, which lay upon the bank, little suspecting that her owner was snugly stowed beneath her deck. I suddenly threw up the hatch and sat upright, while the strong glare of light from the steamer's furnaces brought out every detail of the boat's interior. This sudden apparition struck the crowd with surprise, and, as is usual upon such an occasion in western America, the whole company showered a fire of raillery and "chaff" upon me, to which, on account of the heavy rain, I could not reply, but, dropping backward into my bed, drew the hatch into its place. The good-natured crowd would not permit me to escape so easily. Calling the entire ship's company from the state-rooms and cabins to join them, they used every artifice in their power to induce me to show my head above the deck of my boat. One shouted, "Here, you deck-hand, don't cut that man's rope; it's mean to steal a fellow's painter!" Another cried, "Don't put that heavy plank against that little skiff!" Suspecting their game, however, I kept under cover during the fifteen minutes' stay of the boat, when, moving off; they all shouted a jolly farewell, which mingled in the darkness with the hoarse whistle of the steamer, while the night air echoed with cries of; "Snug as a bug in a rug;" "I never seed the like afore;" "He'll git used to livin'in a coffin afore he needs one," &c. The reader who may have looked heretofore upon swamps and gloomy creeks as too lonely for camping-grounds, may now appreciate the necessity for selecting such places, and understand why a voyager prefers the security of the wilderness to the annoying curiosity of his fellow-man. The rains of the past two days had swollen the Kentucky River, which enters the Ohio above Louisville, as well as the Salt River, which I had passed twenty miles below that city, besides many other branches, so that the main stream was now rapidly rising. After leaving Richardson's Landing, the rain continued to fall, and as each tributary, affected by the freshet, poured logs, fallen trees, fence- rails, stumps from clearings, and even occasionally a small frame shanty, into the Ohio, there was a floating raft of these materials miles in length. Sometimes an unlucky shanty-boat was caught in an eddy by the mass of floating timber, and at once becoming an integral portion of the whole, would float with the great raft for two or three days. The owners, being in the mean time unable to free themselves from their prison-like surroundings, made the best of the blockade, and their fires burned all the brighter, while the enlivening music of the fiddle, and the hilarity induced by frequent potions of corn whiskey, with the inevitable games of cards, made all "merry as a marriage bell," as they floated down the river. In the evening, a little creek below Alton was reached, which sheltered me during the night. Soon the rain ceased, and the stars shone kindly upon my lonely camp. I left the creek at half-past four o'clock in the morning. The water had risen two feet and a half in ten hours, and the broad river was in places covered from shore to shore with drift stuff; which made my course a devious one, and the little duck-boat had many a narrow escape in my attempts to avoid the floating mass. The booming of guns along the shore reminded me that it was Christmas, and, in imagination, I pictured to myself the many happy families in the valley enjoying their Christmas cheer. The contrast between their condition and mine was great, for I could not even find enough dry wood to cook my simple camp-fare. An hour before sunset, while skirting the Indiana shore, I passed a little village called Batesville, and soon after came to the mouth of a crooked creek, out of which, borne on the flood of a freshet, came a long, narrow line of drift stuff. Just within the mouth of the creek, in a deep indenture of the high bank, a shanty-boat was snugly lashed to the trees. A young man stood in the open doorway of the cabin, washing dishes, and as I passed he kindly wished me a "Merry Christmas," inviting me on board. He eagerly inspected the sneak-box, and pronounced it one of the prettiest "tricks" afloat. "How my father and brother would like to see you and your boat!" exclaimed he. "Can't you tie up here, just under yonder p'int on the bank? There's an eddy there, and the drift won't work in enough to trouble you." The invitation so kindly given was accepted, and with the assistance of my new acquaintance my boat was worked against the strong current into a curve of the bank, and there securely fastened. I set to work about my house-keeping cares, and had my cabin comfortably arranged for the night, when I was hailed from the shanty-boat to "come aboard." Entering the rough cabin, a surprise greeted me, for a table stood in the centre of the room, covered with a clean white cloth, and groaning under the weight of such a variety of appetizing dishes as I had not seen for many a day. "I thought," said the boy, "that you hadn't had much Christmas to-day, being as you're away from your folks; and we had a royal dinner, and there's lots left fur you--so help yourself." He then explained that his father and brother had gone to a shooting-match on the other side of the river; and when I expressed my astonishment at the excellent fare, which, upon closer acquaintance, proved to be of a dainty nature (game and delicate pastry making a menu rather peculiar for a shanty- boat), he informed me that his brother had been first cook on a big passenger steamer, and had received good wages; but their mother died, and their father married a second time, and--Here the young fellow paused, evidently considering how much of their private life he should show to a stranger. "Well," he continued, "our new mother liked cities better than flatboats, and father's a good quiet man, who likes to live in peace with every one, so he lets mother live in Arkansas, and he stays on the shanty-boat. We boys joined him, fur he's a good old fellow, and we have all that's going. We git plenty of cat-fish, buffalo-fish, yellow perch, and bass, and sell them at the little towns along the river. Then in summer we hire a high flat ashore,--not a flatboat,--I mean a bit of land along the river, and raise a crop of corn, 'taters, and cabbage. We have plenty of shooting, and don't git much fever 'n ager." I had rowed fifty-three miles that day, and did ample justice to the Christmas dinner on the flatboat. The father and brother joined us in the evening, and gave me much good advice in regard to river navigation. The rain fell heavily before midnight, and they insisted that I should share one of their beds in the boat; but as small streams of water were trickling through the roof of the shanty, and my little craft was water-tight, I declined the kindly offer, and bade them good-night. The next day being Sunday, I again visited my new acquaintances upon the shanty-boat, and gathered from their varied experiences much of the river's lore. The rain continued, accompanied with lightning and thunder, during the entire day, so that Monday's sun was indeed welcome; and with kind farewells on all sides I broke camp and descended the current with the now almost continuous raft of drift- wood. For several hours a sewing-machine repair-shop and a photographic gallery floated with me. The creeks were now so swollen from the heavy rains, and so full of drift-wood, that my usual retreat into some creek seemed cut off; so I ran under the sheltered side of "Three Mile Island," below Newburg, Indiana. The climate was daily improving, and I no longer feared an ice blockade; but a new difficulty arose. The heavy rafts of timber threatened to shut me in my camp. At dusk, all might be open water; but at break of day "a change came o'er the spirit of my dream," and heavy blockades of timber rafts made it no easy matter to escape. There were times when, shut in behind these barriers, I looked out upon the river with envious eyes at the steamboats steadily plodding up stream against the current, keeping free of the rafts by the skill of their pilots; and thoughts of the genius and perseverance of the inventors of these peculiar craft crowded my mind. In these days of successful application of mechanical inventions, but few persons can realize the amount of distrust and opposition against which a Watts or a Fulton had to contend while forcing upon an illiberal and unappreciative public the valuable results of their busy brains and fertile genius. It is well for us who now enjoy these blessings,--the utilized ideas of a lifetime of unrequited labors,--to look back upon the epoch of history so full of gloom for the men to whom we owe so much. At the beginning of the present century the navigation of the Ohio was limited to canoes, bateaux, scows, rafts, arks, and the rudest models of sailing-boats. The ever downward course of the strong current must be stemmed in ascending the river. Against this powerful resistance upon tortuous streams, wind, as a motor, was found to be only partially successful, and for sure and rapid transit between settlements along the banks of great waterways a most discouraging failure. Down-river journeys were easily made, but the up-river or return trip was a very slow and unsatisfactory affair, excepting to those who travelled in light canoes. The influx of population to the fertile Ohio valley, and the settling up of the rich bottoms of the Mississippi, demanded a more expeditious system of communication. The necessities of the people called loudly for this improvement, but at the same time their prejudices and ignorance prevented them from aiding or encouraging any such plans. The hour came at length for the delivery of the people of the great West, and with it the man. Fulton, aided by Watts, offered to solve the problem by unravelling rather than by cutting the "Gordian knot." It was whispered through the wilderness that a fire-ship, called the "Clermont," built by a crazy speculator named Fulton, had started from New York, and, steaming up the Hudson, had forced itself against the current one hundred and fifty miles to Albany, in thirty-six hours. This was in September, 1807. The fool and the fool's fire-ship became the butt of all sensible people in Europe as well as in America. Victor Hugo remarks that, "In the year 1807, when the first steamboat of Fulton, commanded by Livingston, furnished with one of Watts's engines sent from England, and manoeuvred, besides her ordinary crew, by two Frenchmen only, Andr Michaux and another, made her first voyage from New York to Albany, it happened that she set sail on the 17th of August. The ministers took up this important fact, and in numberless chapels preachers were heard calling down a malediction on the machine, and declaring that this number seventeen was no other than the total of the ten horns and seven heads of the beasts in the Apocalypse. In America they invoked against the steamboat the beast from the book of Revelation; in Europe, the reptile of the book of Genesis. The SAVANS had rejected steamboats as impossible; the PRIESTS had anathematized them as impious; SCIENCE had condemned, and RELIGION consigned them to perdition." "In the archipelago of the British Channel islands," this learned author goes on to say, "the first steamboat which made its appearance received the name of the 'Devil Boat.' In the eyes of these worthy fishermen, once Catholics, now Calvinists, but always bigots, it seemed to be a portion of the infernal regions which had been somehow set afloat. A local preacher selected for his discourse the question of, 'Whether man has the right to make fire and water work together when God had divided them.' (Gen. ch. i. v.4.) No; this beast composed of iron and fire did not resemble leviathan! Was it not an attempt to bring chaos again into the universe?" So much for young America, and so much for old mother England! Now listen, men and women of to-day, to the wisdom of France--scientific France. "A mad notion, a gross delusion, an absurdity!" Such was the verdict of the Academy of Sciences when consulted by Napoleon on the subject of steamboats early in the present century. It seems scarcely credible now that all this transpired in the days of our fathers, not so very long ago. Time is a great leveller. Education of the head as well as of the heart has liberalized the pulpit, and the man of theoretical science to-day would not dare to stake his reputation by denying any apparently well-established theory, while the inventors of telephones, perpetual-motion motors, &c., are gladly hailed as leaders in the march of progress so dear to every American heart. The pulpit is now on the side of honest science, and the savant teaches great truths, while the public mind is being educated to receive and utilize the heretofore concealed or undeveloped mysteries of a wise and generous Creator, who has taught his children that they must labor in order to possess. The Clermont was the pioneer steamer of the Hudson River, and its trial trip was made in 1807. The first steamboat which descended the Ohio and Mississippi rivers was christened the New Orleans." It was designed and built by Mr. N.J. Roosevelt, and commenced its voyage from Pittsburgh in September, 1811. The bold proprietor of this enterprise, with his wife, Mrs. Lydia M. Roosevelt, accompanied the captain, engineer, pilot, six hands, two female servants, a man waiter, a cook, and a large Newfoundland dog, to the end of the voyage. The friends of this lady--the first woman who descended the great rivers of the West in a steamboat--used every argument they could offer to dissuade her from undertaking what was considered a dangerous experiment, an absolute folly. The good wife, however, clung to her husband, and accepted the risks, preferring to be drowned or blown up, as her friends predicted, rather than to desert her better- half in his hour of trial. A few weeks would decide his success or failure, and she would be at his side to condole or rejoice with him, as the case might be. The citizens of Pittsburgh gathered upon the banks of the Monongahela to witness the inception of the enterprise which was to change the whole destiny of the West. One can imagine the criticisms flung at the departing steamer as she left her moorings and boldly faced her fate. As the curious craft was borne along the current of the river, the Indians attempted to approach her, bent upon hostile attempts, and once a party of them pursued the boat in hot chase, but their endurance was not equal to that of steam. These children of the forest gazed upon the snorting, fire-breathing monster with undisguised awe, and called it "Penelore"--the fire-canoe. They imagined it to have close relationship with the comet that they believed had produced the earthquakes of that year. The voyage of the "New Orleans" was a romantic reality in two ways. The wonderful experiment was proved a success, and its originator won his laurel wreath; while the bold captain of the fire-ship, falling in love with one of the chambermaids, won a wife. The river's travel now became somewhat monotonous. I had reached a low country, heavily wooded in places, and was entering the great prairie region of Illinois. Having left my island camp by starlight on Tuesday morning, and having rowed steadily all day until dusk, I passed the wild-looking mouth of the Wabash River, and went into camp behind an island, logging with pleasure my day's run at sixty-seven miles. I was now only one hundred and forty-two miles from the mouth of the Ohio, and with the rising and rapidly increasing current there were only a few hours' travel between me and the Mississippi. Wednesday morning, December 29th, I discovered that the river had risen two feet during the night, and the stump of the tree to which I had moored my boat was submerged. The river was wide and the banks covered with heavy forests, with clearings here and there, which afforded attractive vistas of prairies in the background. I passed a bold, stratified crag, covered with a little growth of cedars. These adventurous trees, growing out of the crevices of the rock, formed a picturesque covering for its rough surface. A cavern, about thirty feet in width, penetrated a short distance into the rock. This natural curiosity bore the name of "Cave-in-Rock," and was, in 1801, the rendezvous of a band of outlaws, who lived by plundering the boats going up and down the river, oftentimes adding the crime of murder to their other misdeeds. Just below the cliff nestled a little village also called "Cave-in-Rock." Wild birds flew about me on all sides, and had I cared to linger I might have had a good bag of game. This was not, however, a gunning cruise, and the temptation was set aside as inconsistent with the systematic pulling which alone would take me to my goal. The birds were left for my quondam friends of the shanty-boat, they being the happy possessors of more TIME than they could well handle, and the killing of it the aim of their existence. The soft shores of alluvium were constantly caving and falling into the river, bringing down tons of earth and tall forest-trees. The latter, after freeing their roots of the soil, would be swept out into the stream as contributions to the great floating raft of drift-wood, a large portion of which was destined to a long voyage, for much of this floating forest is carried into the Gulf of Mexico, and travels over many hundreds of miles of salt water, until it is washed up on to the strands of the isles of the sea or the beaches of the continent. Having tied up for the night to a low bank, with no thought of danger, it was startling, to say the least, to have an avalanche of earth from the bank above deposit itself upon my boat, so effectually sealing down my hatch-cover that it seemed at first impossible to break from my prison. After repeated trials I succeeded in dislodging the mass, and, thankful to escape premature interment, at once pushed off in search of a better camp. A creek soon appeared, but its entrance was barred by a large tree which had fallen across its mouth. My heavy hatchet now proved a friend in need, and putting my boat close to the tree, I went systematically to work, and soon cut out a section five feet in length. Entering through this gateway, my labors were rewarded by finding upon the bank some dry fence-rails, with which a rude kitchen was soon constructed to protect me from the wind while preparing my meal. The unusual luxury of a fire brightened the weird scene, and the flames shot upward, cheering the lone voyager and frightening the owls and coons from their accustomed lairs. The strong current had been of great assistance, for that night my log registered sixty-two miles for the day's row. Leaving the creek the next morning by starlight, I passed large flocks of geese and ducks, while Whooping-cranes (Grus Americanus) and Sand- hill cranes (Grus Canadensis), in little flocks, dotted the grassy prairies, or flew from one swamp to another, filling the air with their startling cries. Both these species are found associated in flocks upon the cultivated prairie farms, where they pillage the grain and vegetable fields of the farmer. Their habits are somewhat similar, though the whooping-crane is the most wary of the two. The adult Whooping-cranes are white, the younger birds of a brownish color. This species is larger than the Sand-hill Crane, the latter having a total length of from forty to forty-two inches. The Sand-hill species may be distinguished from the Whooping-crane by its slate-blue color. The cackling, whooping, and screaming voices of an assembled multitude of these birds cannot be described. They can be heard for miles upon the open plains. These birds are found in Florida and along the Gulf coast as well as over large areas of the northern states. They feed upon soft roots, which they excavate from the swamps, and upon bugs and reptiles of all kinds. It requires the most cautious stalking on the part of the hunter to get within gunshot of them, and when so approached the Whooping-crane is usually the first of the two species which takes to the wing. The social customs of these birds are most entertaining to the observer who may lie hidden in the grass and watch them through a glass. Their tall, angular figures, made up of so much wing, leg, neck, and bill, counterpoised by so little body, incline the spectator to look upon them as ornithological caricatures. After balancing himself upon one foot for an hour, with the other drawn up close to his scanty robe of feathers, and his head poised in a most contemplative attitude, one of these queer birds will suddenly turn a somersault, and, returning to his previous posture, continue his cogitations as though nothing had interrupted his reflections. With wings spread, they slowly winnow the air, rising or hopping from the ground a few feet at a time, then whirling in circles upon their toes, as though going through the mazes of a dance. Their most popular diversion seems to be the game of leap-frog, and their long legs being specially adapted to this sport, they achieve a wonderful success. One of the birds quietly assumes a squatting position upon the ground, when his sportive companions hop in turn over his expectant head. They then pirouette, turn somersaults, and go through various exercises with the skill of gymnasts. Their sportive proclivities seem to have no bounds; and being true humorists, they preserve through their gambols a ridiculously sedate appearance. Popular accounts of the nidification of these birds are frequently untrue. We are told that they build their cone-shaped nests of mud, sticks, and grass in shallow water, in colonies, and that their nests, BEING PLACED ON RAFTS of buoyant material, float about in the bayous, and are propelled and guided at the will of the sitting bird by the use of her long legs and feet as oars. The position of the bird upon the nest is also ludicrously depicted. It is described as sitting astride the nest, with the toes touching the ground; and to add still more comicality to the picture, it is asserted that the limbs are often thrust out horizontally behind the bird. The results of close observations prove that these accounts are in keeping with many others related by parlor naturalists. The cranes sit upon their nests like other birds, with their feet drawn up close to the body. The mound- shaped nests are built of sticks, grass, and mud, and usually placed in a shallow pond or partially submerged swamp, while at times a grassy hassock furnishes the foundation of the structure. In the saucer-shaped top of the nest two eggs are deposited, upon which the bird sits most assiduously, having no time at this season for aquatic amusements, such as paddling about with her nest. [Popular idea of the nesting of cranes.] The young birds are most hilarious babies, for they inherit the social qualities of their parents, and are ready to play or fight with each other before they are fairly out of the nest. A close observer of their habits writes from the prairies of Indiana: "When the young get a little strength they attack each other with great fury, and can only be made to desist by the parent bird separating them, and taking one under its fostering care, and holding them at a respectable distance until they reach crane-hood, when they seem to make up in joyous hilarity for the quarrelsome proclivities of youth." Like geese and ducks, cranes winter in one locality so long as the ponds are open, but the first cold snap that freezes their swamp drives them two or three degrees further south. From this migration they soon return to their old haunts, the first thawing of the ice being the signal. The mouths of the Tennessee and Cumberland rivers were passed, and the Ohio, widening in places until it seemed like a lake, assumed a new grandeur as it approached the Mississippi. Three miles below Wilkinsonville, but on the Kentucky side, I stole into a dark creek and rested until the next morning, Friday, December 31st, which was to be my last day on the Ohio River. I entered a long reach in the river soon after nine o'clock on Friday morning, and could plainly see the town of Cairo, resting upon the flat prairies in the distance. The now yellow, muddy current of the Ohio rolled along the great railroad dike, which had cost one million dollars to erect, and formed a barrier strong enough to resist the rushing waters of the freshets. Across the southern apex of this prairie city could be seen the "Father of Waters," its wide surface bounded on the west by the wilderness. A few moments more, and my little craft was whirled into its rapid, eddying current; and with the boat's prow now pointed southward, I commenced, as it were, a life of new experiences as I descended the great river, where each day I was to feel the genial influences of a warmer climate. The thought of entering warm and sunny regions was, indeed, welcome to a man who had forced his way through rafts of ice, under cloudy skies, through a smoky atmosphere, and had partaken of food of the same chilling temperature for so many days. This prospect of a genial clime, with the more comfortable camping and rowing it was sure to bring, gave new vigor to my arms, daily growing stronger with their task, and each long, steady pull TOLD as it swept me down the river. The faithful sneak-box had carried me more than a thousand miles since I entered her at Pittsburgh. This, of course, includes the various detours made in searching for camping-grounds, frequent crossings of the wide river to avoid drift stuff; &c. The descent of the Ohio had occupied about twenty-nine days, but many hours had been lost by storms keeping me in camp, and other unavoidable delays. As an offset to these stoppages, it must be remembered that the current, increased by freshets, was with me, and to it, as much as to the industrious arms of the rower, must be given the credit for the long route gone over in so short a time, by so small a boat. [Stern-wheel Western tow-boat pushing flatboats.] CHAPTER VI. DESCENT OF THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER LEAVE CAIRO, ILLINOIS.-- THE LONGEST RIVER IN THE WORLD.-- BOOK GEOGRAPHY AND BOAT GEOGRAPHY.-- CHICKASAW BLUFF.-- MEETING WITH THE PARAKEETS.-- FORT DONALDSON.-- EARTHQUAKES AND LAKES.-- WEIRD BEAUTY OF REELFOOT LAKE.-- JOE ECKEL'S BAR.-- SHANTY-BOAT COOKING.-- FORT PILLOW.-- MEMPHIS.-- A NEGRO JUSTICE.-- "DE COMMON LAW OB MISSISSIPPI." MY floating home was now upon the broad Mississippi, which text-book geographers still insist upon calling "the Father of Waters--the largest river in North America." Its current was about one-third faster than that of its tributary, the Ohio. Its banks were covered with heavy forests, and for miles along its course the great wilderness was broken only by the half-tilled lands of the cotton- planter. From Cairo southward the river is very tortuous, turning back upon itself as if imitating the convolutions of a crawling serpent, and following a channel of more than eleven hundred and fifty miles before its waters unite with those of the Gulf of Mexico. This country between the mouth of the Ohio and the Gulf of Mexico is truly the delta of the Mississippi, for the river north of Cairo cuts through table-lands, and is confined to its old bed; but below the mouth of the Ohio the great river persistently seeks for new channels, and, as we approach New Orleans, we discover branches which carry off a considerable portion of its water to the Gulf coast in southwestern Louisiana. It is always with some degree of hesitation that I introduce geographical details into my books, as I well know that a taste for the study of physical geography has not been developed among my countrymen. Where among all our colleges is there a well-supported chair of physical geography occupied by an American? We sometimes hear of a "Professor of Geology and Physical Geography," but the last is only a sort of appendage--a tail--to the former. When a student of American geography begins the study in earnest, he discovers that our geographies are insufficient, are filled with errors, and that our maps possess a greater number of inaccuracies than truths. When he goes into the field to study the physical geography of his native land, he is forced to go through the disagreeable process of unlearning all he has been taught from the poor textbooks of stay-at- home travellers and closet students, whose compilations have burdened his mind with errors. In despair he turns to the topographical charts and maps of the "United States Coast and Geodetic Survey," and of the "Engineer Corps of the United States Army," and in the truthful and interesting results of the practical labors of trained observers he takes courage as he enters anew his field of study. The cartographer of the shop economically constructs his unreliable maps to supply a cheap demand; and strange to say, though the results of the government surveys are freely at his disposal, he rarely makes use of them. It costs too much to alter the old map-plates, and but few persons will feel sufficiently interested to criticise the faults of his latest edition. "How do you get the interior details?" I once asked the agent of one of the largest map establishments in the United States. "Oh," he answered, "when we cannot get township details from local surveys, we sling them in anyhow." An error once taught from our geographies and maps will remain an error for a generation, and our text-book geographers will continue to repeat it, for they do not travel over the countries they describe, and rarely adopt the results of scientific investigation. The most unpopular study in the schools of the United States is that of the geography of our country. It does not amount merely to a feeling of indifference, but in some colleges to a positive prejudice. The chief mountain-climbing club of America, counting among its members some of the best minds of our day, was confronted by this very prejudice. "If you introduce the study of physical geography in connection with the explorations of mountains, I will not join your association," said a gentleman living almost within the shadow of the buildings of our oldest university. A committee of Chinese who called upon the school authorities of a Pacific-coast city, several years since, respectfully petitioned that "you will not waste the time of our children in teaching them geography. You say the world is ROUND; some of us say it is FLAT. What difference does it make to our business if it be round or flat? The study of geography will not help us to make money. It may do for Melican man, but it is not good for Chinese." I once knew a chairman of the school trustees in a town in New Jersey to remove his daughters from the public school simply because the teacher insisted that it was his duty to instruct his pupils in the study of geography. "My boys may go to sea some day, and then geography may be of service to them," said this chairman to the teacher, "but if my daughters study it they will waste their time. Of what use can geography be to girls who will never command a vessel?" While conscious that I may inflict an uninteresting chapter upon my reader who may have accompanied me with a commendable degree of patience so far upon my lonely voyage, I nevertheless feel it a duty to place on record a few facts that are well known to scientific men, if not to the writers of popular geographies, regarding the existence within the boundaries of our own country of the longest river in the world. It is time that the recognition of this fact should be established in every school in the United States. As this is a very important subject, let us examine it in detail. THE MISSOURI IS THE LONGEST RIVER IN THE WORLD, AND THE MISSISSIPPI IS ONLY A BRANCH OF IT. The Mississippi River joins its current with that of the Missouri about two hundred miles above the mouth of the Ohio; consequently, as we are now to allow the largest stream (the Missouri) to bear its name from its source all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, it follows that the Ohio flows into the Missouri and not into the Mississippi River. The Missouri, and NOT the Mississippi, is the main stream of what has been called the Mississippi Basin. The Missouri, when taken from its fountain-heads of the Gallatin, Madison, and Red Rock lakes, or, if we take the Jefferson Fork as the principal tributary, has a length, from its source to its union with the Mississippi, of above three thousand miles. The United States Topographical Engineers have credited it with a length of two thousand nine hundred and eight miles, when divested of some of these tributary extensions. The same good authority gives the Mississippi a length of thirteen hundred and thirty miles from its source to its junction with the Missouri. At this junction of the two rivers the Missouri has a mean discharge of one hundred and twenty thousand cubic feet of water per second, or one-seventh greater than that of the Mississippi, which has a mean discharge of one hundred and five thousand cubic feet per second. The Missouri drains five hundred and eighteen thousand square miles of territory, while the Mississippi drains only one hundred and sixty- nine thousand square miles. While the latter river has by far the greatest rainfall, the Missouri discharges the largest amount of water, and at the point of union of the two streams is from fifteen to seventeen hundred miles the longer of the two. Therefore, according to natural laws, the Missouri is the main stream, and the smaller and shorter Mississippi is only a branch of it. From the junction of the two rivers the current, increased by numerous tributaries, follows a crooked channel some thirteen hundred and fifty-five miles to the Gulf of Mexico. The Missouri, therefore, has a total length of four thousand three hundred and sixty-three miles, without counting some of its highest sources. The learned Professor A. Guyot, in a treatise on physical geography, written for "A. J. Johnson's New Illustrated Family Atlas of the World," informs us that the Amazon River, the great drainer of the eastern Andes, is three thousand five hundred and fifty miles long, and is the LONGEST RIVER IN THE WORLD. According to the figures used by me in reference to the Missouri and Mississippi, and which are the results of actual observations made by competent engineers, the reader will find, notwithstanding the statements made by our best geographers in regard to the length of the Amazon, that there is one river within the confines of our country which is eight hundred and thirteen miles longer than the Amazon, and is the longest though not the widest river in the world. The rivers of what is now called the Mississippi Basin drain one million two hundred and forty-four thousand square miles of territory, while the broader Amazon, with its many tributaries, drains the much larger area of two million two hundred and seventy-five thousand square miles. A century after the Spaniard, De Soto, had discovered the lower Mississippi, and had been interred in its bed, a French interpreter, of "Three Rivers," on the northern bank of the St. Lawrence River, named Jean Nicollet, explored one of the northern tributaries of the Mississippi. This was about the year 1639. It was reserved for La Salle to make the first thorough exploration of the Mississippi. A few months after he had returned, alone, from his examination of the Ohio as far as the falls at Louisville, in 1669-70, this undaunted man followed the Great Lakes of the north to the western shore of Lake Michigan, and making a portage to a river, "evidently the Illinois," traversed it to its intersection with another river, "flowing from the north-west to the south-east," which river must have been the Mississippi, and which it is affirmed La Salle descended to the thirty-sixth degree of latitude, when he became convinced that this unexplored stream discharged itself, not into the Gulf of California, but into the Gulf of Mexico. So La Salle was the discoverer of the Illinois as well as of the Ohio; and during his subsequent visits to the Mississippi gave that river a thorough exploration. My entrance to the Mississippi River was marked by the advent of severe squalls of wind and rain, which drove me about noon to the shelter of Island No. 1, where I dined, and where in half an hour the sun came out in all its glory. Many peculiar features of the Mississippi attracted my notice. Sand bars appeared above the water, and large flocks of ducks and geese rested upon them. Later, the high Chickasaw Bluff, the first and highest of a series which rise at intervals, like islands out of the low bottoms as far south as Natchez, came into view on the left side of the river. The mound- builders of past ages used these natural fortresses to hold at bay the fierce tribes of the north, and long afterward this Chickasaw Bluff played a conspicuous part in the civil war between the states. Columbus, a small village, and the terminus of a railroad, is at the foot of the heights. A little lower down, and opposite Chalk Bluff, was a heavily wooded island, a part of the territory of the state of Illinois, and known as Wolf Island, or Island No. 5. At five o'clock in the afternoon I ran into a little thoroughfare on the eastern side of this island, and moored the duck-boat under its muddy banks. The wind increased to a gale before morning, and kept me through the entire day, and until the following morning, an unwilling captive. Reading and cooking helped to while away the heavy hours, but having burned up all the dry wood I could find, I was forced to seek other quarters, which were found in a romantic stream that flowed out of a swamp and joined the Mississippi just one mile above Hickman, on the Kentucky side. Having passed a comfortable night, and making an early start without breakfast, I rowed rapidly over a smooth current to the stream called Bayou du Chien Creek, in which I made a very attractive camp among the giant sycamores, sweet-gums, and cotton-woods. The warm sunshine penetrated into this sheltered spot, while the wind had fallen to a gentle zephyr, and came in refreshing puffs through the lofty trees. Here birds were numerous, and briskly hopped about my fire while I made an omelet and boiled some wheaten grits. [Meeting with the parakeets.] In this retired haunt of the birds I remained through the whole of that sunny Sunday, cooking my three meals, and reading my Bible, as became a civilized man. While enjoying this immunity from the disturbing elements of the great public thoroughfare, the river, curious cries were borne upon the wind above the tall tree-tops like the chattering calls of parrots, to which my ear had become accustomed in the tropical forests of Cuba. As the noise grew louder with the approach of a feathered flock of visitors, and the screams of the birds became more discordant, I peered through the branches of the forest to catch a glimpse of what I had searched for through many hundred miles of wilderness since my boyhood, but what had so far eluded my eager eyes. I felt certain these strange cries must come from the Carolina Parrot, or Parakeet (Conurus Carolinensis), which, though once numerous in all the country west of the Alleghanies as far north as the southern shores of the Great Lakes, has so rapidly diminished in number since 1825, that we find it only as an occasional inhabitant of the middle states south of the Ohio River. In fact, this species is now chiefly confined to Florida, western Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas, and the Indian Territory. That careful and reliable ornithologist, Dr. Elliot Coues, seems to doubt whether it is now entitled to a place in the avi-fauna of South Carolina, where it was once found in large flocks. The birds soon reached the locality of my camp, and circling through the clear, warm atmosphere above the tree-tops, they gradually settled lower and lower, suspiciously scanning my fire, screaming as though their little throats would burst, while the sunlight seemed to fill the air with the reflections of the green, gold, and carmine of their brilliant plumage. They dropped into the foliage of the grove, and for a moment were as quiet as though life had departed from them, while I kept close to my hiding-place behind an immense fallen tree, from beneath which I could watch my feathery guests. The bodies of the adult birds were emerald green, with bright blue reflections. The heads were yellow, excepting the forehead and cheeks, which were scarlet. The large, thick, and hooked bill was white, as well as the bare orbital space around the eye. The feet were a light flesh-color. The length from tip of bill to end of tail was about fourteen inches. The young birds could be easily distinguished from the adults by their short tails and the uniform coat of green, while in some cases the frontlet of scarlet was just beginning to show itself. The adult males were longer than the females. The Carolina Parrot does not put on its bright-yellow hues until the second season, and its most brilliant tints do not come to perfection until the bird is fully two years old. They feed upon the seeds of the cockle-burrs, which grow in abandoned fields of the planter, as well as upon fruits of all kinds, much of which they waste in their uneconomical method of eating. The low alluvial bottom-lands of the river, where pecan and beech nuts abound, are their favorite hunting- grounds. It is singular that Alexander Wilson, and, in fact, all the naturalists, except Audubon, who have written about this interesting bird, have failed to examine its nest and eggs. By the unsatisfactory manner in which Audubon refers to the nidification of this parakeet, one is led to believe that even he did not become personally acquainted with its breeding habits. The offer by Mr. Maynard of one dollar for every parrot's egg delivered to him, induced a Florida cracker to cut a path into a dense cypress swamp at Dunn's Lake, about the middle of the month of June. The hunter was occupied three days in the enterprise, and returned much disgusted with the job. He had found the nests of the parakeets in the hollow cypress-trees of the swamp, but he was too late to secure the eggs, as they were hatched, and the nests filled with young birds. The number of young in each nest seemed to leave no doubt of the fact of several adults nesting in one hole. Probably the eggs are laid about the last of May. These birds are extremely gregarious, and have been seen at sunset to cluster upon the trunk of a gigantic cypress like a swarm of bees. One after another slowly crawls through a hole into the cavity until it is filled up, while those who are not so fortunate as to obtain entrance, or reserved seats, cling to the outside of the trunk with their claws, and keep their position through the night chiefly by hooking the tip of the upper mandible of the beak into the bark of the tree. The backwoodsmen confidently assert that they have found as many as twenty eggs of a greenish white in a single hollow of a cypress-tree; and as it is generally supposed, judging from the known habits of other species of this genus, that the Carolina Parrot lays only two eggs, but few naturalists doubt that these birds nest in companies. It is a very difficult task to find the nests of parrots in the West Indies, some of them building in the hollowed top of the dead trunk of a royal palm which has been denuded of its branches; and there, upon the unprotected summit of a single column eighty feet in height, without any shelter from tropical storms, the Cuban Parrot rears its young. The Carolina Parrot is the only one of this species which may truly be said to be a permanent resident of our country. The Mexican species are sometimes met with along the southwestern boundaries of the United States, but they emigrate only a few miles northward of their own regions. The salt-licks in the great button-wood bottoms along the Mississippi were once the favorite resorts of these birds, and they delighted to drink the saline water. It is to be regretted that so interesting a bird should have been so ruthlessly slaughtered where they were once so numerous. Only the young birds are fit to eat, but we read in the accounts of our pioneer naturalists that from eight to twenty birds were often killed by the single discharge of a gun, and that as the survivors would again and again return to the lurking- place of their destroyer, attracted by the distressing cries of their wounded comrades, the unfeeling sportsman would continue his work of destruction until more than half of a large flock would be exterminated. This interesting parakeet may, during the next century, pass out of existence, and be known to our descendants as the Great Auk (Alca impennis) is now known to us, as a very rare specimen in the museums of natural history. On Monday, January 3, I rowed out of the Bayou du Chien, and soon reached the town of Hickman, Kentucky, where I invested in a basketful of mince-pies, that deleterious compound so dear to every American heart. A large flatboat, built upon the most primitive principles, and without cabin of any kind, was leaving the landing, evidently bound on a fishing-cruise, for her hold was filled with long nets and barrels of provisions. A large roll of canvas, to be used as a protection against rain, was stowed in one end of the odd craft, while at the other end was a large and very rusty cooking-stove, with a joint of pipe rising above it. The crew of fishermen labored at a pair of long sweeps until the flat reached the strong current, when they took in their oars, and, clustering about the stove, filled their pipes, and were soon reclining at their ease on the pile of nets, apparently as well satisfied with their tub as Diogenes was with his. As I rowed past them, they roused themselves into some semblance of interest, and gazed upon the little white boat, so like a pumpkin-seed in shape, which soon passed from their view as it disappeared down the wide Mississippi. There was something in the appearance of that rough flatboat that made me wish I had hailed her quiet crew; for, strange to say, they did not send after me a shower of slang phrases and uncouth criticisms, the usual prelude to conversation among flatboat-men when they desire to cultivate the acquaintance of a fellow-voyager. In fact, it was rather startling not to have the usual greeting, and I wondered why I heard no friendly expressions, such as, "Here, you river thief, haul alongside and report yourself! Whar did you come from? Come and take a pull at the bottle! It's prime stuff, I tell ye; will kill a man at forty paces," &c. The rusty stove was as strong an attraction as the quiet crew, as I thought how convenient it would be to run alongside of the old boat and utilize it for my culinary purposes. The unwonted silence, however, proved conclusively that some refined instinct, unknown to the usual crews of such boats, governed these voyagers, and I feared to intrude upon so dignified a party. Descending a long straight reach, after making a run of twenty-three miles, I crossed the limits of Kentucky, and, entering Tennessee, saw on its shore, in a deep bend of the river, the site of a fortification, while opposite to it lay the low Island No. 10. Both of these places were full of interest, being the scenes of conflict in our civil war. The little white sneak-box glided down another long bend, over the wrecks of seven steamboats, and passed New Madrid, on the Missouri shore. The mouth of Reelfoot Bayou then opened before me, a creek which conducts the waters from the weird recesses of one of the most interesting lakes in America,--a lake which was the immediate result of a disastrous series of disturbances generally referred to as the New Madrid earthquakes, and which took place in 1811-13. Much of the country in the vicinity of New Madrid and Fort Donaldson was involved in these serious shocks. Swamps were upheaved and converted into dry uplands, while cultivated uplands were depressed below the average water level, and became swamps or ponds of water. 'The inhabitants, deprived of their little farms, were reduced to such a stage of suffering as to call for aid from government, and new lands were granted them in place of their fields which had sunk out of sight. Hundreds of square miles of territory were lost during the two years of terrestrial convulsions. The most interesting effect of the subsidence of the land was the creation of Reelfoot Lake, the fluvial entrance to which is from the tortuous Mississippi some forty-five miles below Hickman, Kentucky. The northern portion of the lake is west of and a short distance from Fort Donaldson, about twenty miles from Hickman, by the river route. As Reelfoot Lake possesses the peculiar flora and characteristics of a multitude of other swamp-lakes throughout the wilderness of the lower Mississippi valley, I cannot better describe them all than by giving to the reader a description of that lake, written by an intelligent observer who visited the locality in 1874. "Nothing," he says, "could well exceed the singularity of the view that meets the eye as one comes out of the shadows of the forest on to the border of this sheet of water. From the marshy shore spreads out the vast extent of the seemingly level carpet of vegetation,--a mat of plants, studded over with a host of beautiful flowers; through this green prairie runs a maze of water-ways, some just wide enough for a pirogue, some widening into pools of darkened water. All over this expanse rise the trunks of gigantic cypresses, shorn of all their limbs, and left like great obelisks, scattered so thickly that the distance is lost in the forest of spires. Some are whitened and some blackened by decay and fire; many rise to a hundred feet or more above the lake. The branches are all gone, save in a few more gigantic forms, whose fantastic remnants of the old forest arches add to the illusion of monumental ruin which forces itself on the mind. The singularity of the general effect is quite matched by the wonder of the detail. "Taking the solitary dug-out canoe, or pirogue, as it is called in the vernacular, we paddled out into the tangle of water-paths. The green carpet, studded with yellow and white, that we saw from the shores, resolved itself into a marvellously beautiful and varied vegetation. From the tangle of curious forms the eye selects two noble flowers: our familiar northern water-lily, grown to a royal form, its flowers ten inches broad, and its floating pads near a foot across; and another grander flower, the Wampapin lily, the queen of American flowers. It is worth a long journey to see this shy denizen of our swamps in its full beauty. From the midst of its great floating leaves, which are two feet or more in diameter, rise two large leaves borne upon stout foot-stalks that bring them a yard above the water; from between these elevated leaves rises to a still greater height the stem of the flower. The corolla itself is a gold-colored cup a foot in diameter, lily-like in a general way, but with a large pestle-shaped ovary rising in the centre of the flower, in which are planted a number of large seeds, the 'pins' of Wampapin. These huge golden cups are poised on their stems, and wave in the breeze above great wheel- like leaves, while the innumerable white lilies fill in the spaces between, and enrich the air with their perfume. "Slowly we crept through the tangled paths until we were beyond the sight of shore, in the perfect silence of this vast ruined temple, on every side the endless obelisks of the decaying cypress, and as far as the eye could see were ranged the numberless nodding bells of the yellow lilies, and the still-eyed white stars below them. While we waited in the coming evening, the silence was so deep, the whir of a bald eagle's wings, as he swept through the air, was audible from afar. The lonely creature sat on the peak of one of the wooden towers over our boat, and looked curiously down upon us. The waters seemed full of fish, and, indeed, the lake has much celebrity as a place for such game. We could see them creeping through the mazes of the water- forest, in a slow, blind way, not a bit like the dance of the northern creatures of the active waters of our mountain streams. "There is something of forgetfulness in such a scene, a sense of a world far away, with no path back to it. One might fall to eating our Wampapin lily, as did the Chickasaws of old, and find in it the all- forgetting lotus, for it is, indeed, the brother of the lotus of the Nile. We do not know how far these forgotten savages found the mystic influence of the Nilotic lotus in these queenly flowers of the swamps, but tradition says that they ate not only the seeds, but the bulbous roots, which the natives aver are quite edible. So we, too, can claim a lotus-eating race, and are even able to try the soul-subduing powers of the plant at our will. "There is something in the weight of life and death in these swamps that subdues the mind, and makes the steps we take fall as in a dream. It was not easy to fix a basis for memory with the pencil, and recollection shapes a vast sensation of strangeness, a feeling as if one had trod for a moment beyond the brink of time, rather than any distinct images." At sunset I came upon Joe Eckel's Bar,--not the fluvial establishment so much resorted to by people ashore,--but a genuine Mississippi sandbar, or shoal, which was covered with two feet of water, and afforded lodgment for a heavy raft of trees that had floated upon it. The island was also partly submerged, but I found a cove with a sandy beach on its lower end; and running into the little bay, I staked the boat in one foot of water, much to the annoyance of flocks of wild- fowl which circled about me at intervals all night. The current had been turbid during the day, and to supply myself with drinking-water it was necessary to fill a can from the river and wait for the sediment to precipitate itself before it was fit for use. Fifty-six miles were logged for the day's row. In the morning Joe Eckel's Bar was alive with geese and ducks, cackling a lusty farewell as I pushed through the drift stuff and resumed my voyage down the swelling river. The reaches were usually five miles in length, though some of them were very much longer. Sometimes deposits of sand and vegetable matter will build up a small island adjacent to a large one, and then a dense thicket of cotton-wood brush takes possession of it, and assists materially in resisting the encroachments of the current. These little, low islands, covered with thickets, are called tow-heads, and the maps of the Engineer Corps of the United States distinguish them from the originally numbered islands in the following manner: "Island No. 18," and "Tow Head of Island No.18." In addition to the numbered islands, which commence with Island No. 1, below the mouth of the Ohio, and end with Island No. 125, above the inlet to Bayou La Fourche, in Louisiana, there are many which have been named after their owners. During one generation a planter may live upon a peninsula comprising many thousand acres, with his cotton- fields and houses fronting on the Mississippi. The treacherous current of this river may suddenly cut a new way across his estate inland at a distance of two miles from his home. As the gradual change goes on, he looks from the windows of his house upon a new scene. He no longer has the rapid flowing river, enlivened by the passage of steamboats and other craft; but before him is a sombre bayou, or crescent-shaped lake, whose muddy waters are almost motionless. He was the proprietor of Needham's Point, he is now the owner of Needham's Island, and lives in the quiet atmosphere of the backwoods of Tennessee. This day's row carried me past heavily-wooded shores, cotton-fields with some of the cotton still unpicked; past the limits of Missouri on the left side, and into the wild state of Arkansas at Island No. 21. I finally camped on Island No. 26, in a half submerged thicket, after a row of fifty-eight miles. As there were many flat and shanty boats floating southward, I adopted a plan by means of which my dinners were frequently cooked with little trouble to myself or others. About an hour before noon I gazed about within the narrow horizon for one of those floating habitations, and rowing alongside, engaged in conversation with its occupants. The men would tell what success they had had in collecting the skins of wild animals (though silent upon the subject of pig-stealing), while the women would talk of the homes they had left, and sigh for the refinements and comforts of "city life," by which they meant their former existence in some small town on the upper river. While we were exchanging our budgets of information I would obtain the consent of the presiding goddess of the boat to stew my ambrosia upon her stove, the sneak-box floating the while alongside its tub-like companion. Many a half hour was spent in this way; and, besides the comfort of a hot dinner, there were advantages afforded for the study of characters not to be found elsewhere. These peculiar boats, so often encountered, found refuge in the frequent cut-offs behind the many islands of the river; for besides those islands which have been numbered, new ones are forming every year. At times, when the water is very high, the current will cut a new route across the low isthmus, or neck, of a peninsula, around which sweeps a long reach of the main channel, leaving the tortuous bend which it has deserted to be gradually filled up with snags, deposits of alluvium, and finally to be carpeted with a vegetable growth. In some cases, as the stream works away to the eastward or westward, it remains an inland crescent-shaped lake, numbers of which are to be found in the wilderness many miles from the parent stream. I have known the channel of the Mississippi to be shortened twenty miles during a freshet, and a steam-boat which had followed the great ox-bow bend in ascending the river, on its return trip shot through the new cut-off of a few hundred feet in length, upon fifteen feet of water where a fortnight before a forest had been growing. The area of land on both sides of the Mississippi subjected to annual overflow, like the country surrounding the Nile, in Egypt, is very large. There are localities thirty or forty miles away from the river where the height of the overflow of the previous year is plainly registered upon the trunks of the trees by a coating of yellow mud, which sometimes reaches as high as a man's head. This great region possesses vast tracts of rich land, as well as millions of acres of low swamps and bayou bottoms. The traveller, the hunter, the zologist, and the botanist can all find here in these rich river bottoms a ready reward for any inconveniences experienced on the route. Strange types of half- civilized whites, game enough to satisfy the most rapacious, beast and bird of peculiar species, and over all the immense forests of cypress, sweet-gums, Spanish-oaks, tulip-trees, sycamores, cotton-woods, white- oaks, &c., while the most delicate wild-flowers "waste their sweetness on the desert air." Across all this natural beauty the whisper of desolation casts a cloud, for here during most of the year arises the health-destroying malaria. Upon the high lands the squatter builds his log cabin, and makes his clearing where the rich soil and warm sun assist his rude agricultural labors, and he is rewarded with a large crop of maize and sweet potatoes. These, with bacon from his herd of wandering pigs, give sustenance to his family of children, who, hatless and bonnetless, roam through the woods until the sun bleaches their hair to the color of flax. With tobacco, whiskey, and ammunition for himself, and an ample supply of snuff for his wife, he drags out an indolent existence; but he is the pioneer of American civilization, and as he migrates every few years to a more western wilderness, his lands are frequently occupied by a more intelligent and industrious class, and his improvements are improved upon. The new-comer, with greater ambition and more ample means, raises cotton instead of corn, and depends upon the Ohio valley for a supply of that cereal. Wednesday, January 5th, was a sunny and windy day. The Arkansas shores afforded me a protection from the wind as I rowed down towards Fort Pillow, which, according to the map of the United States Engineer Corps, is situated upon Chickasaw Bluff No. 1, though some writers and map-makers designate the Columbus Bluff, below the mouth of the Ohio, as the first Chickasaw Bluff. The site of Fort Pillow is about thirty feet above the water. It commands the low country opposite, and two reaches of the river for a long distance. A little below the fort, on the right bank of the river, was an extensive cotton-field, still white with the flossy cellulose. Here I landed under the shady trees, and gathered cotton, the result of peaceful labor. Truly had the sword been beaten into the ploughshare, and the spear into a pruning-hook, for above me frowned down Fort Pillow, the scene of the terrible negro massacre in our late war. Now the same sun shone so brightly upon the graves scattered here and there, and warmed into life the harvest sown in peace. At intervals I caught glimpses of negro cabins, with their clearings, and their little crops of cotton glistening in the sun. The island tow-heads and sand-bars were numerous, and in places the Mississippi broadened into lake-like areas, while the yellow current, now heavily charged with mud, arose in height every hour. The climate was growing delightful. It was like a June day in the northern states. Each soft breeze of the balmy atmosphere seemed to say, as I felt its strange, fascinating influence, "You are nearing the goal!" The shadows of the twilight found me safely ensconced behind the lower end of Island No. 33, where in the bayou between it and the Tennessee shore I lazily watched fair Luna softly emerging from the clouds, and lending to the grand old woods her tender light. I proceeded southward the next day, rowing comfortably after having divested myself of all superfluous apparel. The negroes, on their one- horse plantations, gave a hearty hail as I passed, but I noted here a feature I had remarked when upon my "Voyage of the Paper Canoe," on the eastern coast. It was the silence in which these people worked. The merry song of the darky was no longer heard as in the "auld lang syne." Then he was the slave of a white master. Now he is the slave of responsibilities and cares which press heavily upon his heretofore unthinking nature. To-day he has a future IF he can make it. During the day, a lone woman on a shanty-boat, which was securely fastened to an old stump, volunteered much information in regard "her man," and the money he expected to receive for the skins he had been collecting during the winter. She said he would get in New Orleans thirty-five cents apiece for his coon-skins, one dollar for minks, and one dollar and a half each for beaver and otter skins. She informed me that the sunken country below Memphis, on the Arkansas side, was full of deer and bears. By rowing briskly I was able to pass Memphis, the principal river port of Tennessee, at five o'clock in the afternoon. This flourishing city is situated upon one of the Chickasaw bluffs, thirty feet above the river. At the base of the bluff a bed of sandstone projects into the water, it being the only known stratum of rock along the river between Cairo and the Gulf. From the Ohio River to Vicksburg, a distance of six hundred miles, it is asserted that there is no other site for a commercial city: so Memphis, though isolated, enjoys this advantage, which has, in fact, made her the busy cotton-shipping port she is to- day. Her population is about forty thousand. As Memphis is connected by railroads with the towns and villages of all the back country, in addition to her water advantages, she may be called the business centre of an immense area of cultivated land. The view of the city from the river is striking. Her esplanade, several hundred feet in width, sweeps along the bluffs and is covered with large warehouses. Pushing steadily southward, I looked out anxiously for a good camping- ground for the night, feeling that a rest had been well earned, for I had rowed sixty-one miles that day. Soon after passing Horn Lake Bend, the thickets of Crow Island attracted my attention, for along the muddy, crumbling bank the mast of a little sloop arose from the water, and a few feet inland the bright blaze of a camp-fire shone through the mists of evening. A cheery hail of; "I say, stranger, pull in, and tie up here," came from a group of three roughly-clad men, who were bending over the coals, busily engaged in frying salt pork and potatoes. The swift current forced me into an eddy close to the camp. One of the men caught my painter, and drew me close under the lee of their roughly constructed sloop of about two tons' burden. When seated by the bright fire, "the boys" told me their history. They were out of work; so, investing sixty dollars in an old sloop, putting on board a barrel of pork, a barrel of flour, some potatoes, coffee, salt, and molasses, (which cargo was to last three months,) they started to cut canes in the canebrakes of White River, Arkansas. These canes were to be utilized as fishing-poles, and being carefully assorted and fastened into bundles, were to be shipped to Cincinnati by steamer, and from there by rail to Cleveland, Ohio, where Mr. Farrar, their consignee, would dispose of them for the party. They had come down the Mississippi from Keokuk, Iowa, having left that place December 13th, and had experienced various delays, having several times been frozen up in creeks. They would be able to cut, during the winter, twenty- five thousand fishing-rods, enough, one would think, to clear the streams of all the finny tribe. Mr. F. C. Stirling, of Painesville, Ohio, was the principal of the party, and I found him an unusually intelligent young man. He had passed the previous winter alone upon White River in an experimental sort of way, and had succeeded in obtaining the finest lot of fishing-rods that had ever been sent north. There was so much to be talked about, and so many experiences in voyaging to be exchanged, that we decided to remain that night on Crow Island, as there was not much risk of. my being deluged by the passing steamers, for it was evident that the steamboat channel hugged the bank of the opposite side of the river. I took ashore chocolate, canned milk, white sugar, and some of the Hickman mince-pies, while the boys rolled logs of wood on to the fire, and buried potatoes in the hot ashes. Stirling went to work at bread-making, and putting his dough in one of those flat-bottomed, three-legged, iron-covered vessels, which my reader will now recognize as the bake-pan, or Dutch oven, placed it on the coals, and loaded its cover with hot embers. The potatoes were soon baked, and possessed a mealiness not usually found in those served up by the family cook. Stirling's bread was a success, and my chocolate disappeared down the throats of the hearty western boys as fast as its scalding temperature would admit. Stirling told me of his life during the previous winter in the swamps of White River. On one occasion, a steamer having lost her anchor near his locality, the captain of the boat offered to reward Stirling liberally if he would recover the lost property; so, while the captain was making his up-river trip, the Ohio boy worked industriously dredging for the cable. He found it; and under-running the heavy rope, raised it and the anchor. When the steamer returned to Beteley's Landing, Stirling delivered the anchor and coil of rope to the captain, who, intending to defraud the young man of the promised reward, ordered the mate to "cast off the lines." The gong had signalled the engineer to get under way, but not quick enough to escape the young salvage-owner, who grasped the coil of rope and dragged it ashore, shouting to the captain, "You may keep your anchor, but I will keep your cable as salvage, to which I am entitled for my trouble in saving your property." A few days later, Stirling, wishing to know whether he could legally hold his salvage fees, paddled down to Bolivia, a small town in the state of Mississippi, to obtain legal advice in regard to the matter. The white people referred him to a negro justice of the peace, whom they assured him "had more law-larnin' than any white man in the diggings, and is the honestest nigger in these parts." Being ushered into the presence of a dignified negro, the cutter of fishing-poles informed the "justice" that he desired legal advice in a case of salvage. "Dat's rite, dat's berry good, sah," said the negro; "now you jes' set rite down he'ar, and macadimize de case to me. I gibs ebery man justice--no turnin' to de rite or de leff hand." Stirling stated the facts, the colored justice puckering up his shiny brow, and his whole countenance expressing perplexity. "I want to know," said the possessor of the cable, "whether I can legally hold on to the coil of rope; use it or sell it for my own benefit, without being sued by the captain, who broke his agreement with me." The colored man attempted to consult a volume containing a digest of laws; but being an indifferent reader, he handed it to Stirling, saying, "Now you, sah, jes look froo de book and find de larnin' on de case." Having carefully consulted the book, Stirling declared he found nothing that covered the salvage question in regard to cables and anchors. "Nuffin at all? nuffin at all?" asked the justice, seriously. "Now let me rest de case a moment fur perspection." As he pondered on a case which could not be decided by precedent, an idea seemed to lighten his sable features, for he straightened himself up and exclaimed, "Den I will gib you an opinion. Dis court will apply de common law ob de state ob Mississippi; and dis is it: 'What you hab, dat you keep!' DIS is de teachings ob de bar, de bench, and de code." Having received this august opinion, Stirling paddled back in his dug- out canoe to the swamps of Arkansas, much amused, if not impressed, with the negro's simple method of successfully disposing of a case, so unlike the usual procrastinating customs which fetter the courts presided over by learned white men. Early on the following day I left the camp of the Ohio boys, for their progress was assisted by a large sail, and it would have been impossible for me to have kept up with them. They also travelled by night as well as by day, keeping one man at the helm while the others slept. At the lower end of Crow Island I left the state of Tennessee and entered the confines of Mississippi, having Arkansas still on my right hand. During part of the afternoon I accompanied a flatboat-man and his family as far as Island No. 60, where we ran into a little bayou for the night. There was a rowdy settlement here, and many rough fellows were in the streets, shouting and fighting; but as I entered the bayou after dark, and secreted myself in the half submerged swamp, no one knew of my being there: so I felt safe from insult. The owner of the flatboat with whom I had entered the bayou intended to fish for the settlement. He was an old trapper, and informed me that bears were still abundant in parts of Alabama. He said the Canada Goose bred in small numbers in the lakes of the back country. His experiences with human nature found expression in his advice to me when I parted from him the next morning. "Don't leave your boat alone for half an hour in these parts, stranger. Niggers is bad, and some white folks too." Promising my new friend to look out for number one, I waved an adieu to him and his, and went on my solitary way. CHAPTER VII. DESCENT OF THE MISSISSIPPI TO NEW ORLEANS A FLATBOAT BOUND FOR TEXAS.-- A FLAT-MAN ON RIVER PHYSICS.-- ADRIFT AND ASLEEP.-- SEEKING THE EARTH'S LITTLE MOON.-- VICKSBURGH.-- JEFFERSON DAVIS'S COTTON PLANTATION, AND ITS NEGRO OWNER.-- DYING IN HIS BOAT.-- HOW TO CIVILIZE CHINESE.-- A SWIM OF ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY MILES ON THE MISSISSIPPI.-- TWENTY-FOUR HOURS IN THE WATER.-- ARRIVAL IN THE CRESCENT CITY. DURING the afternoon, while rowing out of the cut-off behind an island, I caught sight of a flatboat floating in the contour of a distant bend. There was something familiar in her appearance, and, as I drew nearer, I recognized the pile of nets, the rusty stove, and the civil but silent crew. She was the same flat which had left Hickman, Kentucky, the morning I had departed from that town with my basket of pies. This time the crew seemed like old friends. River life makes all men equal. A pleasant hail now greeted me, and the duck-boat was soon moored to the side of the flat. As we floated along with the current, sipping our coffee, the captain told me his history. The war had reduced him from affluence to poverty, and in order to support his family, he had built a scow and penetrated the weird waters of Reelfoot Lake, from which he was able, for several years, to supply the citizens of Hickman with excellent fish. The enterprise was a novelty at that time, and there being no competition, he made four thousand dollars the first year. After that others went into the business, and it became profitless. His mind was now bent upon a new field. Hearing that the people of northern Texas were destitute of a regular fish-market, he had provisioned his flat for a winter's campaign, and intended floating with his men down to the mouth of Red River, where he would be towed by a steamer through the state of Louisiana to the northeastern end of Texas. There entering Caddo Lake, which is from fifty to sixty miles long, and where game, ducks, and fish abound, he would camp upon the shores and set his nets. The railroads which penetrated that section would afford means for the rapid distribution of his fish. The party, anxious to arrive at their scene of action, floated night and day. The society of an educated man was so delightful at the time that I remained beside the flat all night. A lantern was hung above the bow of the boat to show the pilots of steamers our position. Whenever one of these disturbers of our peace passed the flat, I was obliged to cast off and pull into the stream, as the swash would almost ingulf me if I remained tied to the side of the large boat. I could only sleep by snatches, for just as I would be dropping off into the land of Nod, the watch upon the flat would call out, "Here comes another steamer," which was the signal for me to take to my oars. The next day was Sunday, but the flat kept on her way. I cooked my meals upon the rusty stove, and we floated side by side, conversing hour after hour. The low banks of the river showed the presence of levees, or artificial dikes, built to keep out the freshets. Upon these dikes the grass was putting forth its tender blades, and the willows were bursting into leaf. We passed White River and the Arkansas, both of which pour their waters out of the great wilderness of the state of Arkansas. Below the mouth of the last-named river was the town of Napoleon, with its deserted houses, the most forlorn aspect that had yet met my eye. The banks were caving into the river day by day. Houses had fallen into the current, which was undermining the town. Here and there chimneys were standing in solitude, the buildings having been torn down and removed to other localities to save them from the insatiable maw of the river. These pointed upward like so many warning cenotaphs of the river's treachery, and contrasted strongly in the mind's eye with the many happy family circles which had once gathered at their bases around the cheerful hearths. About ten o'clock in the forenoon the proprietor of the flatboat decided, as it was Sunday, to run into a bend of the river and tie up for the day. That night the banks caved in so frequently that I was in danger of being entombed in my sneak-box; and I rejoiced when morning came and the dangerous quarters were left behind. My flatboat companions made known to me a curious feature of river physics well known to the great floating population of the western streams. If you start with a flat-boat or raft of timber from any point on the Ohio or Mississippi rivers at the moment a rise in the water takes place, and continue floating night and day without interruption, you will in a few days overrun the effects of the rise, or freshet, and get below it. A little later you will discover, at some point a few hundred miles down-stream, that the river is just commencing to swell, as the result of the freshet upon which you originally started. During Tuesday and Wednesday of January 11 and 12, I was at times with the flat, and at times miles away from it. Near Skipwith Landing, Mississippi, we passed large and well-cultivated cotton-plantations, but the river country in its vicinity was almost a wilderness. My sleep had been much broken by night-travelling, and about nine o'clock on Wednesday evening I fastened my boat to the flat, and determined to have two or three hours of refreshing slumber. An hour's peaceful rest followed, and then a snorting, screeching stern-wheel steamer crossed the river with its tow of barges, and demoralized all my surroundings, driving me against the flat, and shooting water over the deck of my craft. Only half awake, I cast off from the flat, and thought that I was rowing down-river as usual; but I had dropped back into my nest just for one moment, and was in the land of Nod. I felt in my sleep that I was floating down the Mississippi. I was conscious that I had left the flatboat, and that steamers, snags, and eddies must be looked out for, or disaster would come quickly upon me. I knew I was asleep, and tried to rouse myself. I seemed to be watching the moon, which shone with silver glory upon the glistening waters, and made the dark forests, rising wall-like on the banks, even darker by comparison. Then I seemed to enter the fields of astronomy, moving through the atmosphere still pulling at my oars. My mental vision stretched across the Atlantic, and enveloped the old astronomical observatory of the French city of Toulouse. It was the hour of sunset, and the learned Director Petit was at his post carefully adjusting his telescope, eager with the hope of identifying an undiscovered meteorite, the presence of which had been suggested by certain disturbances among the celestial bodies. The savant carefully pointed his instrument to the neighboring regions of the setting sun, when suddenly I saw him start, and heard him mutter, like a philosopher of old, "Eureka, I have found it!" Only a ray of light had flashed across the field of his telescope as an asteroid shot into the gloam of the sun. Its movements were so rapid, its disappearance so sudden, that it was impossible to obtain another glimpse of the unknown body. The god of day had enveloped the satellite in curtains of powerful light, so that no eye but that of its Creator could gaze again that night upon the little stranger which had been seen for the first time by man. The astronomer moved away from his instrument and the wonderful machinery that had guided it in its search for the asteroid, slowly muttering. "The sun robbed me of a second sight of my discovery, yet only at this hour can I hope to get a glimpse of it. The difficulties attending this observation are the tremendous velocity with which it travels, its very small mass, and the rapidity with which, at the hour of sunset, it passes into the shadow of the earth. I will, however, calculate its orbit, and search for it again; for I have this evening seen what no human eye has ever beheld, I HAVE SEEN THE EARTH'S LITTLE MOON." While I watched, entranced, the astronomer, aided by his assistants, labored over multitudes of figures hour after hour, day after day; and from these computations an orbit was constructed for the Little Moon. Their work was finished; and as they left the observatory, a shadow, which had thrown its dark outlines here and there about the professor during his investigations, assumed the proportions of a man; and I saw for an instant the brilliant French writer, Jules Verne, while a voice in the musical language of France fell upon my ear: "Ah, Monsieur, it IS true, then, and we have a second moon, which must revolve round our planet once in three hours and twenty minutes, at a distance of only four thousand six hundred and fifty miles from our terrestrial abiding-place!" Then the professor and his figures faded out of my vision; and I seemed to be observing a little moon revolving with lightning rapidity round the earth, while I felt that I had, in some way, been sucked into its orbit, and was whirling around with it. Suddenly, with a keen sense of danger pervading my whole nervous system, I awoke. Yes, it was a dream! I was in my boat, gazing up into the serene heavens, where the larger moon was tranquilly following her orbit, while I was being whirled round in a strong eddy under a high bank of the river, with the giant trees frowning down upon me as though rebuking a careless boatman for being caught napping. And where was the flat? I gazed across the wide river into the quiet atmosphere now full of the bright light of the moon,--but no boat could be seen; and from the wild forest alone came back an echo to my shouts of "Flatboat, ahoy!" For hours I rowed in search of my compagnon de voyage. As I hurried along the reaches of the river, every island cut-off, every tow-head, and every nigger-head, was inspected. I even peered into the mouths of dark bayous, thinking the party might have tied up to await my arrival, as the larger and deeper craft floated faster than my little boat. All search, however, proved fruitless. No flat could be seen. My endeavors to find my quondam friends had been so absorbing that things above my line of vision were not observed, when suddenly the bright moonlight revealed to my astonished eyes a lofty city apparently suspended in the heavens. By the aid of a candle and my map I discovered that the city and fortifications of Vicksburgh were close at hand, and that it was four o'clock in the morning. My first view of Vicksburgh was over a long, low point of land, across the base of which was excavated, during the investment of the city by United States troops in the late war, "General Grant's Cut-off." By using this cut-off, light-draught gunboats could ascend or descend the river without passing near the batteries of the fortified city. This point, or peninsula, which the Union forces held, is on the Louisiana shore, opposite Vicksburgh. A year or two after I passed that interesting locality, a Natchez newspaper, in describing the change made in the channel of the Mississippi River, said that "St. Joseph and Rodney have been left inland; Vicksburgh is left on a lake; Delta will soon be washed away; a cut-off has been made at Grand Gulf, and by another season Port Gibson and Claiborne County will have no landing." Floating quietly in my little boat, and gazing at the city upon the heights, I thought of the bloody scenes there enacted, and of the statement made that "three hundred tons of lead, mostly bullets, had been collected in and around the town since the close of the war." This lead, it has been asserted, would make nine million six hundred thousand ounce-balls. Of course, in this statement there is no mention of the lead buried deep in the earth, and that lost in the river. Entering a great bend, the swift current swept me so rapidly past Vicksburgh that a few moments later I was among the islands and tow- heads of the river. At noon the plantation of Mr. Jefferson Davis was passed. It was situated twenty-five miles below Vicksburgh, and prior to February, 1867, was on a long peninsula with the estate of Colonel Joseph E. Davis and one belonging to Messrs. Quitman and Farrar. Then came the overwhelming river, sweeping across a narrow neck of land, and transforming the cotton-plantations into an island territory. In the old days of slavery, Colonel Joseph E. Davis, brother of the ex- president of the late Confederate States, had a body-servant named Ben Montgomery. He was the manager of his master's estates while a slave, and was so industrious and honest in all his dealings, and so successful in business, that after the war he was able to purchase his master's plantation for three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in gold. While I lingered in the Davis cut-off to lunch, a boat-load of white men passed me on their way to the plantation of Jefferson Davis, which they said had also been purchased by Ben Montgomery of its former owner, who then resided in Memphis. One of the men said: "Mr. Davis will convey the property to Ben Montgomery as soon as he makes one more payment, and Ben told me he was about ready to close the transaction." Montgomery was described as being fairly educated, and possessing the presence and address of a gentleman. His neighbors credited him with being "a right smart good nigger." It is a singular fact that these large landed estates should have become the property of the former slave so soon after the war. Ben Montgomery died recently, leaving an example to his colored brethren worthy of their imitation. From Davis's Cut-off I followed Big Black Island Bend and Hard Times Bend, past the now silent batteries of Grand Gulf, down to the town of Rodney. I went ashore near the old plantation of an ex-president (General Taylor) of the United States, being attracted by a lot of dry drift-wood which promised a blazing fire. While cooking my rice and slowly developing an omelet, I calculated upon the chances of finding the lost flatboat. It was now evident that she was behind, not in advance of me. It was about four o'clock, and I determined to await her arrival. At half-past six o'clock clouds had obscured the sky, and it was impossible to see across the water, but I continued to watch and listen for the flat. The current was strongest on my side of the river, and I felt certain the boat would follow it and pass close to my camp. Her lantern and blazing stove-pipe would reveal her presence. Suddenly a man coughed within a few rods of the shore, and out of the gloom appeared the dark outlines of the fisherman's craft, but like a phantom ship, it instantly disappeared. It was but the work of a moment to embark and follow the vanishing flat. I soon overhauled it, and received a warm welcome from its occupants, who had supposed that after the steamer had driven me from them I had sought refuge in a creek to make up my lost hours of sleep. We floated side by side all night, disturbed but once, and then by the powerful steamer Robert Lee, which unceremoniously threw about a pail of water over me, gratuitously washing my blankets. The next day, January 13, we passed Natchez, Mississippi, about four o'clock A. M. This city, founded by D'Iberville in 1700, is geographically divided into two parts. "Natchez on the Hill" is situated on a bluff two hundred feet above the river, while "Natchez under the Hill " is at the base of the cliff, and from its levee vessels sail for foreign as well as for American ports. Its inland and foreign trade is extensive, though it has a population of only ten or twelve thousand. The aspect of the country was changing as we approached New Orleans. Fine plantations, protected by levees, now lined the river-banks, while the forests of dense green, heavily draped with Spanish moss, threw dark shadows on the watery path. We arrived at the mouth of the Red River about dark, and my companions were fortunate enough to find a steamer at the landing, the captain of which promised to take them in tow to their distant goal. We parted like old friends; and as I rowed in darkness down the Mississippi I heard the shrill whistle of the steamer which was dragging my companions up the current of Red River into the high lands of Louisiana. Up Red River, three miles from its mouth, a stream branches off to the south, and empties into the Gulf of Mexico. This is the Atchafalaya Bayou. At Plaquemine, about one hundred and thirty miles below Red River, and on the west bank of the Mississippi, another bayou conducts a portion of the water from the main stream into Grand River, which, with other western Louisiana watercourses, empties into the Gulf of Mexico. There is a third western outlet from the parent stream at Donaldsonville, eighty-one miles above New Orleans, known as the Bayou La Fourche, which flows through one of the richest sugar-producing sections of the state. Dotted here and there along the shores of this bayou are the picturesque homes of the planters, made more attractive by the semi-tropical vegetation, the clustering vines, blooming roses, and bright green turf than they could ever be from mere architectural beauty, while their continuous course along the shore gives the idea of a long and prosperous village. The guide-books of the Mississippi describe the Bayou Manchac as an outlet to the Mississippi on the left, or east bank, below Baton Rouge, and the statement is repeatedly made that steamboats can go through this bayou into the Amite River, and down that river to Lake Pontchartrain and the Gulf of Mexico, leaving, by this route, the city of New Orleans to the west. This is, however, far from the truth, as I shall presently show, for it had been my intention to descend the Bayou Manchac, and follow D'Iberville's ancient route to the sea. I soon found that the accomplishment of my plan was impossible, as the dry bottom of the bayou was FIFTEEN FEET ABOVE the water of the Mississippi. Pursuing my solitary way, I rowed across the Mississippi, and skirted the shore in search of a camp where I could sleep until the moon arose, which would be soon after midnight. During the afternoon I had crossed the southern boundary of the state of Mississippi, and now the river ran through the state of Louisiana all the way to the sea. About nine o'clock I found a little bayou in the dark woods, and moored my boat to a snag which protruded its head above the still waters of the tarn. The old trees that closely encircled my nocturnal quarters were fringed with the inevitable Spanish moss, and gave a most funereal aspect to the surroundings. The mournful hootings of the owls added to the doleful and weird character of the place. I was, however, too sleepy to waste much sentiment upon the gloomy walls of my apartment, and was soon lost to all sublunary things. These dark pockets of the swamps, these earthly Hades, are famous resting-places for those who know the untenable nature of ghosts, and who have become the possessors of healthy nerves by avoiding the poisonous influences of coal-gas in furnace-heated houses, the vitiated air of crowded rooms, and other detrimental effects of a city life. In such a camp the voyager need fear no intrusion upon his privacy, for the superstitions rife among men will prevent even Paul Pry from penetrating such recesses during the wee sma' hours. Of course such a camp would be safe only during the winter months, as at other seasons the invidious foe, malaria, would inevitably mark for its victim the man who slept beneath such deadly shades. At midnight the light of the moon illuminated my dark quarters, and I stole noiselessly out of the bayou into the river, rowing until sunrise, when the small port of Bayou Sara was passed. It was soon left in the dim distance, and the little white boat floated ten miles down a nearly straight reach in the river to the frowning heights of Port Hudson, a place that figured prominently during the late war. The country round Port Hudson is thickly settled by descendants of the old Acadians, who came down the great rivers from Canada in the early days of Louisiana's history. Entering the mouth of the False River, on the west bank of the Mississippi, the traveller will penetrate the heart of an old and interesting Acadian settlement. If his mind be full of poetic fancies, and his eyes in search of Gabriels and Evangelines as he travels along this part of the Mississippi, his ears will be startled by the unmistakable Yankee names that are given him as representing the proprietors of the various estates he passes. Here and there the old French names appear; but in almost every such instance its possessor is a bachelor, and with him its musical accents will die away. Searching into the cause of this patent fact, I discovered that the creole women, descendants of the old Acadians, appreciated the sterling qualities of the Anglo-Saxon race, and found in them their ideals, leaving in a state of single blessedness the more indolent, and perhaps less persuasive, creole gentlemen. The results of these marriages are the gradual extinction of old family names; and in the not very far future the romance connected with these people will be a thing of the past, and the traveller, instead of thinking-- "This is the little village famed of yore, with meadows rich in flocks, and plenteous grain, whose peasants knelt beside each vine-clad door, As the sweet Angelus rose over the plain," will be introduced to Mrs. Hezekiah Skinner, and partake of her baked beans. My informant in these matters was an educated creole gentleman, and I must have the honesty to give his remarks in regard to these persistent "Yankees," who, he said, "were always successful with the fair maidens, but invariably selected those who owned fine plantations, having in love, as well as in war, an eye to the main chance." About the middle of the afternoon I ran the sneak-box on to the sloping levee of Baton Rouge, the capital of Louisiana; and, locking the hatch, went to the post-office for letters, and to the stores for provisions. Returning to the levee, I found a good-natured crowd had taken possession of my boat, and at once availed myself of the local information in regard to the chances of a passage through Bayou Manchac, which was only fifteen miles below the town. Each told a different story. One gentleman said, "You will have to get four niggers to lift your boat over the levee of Mr. Walker's plantation, and put it into Bayou Manchac, which is about one hundred yards from the banks of the Mississippi. Its mouth was filled up a long time ago, but when once in the bayou you can float down to the Amite River, and so on to the Gulf." Another voice contradicted this statement, exclaiming, "Why, the bayou is dried up for a distance of at least eight miles from its head." At this point a well-dressed gentleman advanced, and quietly said: "I live on the Bayou Manchac, and can assure you that after you have hauled your boat through the Woodstock Plantation of the Walker family, you will find water enough in the bayou to float down upon to the Amite River." The crowd now became fully alive to the discussion of the geography of their locality. Each man who favored me with an opinion on the Manchac question contradicted his neighbor; which was only a renewal of old experiences, for I always found LOCAL knowledge of geography and distances of little value. As the debate ran high, I thought of D'Iberville, who had thoroughly explored the short bayou several generations before, and who might now have enlightened these people in regard to a stream that ran through their own lands. D'Iberville was, however, born in Canada, and probably had more time to look into such matters, or he would not have travelled several thousand miles to explore Louisiana. I thanked the company for their interest in the discussion, which, like the questions before a debating society, had ended only in opinions. I promised to let them know the truth of the matter if I visited Baton Rouge again, and pushing out into the current, pulled towards Woodstock Plantation, where I arrived soon after dark; but fearing to land on account of the dogs, whose reception of a stranger in the dark was, to say the least, unceremonious, I tied up to a high bank, and "turned in" for the night. Having left the wilderness and its protecting creeks and islands, I was destined to feel all the annoyances attending a camper in a cultivated and settled region. The steamboats tossed me about all night, so that morning was indeed welcome, and having refreshed myself with a dip and a djener, I climbed the bank, and was rewarded with the sight of a noble mansion, with its gardens of blooming roses, and lawns of bright green grass. This was the Woodstock Plantation, of which I had heard so much. I leisurely approached the large establishment, breathing an atmosphere laden with the fragrance of roses and orange-blossoms, which seemed to grow sweeter with every step. Finding an old negro, I sent my card to his master, with the request for information in regard to the Bayou Manchac. The young proprietor soon appeared with the "Report of the Secretary of War," 27th Congress, 3d session, page 21. December 30, 1842. This pamphlet informed me that the bayou was filled up at its mouth by order of the government, in answer to a petition from the planters of the lower country along the bayou and Amite River, to prevent the overflow of their cane-fields during freshets in the Mississippi River. We walked to a shallow depression near the house. It was dry, and carpeted with short grass. "This," said Mr. Walker, "is the Bayou Manchac which D'Iberville descended in his boat after having explored the Mississippi probably as far as Red River. The bed of the bayou is now fifteen feet above the present stage of water in the Mississippi." A field-hand was then called, who was said to be the best geographer in those parts, white or black. "Tell this gentleman what you know of the Bayou Manchac," said Mr. Walker, addressing the negro. "Well, sah!" the darky replied, "I jus hab looked at yer boat. Four ob us can hf him ober de levee, an' put him on de cart. Den wees mus done cart him FOURTEEN miles 'long de Bayou Manchac to get to whar de warter is plenty fur him to float in. Dar is some places nearer dan dat, 'bout twelve miles off whar dar is SOME warter, but de warter am in little spots, an' den you go on furder, an' dar is no warter fur de boat. Den all de way dar is trees dat falls across de bayou. Boss, you mus go all de fourteen miles to get to de warter, sure sartin." Mr. Walker informed me that for fourteen miles down the bayou the fall was six feet to the mile. At that distance from the Mississippi, sloop navigation commenced at a point called Hampton's Landing, from which it was about six miles to the Amite River. The Amite River was navigated by light-draught vessels from Lake Pontchartrain. The region about the Amite River possesses rich bottom-lands, and many of the descendants of the original French settlers of Louisiana own plantations along its banks. Mr. Walker then pointed to a long point of land some miles down the river, upon which the fertile fields of a plantation lay like patches of bright green velvet in the morning sun, and said: "Below that point a neighbor of mine found one of your northern boatmen dying in his boat. He rowed all the way from Philadelphia on a bet, and if he had reached New Orleans would have won his five thousand dollars, but he died when only ninety-five miles from the city, and was buried by Adonis Le Blanc on that plantation." I had heard the story before. It had been told me by the river boatmen, and the newspapers of the country had also repeated it. The common version of it was, that a poor man, desirous of supporting his large family of children, had undertaken to row on a bet from Philadelphia to New Orleans. If successful, he was to receive five thousand dollars. The kind-hearted people along the river had shown much sympathy for Mr. John C. Cloud in his praiseworthy attempts to support his suffering family, and at any time during his voyage quite a liberal sum of money might have been collected from these generous men and women to aid him in his endeavor. There was, however, something he preferred to money, and with which he was lavishly supplied, as we shall see hereafter. So much for rumor. Now let us examine facts. A short time before Mr. Cloud's death, two reporters of a western paper attempted to row to New Orleans in a small boat, but met with an untimely end, being run down by a steamboat. Their fate and Mr. Cloud's were quoted as precedents to all canoeists and boatmen, and quite a feeling against this healthful exercise was growing among the people. Several editors of popular newspapers added to the excitement by warnings and forebodings. Believing that some imprudence had been the cause of Mr. Cloud's death, and forming my opinion of him from the fact of his undertaking such a voyage in August,--the season when the swamps are full of malaria,--I took the trouble to investigate the case, and made some discoveries which would have startled the sympathetic friends of this unfortunate man. One of the first things that came to light was the fact that Mr. Cloud was not a married man. His family was a creation of his imagination, and a most successful means of securing the sympathy and ready aid of those he met during his voyage, though his daily progress shows that neither sympathy nor money were what he craved, but that WHISKEY alone would "fill the bill!" Mr. Cloud had once been a sailor in the United States navy, but having retired from the cruel sea, he became an actor in such plays as "Black-eyed Susan" in one of the variety theatres in Philadelphia. Mr. Charles D. Jones, of that city, who was connected with theatrical enterprises, and knew Mr. Cloud well, was one day surprised by the latter gentleman, who declared he had a "bright idea," and only wanted a friend to stand by him to make it a sure thing. He proposed to row from Philadelphia to New Orleans in a small boat. Mr. Jones was to act as his travelling agent, going on in advance, and informing the people of the coming of the great oarsman. When Mr. Cloud should arrive in any populous river-town, a theatrical performance was to be given, the boatman of course to be the "star." Mr. Jones was to furnish the capital for all this, while Mr. Cloud was to share with his manager the profits of the exhibitions. A light Delaware River skiff, pointed at each end, was purchased, and Mr. Cloud left Philadelphia in the month of August, promising his friend to arrive in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in twelve or fourteen days. After waiting a few days to enable Mr. Cloud to get fairly started upon his voyage, which was to be made principally by canals to the Alleghany River, the manager went to Pittsburgh with letters of introduction to the editors of that busy city. The representatives of the press kindly seconded Mr. Jones in advertising the coming of the great oarsman. Mr. Cloud was expected to appear in front of Pittsburgh on a certain day. A hall was engaged for his performance in the evening. An immense amount of enthusiasm was worked up among the people of the city and the neighboring towns. Having done his duty to his colleague, Mr. Jones anxiously awaited the expected telegram from Cloud, announcing his approach to the city. No word came from the oarsman; and in vain the manager telegraphed to the various towns along the route through which Mr. Cloud must have passed. On the day that had been settled upon for the arrival of the boat before Pittsburgh, a large concourse of visitors gathered along the river-banks. Even the mayor of the city was present in his carriage among the expectant crowd. The clock struck the hour of noon, but the little Delaware skiff was nowhere to be seen; and, as the sun declined from the zenith, the people gradually dispersed, muttering, "Another humbug!" At midnight Mr. Jones retired in anything but an amiable mood. His professional honor had been wounded, and his industrious labors lost. Where was Cloud? Had the poor fellow been murdered? What was his fate, and why did he not come up to time? Revolving these questions in his mind, the manager fell asleep; but he was roused before five o'clock in the morning by a servant knocking at his door to inform him that his "star" was in Alleghany City, opposite Pittsburgh. Mr. Jones went to look up his man, and found him in a state of intoxication in a drinking-saloon. A hard-looking set of fellows were perambulating the streets, bawling at the top of their voices, "Arrival of John C. Cloud, the great oarsman! Photographs for sale! only twenty-five cents!" When the intoxicated boatman had returned to a conversational state of mind, he explained that he had actually rowed as far as Harrisburgh, Pennsylvania, where he had been most generously entertained at the liquor saloons, and had been so fortunate as to make the acquaintance of some "good fellows" who had engaged to travel in advance of his boat, and sell his photographs, sharing with him in the profits of such sales. He had made his voyage from Harrisburgh to Alleghany City by rail, his boat being safely stowed in a car, and tenderly watched over by the red-shirted "good fellows" who had so generously taken him under their wing. The "great oarsman" had, in fact, rowed just about one-third of the distance between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh. The disgusted manager left his man in charge of the new managers, and going at once to the editors, explained how he had been duped, and begged to be "let down gently" before the public. These gentlemen not only acceded to the request, but even offered to get up a "benefit" for Mr. Jones, who declined the honor, and waited only long enough in the city to see Mr. Cloud with his boat and whiskey fade out of sight down the Ohio, when he returned to Philadelphia considerably lighter in pocket, having provided funds for purchasing the boat and other necessaries, and full of righteous indignation against Mr. Cloud and his "bright idea." The little skiff went on its way down the Ohio, and was met with enthusiasm at each landing. The citizens of Hickman, Kentucky, described the voyage of Mr. Cloud as one continuous ovation. Five thousand people gathered along the banks below that town to welcome "the poor northern man who was rowing to New Orleans on a five- thousand-dollar bet, hoping to win his wager that he might have means to support his large family of children." One old gentleman seemed to have his doubts about the truth of this statement, "for," said he, "when the celebrated oarsman appeared, and landed, he repaired immediately to a low drinking-saloon, and announced that he was the greatest oarsman in America," &c. The "boys" about the town subscribed a fund, and invested it in five gallons of whiskey, which Cloud took aboard his skiff when he departed. He plainly stated that the conditions of the bet prevented his sleeping under a roof while on his way; so he curled himself up in his blankets and slept on the veranda floors. The man must have had great powers of endurance, or he could not have rowed so long in the hot sun at that malarious season of the year. His chief sustenance was whiskey; and at one town, near Cairo, I was assured by the best authority, ten gallons of that fiery liquor were stowed away in his skiff. Such disregard of nature's laws soon told upon the plucky fellow, and his voyage came to an end when almost in sight of his goal. The malaria he was breathing and the whiskey he was drinking set fire to his blood, and the fatal congestive chills were the inevitable result. The papers of New Orleans had announced the approach of the great oarsman, and the planters were ready to give him a cordial welcome, when one day a man who was walking near the shore of the Mississippi, in the parish of Iberville, and looking out upon the river, saw a boat of a peculiar model whirling around in the eddies. He at once launched his boat and pushed out to the object which had excited his curiosity. Stretched upon the bottom of the strange craft was a man dressed in the garb of a northern boatman. At first he appeared to be dead; but a careful examination showed that life was not yet extinct. The unknown man was carried to the nearest plantation, and there, among strangers whose hearts beat kindly for the unfortunate boatman, John C. Cloud expired without uttering one word. The coroner, [Dying in his boat.] Mr. Adonis Le Blanc, found upon the person of the dead man a memorandum-book which told of the distances made each day upon the river, while the entries of the closing days showed how the keeper of the log had suffered from the "heavy shakes" occasioned by the malaria and his own imprudence. The story of the cruise was recorded on the boat. Men and women had written their names inside the frail shell, with the dates of her arrival at different localities along the route. I afterwards examined the boat at Biloxi, on the Gulf of Mexico, where it was kept as a curiosity in the boat-house of a citizen of New Orleans. They buried the unfortunate man upon the plantation, and Mr. Clay Gourrier took charge of his effects. The most remarkable thing about this rowing match was the credulity of the people along the route. They accepted Cloud's statement without stopping to consider that if there were any truth in it, the other side, with their five thousand dollars at stake, would surely take some interest in the matter, and have men posted along the route to see that the bet was fairly won. The fact that no bet had been made never seemed to dawn upon them; but, like too many, they sympathized without reasoning. Being forced to abandon all hopes of taking the Bayou Manchac and the interesting country of the Acadians in my route southward, I rowed down the river, past the curious old town of Plaquemine, and by four o'clock in the afternoon commenced to search for an island or creek where a good camping-ground for Sunday might be found. The buildings of White Castle Plantation soon arose on the right bank, and as I approached the little cooperage-shop of the large estate, which was near the water, a kindly hail came from the master-cooper and his assistant. Acceding to their desire "to look at the boat," I let the two men drag her ashore, and while they examined the craft, I studied the representatives of two very different types of laboring-men. One was from Madison, Indiana; the other belonged to the poor white class of the south. We built a fire near the boat, and passed half the night in conversation. These men gave me much valuable information about Louisiana. The southern cooper had lived much among the bayous and swamps of that region of the state subjected to overflow. He was an original character, and never so happy as when living a Robinson Crusoe life in the woods. His favorite expression seemed to be, "Oh, shucks!" and his yarns were so interlarded with this exclamation, that in giving one of his stories I must ask the reader to imagine that expressive utterance about every other word. Affectionately hugging his knee, and generously expectorating as he made a transfer of his quid from one side of his mouth to the other, he said: "A fellow don't always want company in the woods. If you have a pardner, he ort to be jes like yourself, or you'll be sartin to fall out. I was riving out shingles and coopers' stock once with a pardner, and times got mighty hard, sowe turned fishermen. There was some piles standing in Plaquemine Bayou, and the drift stuff collected round them and made a sort of little island. Me and Bill Bates went to work and rived out some lengths of cypress, and built a snug shanty on top of the piles. As it wasn't real estate we was on, nobody couldn't drive us off; so we fished for the Plaquemine folks. "By-and-by a king-snake swimmed over to our island, and tuck up his abode in a hole in a log. The cuss got kind of affectionate, and after a while crawled right into our hut to catch flies and other varmin. At last he got so tame he'd let me scratch his back. Then he tuck to our moss bed, and used up a considerable portion of his time there. Bill Bates hadn't the manners of a hog, and he kept a-droppin' hints to me, every few days, that he'd 'drap into that snake some night and squeeze the life out of him.' This made me mad, and I nat'rally tuck the snake's part, particularly as he would gobble up and crush the neck of every water-snake that cum ashore on our island. One thing led to another, till Bill Bates swore he'd kill my snake. Sez I to him, 'Billum,' (I always called him Billum when I MEANT BIZNESS,) 'ef you hurt a hair of the head of my snake, I'll hop on to you.' That settled our pardnership. Bill Bates knowed what I meant, and he gathered up his traps and skedaddled. "Then I went to New Orleans, and out to Lake Pontchartrain, to fish for market. A lot of cussed Chinese was in the bizness, and when they found COARSE fish in their nets, they'd kill 'em and heave 'em overboard. Now, no man's got a rite to waste anything, so we fishermen begun to pay sum attention to the opium-smokers in good arnest." Here I interrupted the speaker to ask him if it would be safe for me to travel alone through the fishing-grounds of these Chinese. "Oh, shucks! safe enuf now," he answered. "Once they was a bad set; but a change has cum over 'em--they're CIVILIZED now." A vision of schools and earnest missionary work was before me while I asked HOW their civilization had been accomplished. "Shucks! WE dun it--WE WHITE FISHERMEN civilized 'em," was the emphatic reply; "and not a bit too soon either, for the wasteful cusses got so bad they wasn't satisfied with chucking dead fish overboard, but would go on to the prairies, and after using the grass cabins we WHITE fishermen had built to go into in bad weather, the bloody furiners would burn them up to bother us. They thort they'd drive us teetotally out of the diggins; so we thort it was time to CIVILIZE 'em. We hid in the long grass fur a few nights and watched the cusses. One morning a Chinaman was found dead in a cabin. Pretty soon after, one or two others was found floatin' round loose, in the same way; and after that lesson or two the fellers got CIVILIZED; and you needn't fear goin' among 'em now, fur they're harmless as kittens. They don't kill coarse fish now fur the fun of it. Oh, shucks! there's nothin' like a little healthy CIVILIZATION fur Chinamen and Injuns. They both needs it, and, any way, this is a WHITE MAN'S country." "And what of negroes?" I asked. "Oh, the niggers is good enuf, ef you let 'em alone. The Carpet- baggers from up north has filled their heads with all kinds of stuff, so now they think, nat'rally enuf, that they ought to be office- holders, when they can't read or write no more than I can. I'd like to take a hand CIVILIZING some of them Carpet-baggers! They needs it more than the Chinamen or Injuns." During part of the evening, Mr. Sewall, the nephew of the owner of the plantation, was with us round our camp-fire. We spoke of Longfellow's Evangeline, the bay-tree, and Atchafalaya River, which he assured me was slowly widening its current, and would in time, perhaps, become the main river of the basin, and finally deprive the Mississippi of a large portion of its waters. From his boyhood he had watched the falling in of the banks with the widening and increasing of the strength of the current of the Atchafalaya Bayou. Once it was impassable for steamers; but a little dredging opened the way, while the Mississippi and Red rivers had both contributed to its volume of water until it had deepened sufficiently for United States gunboats to ascend it during the late war. It follows the shortest course from the mouth of Red River to the Gulf of Mexico. I left White Castle Plantation early on Monday morning, when I discovered a lot of fine sweet-potatoes stowed away in the hold of my boat. The northern cooper had purchased them during the night, and having too much delicacy to speak of his gift, secreted them in the boat. I fully appreciated this kind act, knowing it to be a mark of the poor man's sympathy for his northern countryman. The levee for miles was lined with negroes and white men gathering a harvest of firewood from the drift stuff. One old negro, catching sight of my boat, called out to his companion, "Randal, look at dat boat! De longer we libs, de mor you sees. What sort o' queer boat is she?" Twenty miles below White Castle Plantation is the valuable sugar estate called Houmas, the property of General Wade Hampton and Colonel J. T. Preston. General Hampton does not reside upon his plantation, but makes Georgia his home. Beyond Houmas the parish of St. James skirts the river for twenty miles. Three miles back from the river, on the left side of the Mississippi, and fifty-five miles from New Orleans, is the little settlement of Grand Point, the place most famed in St. James for perique tobacco. The first settler who had the hardihood to enter these solitudes was named Maximilian Roussel. He purchased a small tract of land from the government, and in the year 1824 shouldered his axe and camping-utensils, and started for his new domain. He soon built a hut, and at once began the laborious task of clearing his land, which was located in a dense cypress swamp, alive with wild beasts and alligators. A rough house was completed at the end of a year, and into it Roussel moved his family, consisting of a wife and four children. Here "he lived till he died," as it has been expressively said. Octave and Louis, two of his sons, and both now grandfathers, still live on the old place, and are highly respected. Only a few years ago the old homestead echoed to the voices of five of Roussel's sons, with their families; but death has taken two, one has removed, and two only now remain to relate the history of the almost unimaginable hardships encountered by the old and hardy pioneer. There are at present nineteen families in the settlement, and they are all engaged in the cultivation of perique tobacco. An average farm on Grant Point consists of eight acres, and the average yield of manufactured tobacco is four hundred pounds to the acre. These simple- hearted people seem to be very happy and content. They have no saloons or stores of any kind, but their place is well filled with a neat Catholic church and a substantial school-house. Every man, woman, and child is a devout Roman Catholic, and in their daily intercourse with each other the stranger among them hears a patois something like the French language. The whole of the land cultivated by these people would not make more than an average farm in the north, while compared with the vast sugar estates on every side of it the dimensions are infinitesimal. Villages were now picturesquely grouped along the shores, the most conspicuous feature in each being the large Catholic church, showing the religious belief of the people. Curious little stores were perched behind the now high banks of the levee. The signs over the doors bore such inscriptions as, "The Red Store," "The White Store," "St. John's Store," "Poor Family Store," &c. Busy life was seen on every side, but here, as elsewhere in the south, men seemed always to have time to give a civil answer to any necessary inquiries. Only a month after I had descended this part of the river, Captain Boyton, clothed in his famous swimming-suit, paddled his way down the current from Bayou Goula to New Orleans, a distance of one hundred miles. The incidents of this curious voyage are now a part of the river's history, and this seems the place for the brave captain to tell his story. He says: "I arrived at Bayou Goula on the 'Bismarck,' about six o'clock on Thursday morning; and, after considerable delay, succeeded in obtaining quarters at the Buena Vista Hotel in that village. At that point I engaged the services of a colored man named Brown, to pilot me down the river. At ten o'clock I took a breakfast, consisting of five eggs, bread, and a glass of beer, and ate nothing else during the day. At five o'clock precisely I took to the water and began my trip down to the city of New Orleans--a trip which proved to be a much more arduous one than I had anticipated, in consequence of the want of buoyancy in the water, the terrible counter-currents, and the large amount of drift-wood. It was some time before I could master the difficulty about the drift-wood, and at one time I was so annoyed and bruised by the floating debris, that I became somewhat apprehensive about the success of my enterprise. In some of the strong eddies particularly the logs played such fantastic tricks, rolling over and over with their jagged limbs and again standing upon their ends, that I feared I must either be carried under, or have my dress stripped completely off. By constant watching, however, I was enabled to steer out of harm's way and to keep steadily moving down the stream. "Above Donaldsonville I was met by a fleet of boats filled with spectators, who accompanied me down to that point, which I reached about eight o'clock in the evening. The town was illuminated, and the citizens tendered me a polite invitation to land and take supper; but of course I was obliged to decline, accepting in lieu a drink and a sandwich. Of the sandwich I ate only the bread. [Boyton descending the Mississippi.] "Below Donaldsonville I was caught in the great eddy. It was about four o'clock in the morning when I got into it, and it was good daylight before I succeeded in getting out again into the down-stream current. It was a singular sensation, this going round and round over the same ground, so to speak, and for the life of me I could not understand how I seemed now and then to be passing the same plantation-houses and familiar landmarks. The skiff which accompanied me was also in the same predicament, sometimes pulling up and sometimes pulling down stream. I tried to guide myself by the north star, but before I was aware of it that luminary, which ought to have kept directly in my front, would pop up, as it were, behind me, and destroy all my calculations. When daylight came, however, and the fog lifted sufficiently, I was able to paddle out into the middle of the stream, and keep down it once again. "Early in the morning, above Bonnet Carre, I asked several persons on shore for some coffee, but most of them seemed too much excited to attend to this pressing want of mine. At last a gentleman who spoke French got his wife to go and get me a cup of coffee, after drinking which I felt greatly refreshed. The sandwich and drink at Donaldsonville, and this cup of coffee next morning, were the only things in the shape of refreshments which I took during the twenty- four hours' voyage. At times I was almost certain I was being attacked by alligators, and thought I should have to use the knife with which I always go armed, but it only proved to be the annoying drift-wood in which I would become fearfully entangled. I only suffered from the cold in my feet. These I warmed, however, after the sun came out, by inflating the lower part of my dress, and holding them up out of the water. "The banks all along the way were crowded with people to see me pass down. At one point, when I had allowed the air to escape from the lower part of my dress, and was going along rapidly, with nothing showing above water but my head and my paddle, I met a skiff, which contained a negro man and woman, who were crossing the river. The woman became fearfully alarmed, and her screams could have been heard for miles away. The man pulled for dear life, the woman in the stern acting the cockswain, and urging the boat forward in the funniest manner possible. "While in the great eddy I drifted into an immense flock of ducks, and but for the noise made by those in the skiff I could easily have caught several of them, as they were not at all disturbed by my presence, but swam leisurely all about me. "At the Red Church, the wind blowing up against the current kicked up a nasty sea, which gave me a great deal of trouble. By sinking down very low, however, and allowing only my head above water, and taking the shower-bath as it came upon me continuously, I was enabled to keep up my headway down stream. When at my best speed I easily kept ahead of the boats, going sometimes at the rate of seven miles an hour without difficulty. "This feat was a much more arduous one than my trip across the English Channel. Then I only slept two hours, and was up again, feeling all right; but when this thing was over I slept all night, had a refreshing bath, and still suffered from fatigue, to say nothing of my swollen wrists and neck-glands." Having finished his remarkable voyage successfully, Captain Boyton concluded that his life-saving dress had been fully tested in America, and determined to rest on his laurels, and avoid Mississippi debris in future. In consequence of being caught in the eddy below Donaldsonville, this great swimmer estimated the distance he traversed from Bayou Goula to New Orleans as fully one hundred and twenty miles. [* footnote: Since this voyage ended, Captain Boyton has, in the same manner, successfully descended the Ohio and the Mississippi rivers from Cairo to New Orleans.] About dusk I rowed into a grove of young willows, on the left bank of the river, on the Shepard Plantation. My boat was soon securely fastened to a tree, and having partaken of my frugal meal I retired. A comfortable night's rest was, however, out of the question, for the passing steamers tossed me about in a most unceremonious manner, seeming to me in my dreams to be chanting for their lullaby, "Rock-a- by baby on the tree-top." Indeed, the baby on the tree-top was in an enviable position compared with my kaleidoscopic movements among the swashy seas. Many visions were before me that night, of the numerous little sufferers who are daily slung backwards and forwards in those pernicious instruments of torture called cradles. Memory brought also another picture I hoped it had been my good fortune to forget. It was a scene on the veranda of a country house. Five sisters, all pretty girls, whose grace arid vivacity I had often admired, were there, each in her rocking-chair, and each swinging to and fro, as though perpetual motion had been discovered. Why must an American woman have a rocking-chair? In no other country in the world, excepting among the creoles of South America, is this awkward piece of furniture so popular. Burn the cradles and taboo the graceless rocking-chair, and our children will have steadier heads and our women learn the attractive grace of quiet ease. The following day I struggled against head winds and swashy seas, until their combined forces proved too much for me, and succumbing as amiably as possible under the circumstances, the little white boat was run ashore on the Picou Plantation, where the coast was fortunately low. The rain and wind held me prisoner there until midnight, when, with a rising moon to cheer me, I forced a passage through the blockade of driftwood, and being once more on the river, waved an adieu to my last camp on the Mississippi. I was now only thirty-seven miles from New Orleans. Rowing rapidly down the broad river, now shrouded in gloom, with the fleecy scuds flying overhead in the stormy firmament, I fully realized that I was soon to leave the noble stream which had borne me so long and so safely upon its bosom. A thunder-shower rose in the west--its massive blackness lighted by the vivid flashes which played over its surface. The houses of the planters along the river's bank were enveloped in foliage, and the air was so redolent with the fragrance of flowers that I seemed to be floating through an Eden. The wind and the clouds disappeared together, and a glorious sunrise gave promise of a perfect day. With the light came life. Where all had been silent and restful, man and beast now made known their presence. The rising sun seemed to be the signal for taking hold where they had let go the night before. The crowing of cocks, the cries of plantation hands, the hungry neigh of horses, the hundred and one sounds of this work-a-day world, greeted my ears, while my eyes, taking a rapid survey of the surrounding steamers, coal-arks, and barges of every description, carried quickly to my brain the intelligence that I was near the Crescent City of the Gulf. Soon forests of masts rose upon the horizon, for there were vessels of all nations ranged along the levee of this once prosperous city. Anxious to escape the officious kindness always encountered about the docks of southern cities, I peered about, hoping to find some quiet corner in which to moor my floating home. Near the foot of Louisiana Avenue I saw the fine boat-house of the "Southern Boat Club," and being pleasantly hailed by one of its members, hove to, and told him of my perplexity. With the ever ready hospitality of a southerner, he assured me that the boat-house was at my disposal; and calling a friend to assist, we easily hauled the duck-boat out of the water, up the inclined plane, into her new quarters. The row upon the Mississippi from its junction with the Ohio down to New Orleans, including many stoppages, had occupied nineteen days, and had been accelerated by considerable night voyaging. The flow of the Mississippi was about one third faster than that of the Ohio. Lloyd's River Map gives the distance from the mouth of the Ohio to the centre of New Orleans as ten hundred and fifty-five miles, but the surveys of the United States Engineer Corps make this crooked route ten hundred and twenty miles only. My floating home being now in good hands, its captain turned his back on the water, and took a turn on land, leaving the river bounded by its narrow horizon, but teeming with a strange, nomadic life, the various types of which afforded a field where much gleaning would end in but a scanty harvest of good. Already my ears caught, in fancy, the sound of the restless waves of the briny waters of the Gulf of Mexico, and my spirits rose at the prospect of the broader experiences about to be encountered. CHAPTER VIII. NEW ORLEANS BIENVILLE AND THE CITY OF THE PAST.-- FRENCH AND SPANISH RULE IN THE NEW WORLD.-- LOUISIANA CEDED TO THE UNITED STATES.-- CAPTAIN EADS AND HIS JETTIES.-- TRANSPORTATION OF CEREALS TO EUROPE.-- CHARLES MORGAN.- - CREOLE TYPES OF CITIZENS.-- LEVEES AND CRAWFISH.-- DRAINAGE OF THE CITY INTO LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN. THIS was my fifth visit to New Orleans, and walking through its quaint streets I observed many changes of an undesirable nature, the inevitable consequences of political misrule. As the past of the city loomed up before me, the various scenes of bloodshed, crime, and misery enacted, shifted like pictures in a panorama before my mind's eye. I saw far back in the distance an indomitable man, faint and discouraged, after the terrible sufferings of a winter at a bleak fort in the wilderness, drag his weary limbs to the spot where New Orleans now stands, and defiantly unfurling the flag of France, determined to establish the capital of Louisiana on the treacherous banks of the Mississippi. Such was Bienville, the hardy son of a Canadian father. A little later we have the New Orleans of 1723. It is a low swamp, overgrown with ragged forests, and cut up into a thousand islands by ruts and pools of stagnant water. There is a small cleared space along the river's channel but even this being only partly reclaimed from the surrounding marsh, is often inundated. It is cut up into square patches, round each of which runs a ditch of black mud and refuse, which, lying exposed to the rays of an almost tropical sun, sends forth unwholesome odors, and invites pestilence. There is a palisade around the city, and a great moat; and here, with the tall, green grasses growing up to their humble doors, live graceful ladies and noble gentlemen, representatives of that nation so famed for finesse of manner and stately grace. It is an odd picture this rough doorway, surrounded with reeds and swamps, mud and misery, and crowned with the beauty of a fair French maiden, who steps daintily, with Parisian ease, upon the highway of the new world. She is not, however, alone in her exile. Along the banks of the Mississippi, for miles beyond the city, stretch the fertile plantations of the representatives of aristocratic French families. The rich lands are worked by negro slaves, who, fresh from the African coast, walk erect before their masters, being strangers to the abject, crouching gait which a century of slavery afterwards imposes upon them. No worship save the Catholic is allowed, and to remind the people of their duty wooden crosses are erected on every side. The next picture of New Orleans is in 1792. It has passed into other hands now, for the king of France has ceded it, with the territory of Louisiana, to his cousin of Spain, and has in fact, with a single stroke of the pen, stripped himself of possessions extending from the mouth of the Mississippi to the St. Lawrence. The type of civilization is now changed, and we see things moving in the iron groove of Spanish bigotry. The very architecture changes with the new rule, and the houses seem grim and fortress-like, while the cadaverous-cheeked Spaniard stands in the gloom with his hand upon his sword, one of the six thousand souls now within this ill-drained city. Successive Spanish governors hold their sway under the Spanish king; and then the Spaniard goes his way. Spanish civilization cannot take so firm a hold in New Orleans as the French, and many privately pray for the old banner, until at last France herself determines to again possess her old territory. Spain, knowing opposition to be useless, and heartily sick of this distant colony, so hard to govern and so near the quarrelsome Americans, who seem ready to fulfil their threat of taking New Orleans by force if their commercial interests are interfered with, yields a ready assent. The city becomes the property of Napoleon the Great; but hardly have the papers been signed, when, in 1803, it is ceded to the United States. Half a generation later the conflicting national elements are settled into something like harmony, and the state of Louisiana has a population of fifty thousand souls. In 1812 war is declared between Great Britain and the United States. Soon after, General Andrew Jackson wins a victory over the English on the lowlands near New Orleans, when, with the raw troops of the river states, he drives off; and sends home, fifteen thousand skilled British soldiers. Bowing his laurel-crowned head before the crowd assembled to do him honor, the brave American general receives the benediction of the venerable abb, while his memory is kept ever fresh in the public mind by the grand equestrian statue which now stands a monument to his prowess. But the New Orleans of to-day is not like any of these we have seen. The Crescent City has passed beyond the knowledge of even Jackson himself, and most startled would the old general be could he now walk its busy streets. Rising steadily, though slowly, from the effects of the civil war, her position as a port insures a glorious future. Much, of course, depends upon the success of Captain Eads in keeping open a deep channel from the mouth of the Mississippi River to the Gulf of Mexico. This great river deposits a large amount of alluvium at its North-east, South-east, South, and South-west Passes, which are the principal mouths of the Mississippi. When the light alluvium held in suspension in the fresh water of the river meets the denser briny water of the Gulf, it is precipitated to the bottom, and builds up a shoal, or bar, upon which vessels drawing sixteen feet of water, in the deepest channel, frequently stick fast for weeks at a time. In consequence of these bars, so frequently forming, deep sea-going vessels run the risk of most unprofitable delay in ascending the river to New Orleans. Captain Eads, the projector of the great St. Louis bridge, which cost some seven or more millions of dollars, has succeeded, by narrowing and confining the river's current at the South Pass by means of artificial jetties, in scouring out the channel from a depth of about seven feet to one of more than twenty feet. Thus the most shoal pass has already become the deepest entrance to the Mississippi. If the results of Captain Eads's most wonderful success can be maintained, New Orleans will be able to support a fleet of European steamers, while the cereals and cotton of the river basins tributary to New Orleans will be exported from that city directly to Europe, instead of being subjected to a costly transportation by rail across the country to New York, Baltimore, and other Atlantic ports. Limited space forbids my presenting figures to support the theories of the people of New Orleans, but they are of the most interesting nature. A few words from an intelligent Kentuckian will express the views of many of the people of that state in regard to the system of transportation. He says: "Nearly all the products of Kentucky have their prices determined by the cost of transportation to the great centres of population along the Atlantic seaboard, or beyond the sea. Its tobacco, pork, grain, and some of the costlier woods, with other products, find their principal markets in Europe, while cattle, and to a certain extent the other agricultural products of the state, have their values determined by the cost of transportation to the American Atlantic markets. Hitherto this access to the domestic and foreign markets of the Atlantic shores has been had by way of the railway systems which traverse the region north of Kentucky, and from which the state has been divided by opposing interests and the physical barrier of the Ohio River. All the development of the state has taken place under these disadvantages. "A comparison of the tables of cost, given below, will show that the complete opening of the mouth of the Mississippi to ocean ships will result in the enfranchisement of the productions of Kentucky in an extraordinary way. They are taken from published freight rates, and give time and cost of transit from St. Paul, on the Mississippi, about two thousand miles from New Orleans, to Liverpool by the two routes: one being by rail, lake, canal, and ocean; the other by river and ocean: Cost per bushel. Time. CENTS. DAYS. From St. Paul to Chicago (by rail),. 18 4 do. Chicago to Buffalo (by lake), 8 6 do. Buffalo to New York (by canal),. 14 24 do. N. York to Liverpool (by ocean), 16 12 Elevator, or transshipment charges: Chicago . . . . . 2 2 Buffalo . . . . . 2 2 New York, . . . . . . . . . 4 2 ____ __ Total, . . . . . . 64 52 Cost per bushel. Time. CENTS. DAYS. From St. Paul to New Orleans (via river), 1993 miles 18 10 do. New Orleans to Liverpool, . . 20 20 Elevator charges, New Orleans, 2 1 ___ __ Total 40 31 "Here is a saving by direct trade of twenty-four cents per bushel, or eight shillings per quarter, and a saving of twenty-one days in time. To be fair, I have taken the extreme point; but the nearer the grain is to the Gulf, the cheaper the transportation. At the present time the freight rates from the lower Ohio to Liverpool would permit the profitable shipment of the canal coal, and native woods of different species, to Europe with one transshipment at New Orleans." The gross receipts of cotton in New Orleans amount to thirty-three and one-third per cent. of the production of the entire country. In 1859- 60 the receipts and exports of cotton from New Orleans exceeded two and a quarter millions of bales, the value of which was over one hundred millions of dollars. In the season of 1871-72 the cotton crop amounted to two million nine hundred and seventy-four thousand bales, one-third of which passed through New Orleans. A vast amount of other products, such as sugar, tobacco, flour, pork, &c. is received at New Orleans and sent abroad. Besides this export trade, New Orleans imports coffee, salt, sugar, iron, dry-goods, and liquors, to the average yearly value of seventeen millions of dollars. In 1878 two hundred and forty-seven million four hundred and twenty- four thousand bushels of grain were received at the Atlantic ports of the United States from the interior. This great bulk of grain represented a portion only of the cereals actually raised in the whole country. The largest portion of it was produced in the states tributary to the Mississippi River and its branches. This statement will give an idea of what might be saved to foreign consumers if a part of this great crop went down the natural water-way to New Orleans. In the same year, steamboats were freighting barrels of merchandise at fifty cents per barrel for fifteen hundred miles from New Orleans to up-river ports. This shows at what low rates freights can be transported on western rivers. Each city has its representative men, and New Orleans has one who has done much to build up the great commercial and transportation interests of the Southwest. An unassuming man, destitute of means, went to the South many years ago. Uprightness in dealing with his fellow-man, industry in business, and large and comprehensive views, marked his career. Step by step he fought his way up from a humble station in life to one of the grandest positions that has ever been attained by a self-made man. More than one state feels the results of his tireless energy and successful commercial schemes. He is now the sole proprietor of two railroads, and the owner of a magnificent fleet of steamers which unite the ports of New York and New Orleans with the long seaboard of Texas. So skilfully has this man conducted the details of the great enterprises he has created, that during a term of many years not one human life has been lost upon sea or land by the mismanagement of any of his numerous agents. He is now past eighty; but this remarkable man, with his tireless brain, goes persistently on, and within fourteen months past contracted for the building of two fine iron steamers, and nearly completed two more for ocean trade. A New Orleans paper asserts that within the same period "he has elevated his Louisiana Railroad bed, along its route for twenty miles, above the highest water-mark of overflows, and has converted a shallow bayou between Galveston and Houston, Texas, into a deep stream, navigable for his largest vessels. On these works he expended over two millions of dollars." His shops for the construction of railroad stock, and for the repairing of his steamships, are in Louisiana, where he employs over one thousand workmen. In compliment to the virtues of this modest, energetic man, to whom the people of the Southwest owe so much, the citizens of Brashear, in the southwestern part of Louisiana, have changed the name of their town to Morgan City. May the last days of Charles Morgan be blessed with the happy consciousness that he deserves the reward of a well-spent life! The winter climate of New Orleans is delightful, and many persons leave New England's cruel east winds to breathe its soft air and rejoice in its sunshine. These pale-faced invalids are strangely grouped in the quaint old streets with the peculiar people of the city, and add another to the many types already there. The New Orleans market furnishes, perhaps, the best opportunity for the ethnological student, for there strange motley groups are always to be found. Even the cries are in the quaint voices of a foreign city, and it seems almost impossible to imagine that one is in America. We see the Sicilian fruit-seller with his native dialect; the brisk French madame with her dainty stall; the mild-eyed Louisiana Indian woman with her sack of gumbo spread out before her; the fish-dealer with his wooden bench and odd patois; the dark-haired creole lady with her servant gliding here and there; the old Spanish gentleman with the blood of Castile tingling in his veins; the graceful French dame in her becoming toilet; the Hebrew woman with her dark eyes and rich olive complexion; the pure Anglo-Saxon type, ever distinguishable from all others; and, swarming among them all, the irrepressible negro,-- him you find in every size, shape, and shade, from the tiny yellow pickaninny to his rotund and inky grandmother, from the lazy wharf- darky, half clad in both mind and body, to the dignified colored policeman, who patrols with officious gravity the city streets,--in freedom or slavery, north or south, in sunshine or out of it, ever the same easy, improvident race; ever the same gleaming teeth and ready "Yes, sah! 'pon my word, sah!" and ever the same tardiness to DO. Leaving the busy, surging mass of humanity, each so eager to buy or sell, the visitor to New Orleans will find a great contrast of scene in the quiet cemeteries with their high walls of shelves, where the dead are laid away in closely cemented tombs built one over the other, and all above the ground, to be safe from the encroachment of water, the ever-pervading foe of New Orleans. Not only must the dead be stowed away above-ground, but the living must wage a daily war against this insidious foe, and watch with vigilance their levees. Notwithstanding all that has been said in regard to the enervating effects of a southern climate, the inhabitants of the state of Louisiana have shown a pertinacity in maintaining their levee system which is almost unexampled. They have always asserted their rights to the lowlands in which they live, and have under the most trying circumstances braved inundation. They have built more than one thousand five hundred miles of levees within the state limits. The state engineer corps is always at work along the banks of the Mississippi and its important bayous. The work of levee-building has been pushed ahead when a thousand evils beset the community. Accurate and detailed surveys are a constant necessity to prevent inundation. The cost-value of the present system is seven millions of dollars, and as much more is needed to make it perfect. During the civil war millions of cubic feet of levees were destroyed; but the state in her impoverished condition has not only rebuilt the old levees, but added new ones in the intervening years, showing an industry and energy we must all appreciate. The water has an assistant in its cruel inroads, and the peace of mind of the property-holders along the lower Mississippi is constantly disturbed by the presence of a burrowing pest which lives in the artificial dikes, and is always working for their destruction. This little animal is the crawfish (Astacus Mississippiensis) of the western states, and bores its way both vertically and laterally into the levees. This species of crawfish builds a habitation nearly a foot in height on the surface of the ground, to which it retreats, at times, during high water. The Mississippi crawfish is about four inches in length, and has all the appearance of a lobster; its breeding habits being also similar. The female crawfish, like the lobster, travels about with her eggs held in peculiar arm-like organs under her jointed tail where they are protected from being devoured by other animals. There they remain until hatched; but the young crawfish does not experience the metamorphosis peculiar to most decapods. These animals open permanent drains in the levees, through which the water finds its way, slowly at first, then rapidly, until it undermines the bank, when a crevasse occurs, and many square miles of arable and forest lands are submerged for weeks at a time. The extermination of these mischievous pests seems an impossibility, and they have cost the Mississippi property-owners immense sums of money since the levee system was first introduced upon the river. The city of New Orleans is built upon land about four feet below the level of the Mississippi River at high-water mark, and, running along the great bend in the river, forms a semicircle; and it is from this peculiar site it has gained the appellation of "Crescent City." The buildings stretch back to the borders of Lake Pontchartrain, which empties its waters into the Gulf of Mexico. All the drainage of the city is carried by means of canals into the lake, while the two largest of these canals are navigable for steamers of considerable size. Large cargoes are transported through these artificial waterways to the lake, and from it into the Gulf of Mexico, and so on along the southern coast to Florida. [Map from New Orleans to Mobile Bay.] CHAPTER IX. ON THE GULF OF MEXICO LEAVE NEW ORLEANS.-- THE ROUGHS AT WORK.-- DETAINED AT NEW BASIN.-- SADDLES INTRODUCES HIMSELF.-- CAMPING AT LAKE PONTCHARTRAIN.-- THE LIGHT-HOUSE OF POINT AUX HERBES.-- THE RIGOLETS.-- MARSHES AND MOSQUITOES.-- IMPORTANT USE OF THE MOSQUITO AND BLOW-FLY.-- ST. JOSEPH'S LIGHT.-- AN EXCITING PULL TO BAY ST. LOUIS.-- A LIGHT-KEEPER LOST IN THE SEA.-- BATTLE OF THE SHARKS.-- BILOXI.-- THE WATER-CRESS GARDEN.-- LITTLE JENNIE. ONE of the chief charms in a boatman's life is its freedom, and what that freedom is no one knows until he throws aside the chains of every-day life, steps out of the worn ruts, and, with his kit beside him, his oar in his hand, feels himself master of his time, and FREE. There is one duty incumbent on the voyager, however, and that is to keep his face set upon his goal. Remembering this, I turned my back upon the beguiling city of New Orleans, with its orange groves and sweet flowers, its old buildings and modern civilization, its French cafs and bewitching oddities of every nature, taking away with me among my most pleasant memories the recollection of the kind hospitality of the gentlemen of the "Southern Boat Club," who presented me with a duplicate of the beautiful silk pennant of their club. My shortest route to the Gulf of Mexico was through New Basin Canal, six miles in length, into Lake Pontchartrain, and from there to the Gulf. If I had disembarked upon the levee, at the foot of Julia Street, when I arrived in New Orleans, there would have been only a short portage of three-quarters of a mile, in a direct line, to the canal; but my little craft had been left in the keeping of the Southern Boat Club, and the position of their boat-house made a portage of two miles a necessity. An express-wagon was procured, and, accompanied by Mr. Charles Deckbar, a member of the club, the little boat was safely carried through the city streets, and once more shot into her native element in the waters of New Basin Canal. The first part of this canal runs through the city proper, and then through a low swampy region out into the shallow lake Pontchartrain. At the terminus of New Basin Canal I found a small light-house, two or three hotels, and a few houses, making a little village. A small fleet of schooners, which had brought lumber and firewood from Shieldsboro and other Gulf ports, was lying idly along the sides of the canal, awaiting a fair wind to assist them in making the return trip. I rowed out of the canal on to the lake; but finding that the strong wind and rough waves were too much for my boat, I beat a hasty retreat into the port of refuge, and, securing my bow-line to a pile, and my stern-line to the bob-stay of a wood-schooner, the "Felicit," I prepared to ride out the gale under her bow. The skippers of the little fleet were very civil men. Some of them were of French and some of Spanish origin, while one or two were Germans. My charts interested them greatly; for though they had navigated their vessels for years upon the Gulf of Mexico, they had never seen a chart; and their astonishment was unbounded when I described to them the bottom of the sea for five hundred miles to the eastward, over a route I had never travelled. Night settled down upon us, and, as the wind lulled, the evening became lovely. Soon the quiet hamlet changed to a scene of merriment, as the gay people of the city drove out in their carriages to have a "lark," as the sailors expressed it; and which seemed to begin at the hotels with card-playing, dancing, drinking, and swearing, and to end in a general carousal. Men and women joined alike in the disreputable scene, though I was informed that this was a respectable circle of society, compared with some which at times enlivened the neighborhood of Lake Pontchartrain. Thinking of the wonderful grades of society, I tried to sleep in my boat, not imagining that my peace was soon to be invaded by the lowest layer of that social strata. In spite of all my precautions an article had appeared that day in a New Orleans paper giving a somewhat incorrect account of my voyage from Pittsburgh. The betting circles hearing that there was no bet upon my rowing feat,--if such a modest and unadventurous voyage could be called a feat,--decided that there must be some mystery connected with it; and political strife being uppermost in all men's minds, strangers were looked upon with suspicion, while rumors of my being a national government spy found ready belief with the ignorant. Such a man would be an unwelcome visitor in the troubled districts where the "bull-dozing" system was compelling the enfranchised negro to vote the "right ticket." I had received an intimation of this feeling in the city, and had exerted myself to leave the neighborhood that day; but the treacherous east wind had left me in a most unprotected locality, floating in a narrow canal, at the mercy of a lot of strange sailors. The sailor, though, has a generous heart, and usually demands FAIR PLAY, while there is a natural antagonism between him and a landsman. I was, so to speak, one of them, and felt pretty sure that in case of any demonstration, honest "Jack Tar" would prove himself my friend. It seemed at one time as though such an occasion was imminent. First came the sound of voices in the distance; then, as they came nearer, I heard such questions as, "Where is the feller?" "Show us his boat, and we'll soon tell if he's a humbug!" "We'll put a head on him!" &c. All these expressions being interlarded with oaths and foul language, gave any but a pleasant prospect of what was to be looked for at the hands of these city roughs, who clambered nimbly on to the deck of the Felicit to inquire for my whereabouts. [New Orleans roughs amusing themselves] The darkness seemed to shield me from their sight, and my good friend, the skipper of the wood-schooner, did not volunteer much information as they stood upon his forecastle only a few feet above my head. He told them they were on a fool's errand, if they came there to ask questions about a man who was minding his own business. The sailors all backed him, and the cook grew so bold as to consign the whole crowd, without mercy, to a place too hot for ears polite. Swaggering and swearing, the roughs went ashore to refresh their thirsty throats at a low grog-shop. Having fired up, they soon returned to the bank of the canal, and, as ill luck would have it, in the darkness of the night caught a gleam of my little white boat resting so peacefully upon the foul water of the canal, made dark and heavy by the city's drainage. Then followed verbal shots, with various demonstrations, for half an hour. The worst fellow in the crowd was a member of a fire-company, and being a city policeman was supposed to be a protector of the peace. He was very insulting; but I turned his questions and suspicions into ridicule, and, fortunately for me, he so often fell back upon the groggery for strength to fire away, that he was finally overpowered, and was given into the care of his bosom-friend, another blackguard, who dragged him tenderly from the scene. All this time the cook of the schooner had his hot water in readiness, threatening to scald the roughs if they succeeded in getting down to my boat. At last, much to my relief, the whole party went off to "make a night of it," leaving me in the care of my protectors on the schooner, who had been busy deciding what they should do in case of any assault being made on me by the roughs, and showing their brawny arms in a menacing manner when the worst threats reached their ears. I did not know this at the time, but as I looked cautiously around after the unwelcome guests had left, I saw a watchman standing on the forecastle of the Felicit, looking anxiously to the safety of the little white craft that by a slender cord held on to his vessel. All through the hours of that long night the kind-hearted master paced his deck; and then, as the sun arose, and the damp vapors settled to the earth, he hailed me with a pleasant "good morning;" and added, "if those devils had jumped on you last night I was to give ONE yell, and the whole fleet would have been on top o' 'em, and we would have backed every man's head down his own throat." This wou1d have been, I thought, a singular but most effective way of settling the difficulty, and a novel mode of thinning out the city police and fire department. During the day I was visited by a young northerner who had been for some time in New Orleans, but was very anxious to return to his home in Massachusetts. He had no money, but thought if I would allow him to accompany me as far as Florida he could ship as sailor from some port on a vessel bound for New York or Boston. Feeling sorry for the man who was homeless in a strange city, and finding he possessed some experience in salt-water navigation, I acceded to his request. Having purchased of the harbor-master, Captain M. H. Riddle, a light boat, which was sharp at both ends, and possessed the degree of sheer necessary for seaworthiness, the next thing in order was to make some important alterations in her, such as changing the thwarts, putting on half-decks, &c. As this labor would detain me in the unpleasant neighborhood, I determined to secrete my own boat from the public gaze. To accomplish this, while favored by the darkness of night, I ran it into a side canal, where the watchman of the New Lake End Protection Levee lived in a floating house. The duck-boat was drawn out of the water on to a low bank of the levee, and was then covered with reeds. So perfectly was my little craft secreted, that when a party of roughs came out to interview the "government spy," they actually stood beside the boat while inquiring of the watchman for its locality without discovering it. I now slept in peace at night; but during the day, while working upon the new boat in another locality, was much annoyed by curious persons, who hovered around, hoping to discover the meaning of my movements. On Saturday evening, January 22, I completed the joining and provisioning of the new skiff, which was called, in honor of the harbor-master, the "Riddle." The small local population about the mouth of the canal was in a great state of excitement. The fitting out of the "Riddle" by the supposed "government spy" furnished much food for reflection, and new rumors were set afloat. I passed the first day of the week as quietly as possible amid the gala scenes of that section which knows no Sunday. All day long carriages rolled out from New Orleans, bringing rollicking men and women to the lake, where, free from all restraint, the daily robe of hypocrisy was thrown aside, and poor humanity appeared at its worst. Little squads of roughs came also at intervals, but their attempts to find me or my boat proved fruitless. The next day my shipmate, whom, for convenience, I will call Saddles, was not prepared to leave, as previously agreed upon, so I turned over to him the "Riddle," her outfit, provisions, &c., and instructed him to follow the west shore of Lake Pontchartrain until he found me, preferring to trust myself to the tender mercies of the Chinese fishermen--whom the reader will remember had been "CIVILIZED"--rather than to linger longer in the neighborhood of the New Orleans firemen and police corps. Saddles had hunted and fished upon the lake, and therefore felt confident he could easily find me the next day at Irish Bayou, two miles beyond the low "Point aux Herbes" Light-house. An hour before noon, on Monday, January 24, I rowed out of the canal, and most heartily congratulated myself upon escaping the trammels of too much civilization. A heavy fog covered the lake while I felt my way along the shore, passing the Pontchartrain railroad pier. The shoal bottom was covered with stumps of trees, and the coast was low and swampy, with occasional short, sandy beaches. My progress was slow on account of the fog; and at five P. M. I went into camp, having first hauled the boat on to the land by means of a small watch-tackle. The low country was covered in places with coarse grass, and, as I ate my supper by the camp-fire, swarms of mosquitoes attacked me with such impetuosity and bloodthirstiness that I was glad to seek refuge in my boat. This proved, however, only a temporary relief, for the tormentors soon entered at the ventilating space between the combing and hatch, and annoyed me so persistently that I was driven to believe there was something worse than New Orleans roughs. During this night of torture I heard in the distance the sound of oars moving in the oar-locks, and paused for an instant in the battle with the phlebotomists, thinking the "Riddle" might be coming, but all sound seemed hushed, and I returned to my dreary warfare. Not waiting to prepare breakfast the next morning, I left the prairie shore, and rowed rapidly towards Point aux Herbes. At the lighthouse landing I found Saddles, with his boat drawn up on shore. He had followed me at four and a half P. M., and the evening being clear, he had easily reached the light-house at eleven P. M. on the same night. Mr. Belton, the light-keeper, kept bachelor's hall in his quarters, and at once went to work with hearty good-will to prepare a breakfast for us, to which we did full justice. At eleven A. M., though a fog shut out all objects from our sight, I set a boat compass before me on the floor of my craft, and saying good-bye to our host, we struck across the lake in a course which took us to a point below the "Rigolets," a name given to the passages in the marshes through which a large portion of the water of Lake Pontchartrain flows into the Gulf of Mexico. The marshes, or low prairies, which confine the waters of Lake Pontchartrain, are extensive. The coarse grass grows to four or five feet in height, and in it coons, wildcats, minks, hogs, and even rabbits, find a home. In the bayous wild-fowl abound. The region is a favorite one with hunters and fishermen; but during the summer months alligators and moccasin-snakes are abundant, when it behooves one to be wary. Upon some of the marshy islands of the Gulf, outside of Lake Pontchartrain, wild hogs are to be found. In 1853 it became known that an immense wild boar lived upon the Chandeleur Islands. He was frequently hunted, and though struck by the balls shot at him, escaped uninjured, his tough hide proving an impenetrable barrier to all assaults. There is always, however, some vulnerable point to be found, and in 1874 some Spanish fisherman, taking an undue advantage of his boarship, shot him in the eye, and then clubbed him to death. The Rigolets are at the eastern end of Lake Pontchartrain. Their northern side skirts the main land, while their south side is bounded by marshy islands. As we rowed through this outlet of the lake, Fort Pike, with its grassy banks, arose picturesquely on our right from its site on a knoll of high ground. Outside of the Rigolets we entered an arm of the Gulf of Mexico, called Lake Borgne, the shores of which were desolate, and formed extensive marshes cut up by creeks and bayous into many small islands. As it was late in the day, we ran our two boats into a bayou near the mouth of the Rigolets, and prepared, under the most trying circumstances, to rest for the night. The atmosphere was soft and mild, the evening was perfect. The great sheet of water extended far to the east. On the south it was bounded by marshes. A long, low prairie coast stretched away on the north; it was the southern end of the state of Mississippi. The light-houses flashed their bright beacon-lights over the water. All was tranquil save the ever- pervading, persistent mosquito. Thousands of these insects, of the largest size and of the most pertinacious character, came out of the high grass and "made night hideous." We had not provided ourselves with a tent, and no artifice on our part could protect us from these torments; so, vainly dealing blows right and left, we discussed the oft-mooted point of the mosquito's usefulness to mankind. We lords of creation believe that everything is made for the gratification of man, even thinking at one time, in our ignorance, that the beautiful colors of flowers served no other end, than to gratify the sense of sight. But this fancy, made beautiful by the songs of our poets, has been dealt with as the man of science must ever deal with stubborn facts, and the utility as well as the beauty of these exquisite hues have been discovered. The colors in the petals of the flowers attract certain insects, whose duty it is to fertilize the flowers by dusting the pistils with the pollen of the ripe anthers, some being attracted by one color, some by another. Flowery thoughts were not, however, in keeping with the miserable state of mental and physical restlessness induced by the irritating mosquito, and its usefulness seemed to be a necessary thought to make me patient as I lay like a mummy, enveloped in my blankets. The coons were fighting and squealing around my boat, which lay snugly ensconced in a bayou among the reeds, for, once under my hatch-cover, the presence of man was unheeded by these animals, and they sportively turned my deck into a species of amphitheatre. The vices and virtues of the mosquito may be summed up in a few words, always remembering that it is the FEMALE, and not the MALE, to whom humanity is indebted for lessons of patience. The female mosquito deposits about three hundred eggs, nearly the shape of a grain of wheat, arranging and gluing them perpendicularly side by side, until the whole resembles a solid, canoe-like body, which floats about on the surface of the water. Press this little boat of eggs deep into the water, and its buoyancy causes it to rise immediately to the surface, where it maintains its true position of a well-ballasted craft, right side up. The warmth of the sun, tempered with the moisture of the water, soon hatches the eggs, and the larva, as wigglers or wrigglers, descend to the bottom of the quiet pool, and feed upon the decaying vegetable matter. It moves actively through the stagnant water in its passage to the surface, aerifying it, and at the same time doing faithfully its work as scavenger by consuming vegetable germs and putrefying matter. Professor G. F. Sanborn, and other leading American entomologists, assert that the mosquito saves from twenty-five to forty per cent. in our death-list among those who are exposed to malarial influences. With malaria, the curse of large districts in the United States, sowing its evil seeds broadcast in our land, and daily closing its iron grasp upon its victims, who could wish for the extermination of so useful an insect as the mosquito? When the larva reaches the surface of the water, it inhales, through a delicate tube at the lower end of its body, all the air necessary for its respiration. Having lived three or four weeks in the water, during which time it has entered the pupa state, the original skin is cast oft; and the insect is transformed into a different and more perfect state. A few days later the epidermis of the pupa falls oft; and floats upon the water, and upon this light raft the insect dries its body in the warm rays of the sun; its damp and heavy form grows lighter and more ethereal; it slowly spreads its delicate wings to dry, and soon rises into the clear ether a perfected being. The male mosquitoes retire to the woods, and lead an indolent, harmless life among the flowers and damp leaves. They are not provided with a lancet, and consequently do not feed upon blood, but suck up moisture through the little tubes nature has given them for that purpose. They are a quiet, well-behaved race, and do not even sing; both the music and the sting being reserved for the other sex. They rarely enter the abodes of man, and may be easily identified by their heavy, feathery antenn and long maxillary palpi. Unfortunately for mankind, the female mosquito possesses a most elaborate instrument of torture. She first warns us of her presence by the buzzing sound we know so well, and then settling upon her victim, thrusts into the quivering flesh five sharp organs, one of which is a delicate lancet. These organs, taken in one mass, are called the beak, or bill of the insect. A writer says: "The bill has a blunt fork at the end, and is apparently grooved. Working through the groove, and projecting from the centre of the angle of the fork, is a lance of perfect form, sharpened with a fine bevel. Beside it the most perfect lance looks like a handsaw. On either side of this lance two saws are arranged, with the points fine and sharp, and the teeth well-defined and keen. The backs of these saws play against the lance. When the mosquito alights, with its peculiar hum, it thrusts in its keen lance, and then enlarges the aperture with the two saws, which play beside the lance, until the forked bill, with its capillary arrangement for pumping blood, can be inserted. The sawing process is what grates upon the nerves of the victim, and causes him to strike wildly at the sawyer. The irritation of a mosquito's bite is undoubtedly owing to these saws. It is to be hoped that the mosquito keeps her surgical instruments clean, otherwise it might be a means of propagating blood diseases." While the mosquito is a sort of parasite, Professor Sanborn, the "Consulting Naturalist" of Andover, Massachusetts, informs me that he has discovered as many as four or five parasitical worms preying upon the inside tissues of the minute beak of the insect. When the young female mosquito emerges from the water, she lays her eggs in the way described, and her offspring following in time her example, several broods are raised in a single season. Many of the old ones die off; but a sufficient number hybernate under the bark of trees and in dwelling-houses, to perpetuate the species in the early spring months of the following year. Another insect scavenger, found along the low shores of the Gulf, is the blow-fly, and one very useful to man. Of one species of this insect the distinguished naturalist Reaumur has asserted that the progeny of a single female will consume the carcass of a horse in the same time that it will require a lion to devour it. This singular statement may be explained in the following way. The female fly discovers the body of a dead horse, and deposits (as one species does) her six hundred eggs upon it. In twenty-four hours these eggs will hatch, producing about three hundred female larva, which feed upon the flesh of the horse for about three days, when they attain the perfected state of flies. The three hundred female flies will in their turn deposit some hundred and eighty thousand eggs, which become in four days an army of devourers, and thus in about twelve days, under favorable circumstances, the flesh is consumed by the progeny of one pair of flies in the same time that a lion would devour the carcass. Our sleepless night coming at last to an end, we rowed, at dawn, along the prairie shores of the northern coast towards the open Gulf of Mexico. Back of the prairies the forests rose like a green wall in the distance. A heavy fog settled down upon the water and drove us into camp upon the prairie, where we endured again the torture caused by the myriads of bloodthirsty mosquitoes, and were only too glad to make an early start the next morning. A steady pull at the oars brought us to the end of a long cape in the marshes. About a mile and a half east of the land's end we saw a marshy island, of three or four acres in extent, out of the grass of which arose a small wooden light-house, resting securely upon its bed of piles. There was a broad gallery around the low tower, and seeing the light-keeper seated under the shadow of its roof, we pulled out to sea, hoping to obtain information from him as to the "lay of the land." It was the Light of St. Joseph, and here, isolated from their fellow-men, lived Mr. H. G. Plunkett and his assistant light-keeper. They were completely surrounded by water, which at high tide submerged their entire island. Mr. Butler, the assistant light-keeper, was absent at the village of Bay St. Louis, on the northern shore. The principal keeper begged us to wait until he could cook us a dinner, but the rising south-east wind threatened a rough sea, and warned us to hasten back to the land. The keeper, standing on his gallery, pointed out the village of Shieldsboro, nine miles distant, on the north coast, and we plainly saw its white cottages glimmering among the green trees. Mr. Plunkett advised us not to return to the coast which we had just left, as it would necessitate following a long contour of the shore to reach Shieldsboro, but assured us that we could row nine miles in a straight course across the open Gulf to the north coast without difficulty. He argued that the rising wind was a fair one for our boats; and that a two hours' strong pull at the oars would enable us to reach a good camping-place on high ground, while if we took the safer but more roundabout route, it would be impossible to arrive at the desired port that night, and we would again be compelled to camp upon the low prairies. We knew what that meant; and to escape another sleepless night in the mosquito lowland, we were ready to take almost any risk. Having critically examined our oar-locks, and carefully ballasted our boats, we pulled into the rough water. The light-keeper shouted encouragingly to us from his high porch, "You'll get across all right, and will have a good camp to-night!" For a long time we worked carefully at our oars, our little shells now rising on the high crest of a combing sea, now sinking deep into the trough, when one of us could catch only a glimpse of his companion's head. As the wind increased, and the sea became white with caps, it required the greatest care to keep our boats from filling. The light-keeper continued to watch us through his telescope, fearing his counsel had been ill-advised. At times we glanced over our shoulders at the white sandbanks and forest-crowned coasts of Shieldsboro and Bay St. Louis, which were gradually rising to our view, higher and higher above the tide. The piers of the summer watering-places, some of them one thousand feet in length, ran out into shoal water. Against these the waves beat in fury, enveloping the abutments in clouds of white spray. When within a mile of Shieldsboro the ominous thundering of the surf, pounding upon the shelving beach of hard sand, warned us of the difficulty to be experienced in passing through the breakers to the land. It was a very shoal coast, and the sea broke in long swashy waves upon it. If we succeeded in getting through the deeper surf, we would stick fast in six inches of water on the bottom, and would not be able to get much nearer than a quarter of a mile to the dry land. Then, if we grounded only for a moment, the breaking waves would wash completely over our boats. Having no idea of being wrecked upon the shoals, I put the duck-boat's bow, with apron set, towards the combing waves, and let her drift in shore stern foremost. The instant the heel of the boat touched the bottom, I pulled rapidly seaward, and in this way felt the approaches to land in various channels many times without shipping a sea. Saddles kept in the offing, in readiness to come to my assistance if needed. It became evident that we could not land without filling our boats with water, so we hauled off to sea, and took the trough easterly, until we had passed the villages of Shieldsboro and Bay St. Louis, when, like a port of refuge, the bay of St. Louis opened its wide portals, which we entered with alacrity, and were soon snugly camped in a heavy grove of oaks and yellow pines. Here we found an ample supply of dry wood and fresh water, with wood ducks feeding within easy gunshot of our quarters. There were no mosquitoes, and that fact alone rewarded us for our exertions and anxieties. It was after five o'clock in the afternoon, and, sitting over our cheerful camp-fire, we had little thought of the scene being enacted on the ground we had just gone over. The light-keeper was still at his post, not anxious now about our little craft; but, peering through the fast gathering gloom, he turned his telescope in the direction where he expected to find the boat of his assistant. He soon saw a tiny speck, which grew more and more distinct each moment as it rose and fell upon the waves, beating against a head wind, with sails set, and coming from Bay St. Louis to St. Joseph's Light. It was the boat he expected; and, adjusting his glass, he awaited her arrival. The cheery light shot its pellucid rays over the dark water, inviting the little sail-boat to a safe harbor, while the mariner hopefully wrestled with the wind and sea, thinking it would soon be over, and his precious cargo (for his wife, her friend, and his three children were on board) safely landed upon the island, where they could look calmly back upon the perils of the deep. Bravely the boat breasted the sea. It was within three miles of the light, though hardly visible in the gloom to the watchful eye of the light-keeper on his gallery, when Butler attempted to go upon another tack. Twice he tried, twice he failed, when, making a third attempt, the boom of the sail jibed, and instantly the boat capsized. The disappearance of the sail from his horizon told the man upon the gallery of the peril of his friends, and quickly launching a boat, he proceeded rapidly to the scene of disaster. He found the two women clinging to the boat, and rescued them; but the man and his three children were drowned. A week later, the body of the assistant keeper with that of his oldest child were washed up upon the beach; the others were doubtless thrown up on some lonely coast and devoured by wild hogs or buzzards. Four months later, some fishermen, while hauling their seine, found the boat imbedded in the sand, in about eight feet of water. Thus the treacherous sea is ever ready to swallow in its insatiable maw those who love it and trust to its ever varying moods. The gale confined us to our camp for three days, during which time we roamed through the beautiful semi-tropical woods, cooked savory meals, and, lying idly near our fire, watched the fish leap from the water. While in our retreat, Dame Nature favored us with one sharp frost, but it was not sufficiently severe to injure vegetation. On Monday, January 31, we left the beautiful bay, and rounding Henderson's Point, pulled an easterly course on the open Gulf, along the shores of the village of Pass Christian, which, like the other summer watering-places of this part of the Gulf coast, was made conspicuous from the water by the many long light piers, built of rough pine poles, which extended, in some cases, several hundred feet into the shoal water. Upon the end of almost every pier was the bath- house of the owner of some cottage. The bathers descended a ladder placed under the bath-house to the salt water below. The area beneath each house was enclosed by slats, or poles, nailed to the piling, to secure the bathers from the sharks, which are numerous in these waters. Two of these ferocious creatures were having a fierce combat, in about four feet depth of water, as we rowed off Pass Christian. This coast is destitute of marshes, and has long sandy beaches, with heavy pine and oak forests in the background. The bathing is excellent, and is appreciated by the people of Louisiana and Mississippi, who resort here in large numbers during the summer months. All the hotels and cottages of these sea-girt villages are, however, closed during the winter, just the time of the year when the climate is delightful, and shooting and fishing at their best. From Lake Pontchartrain to Mobile Bay, a distance of more than one hundred statute miles in a straight line, there extends a chain of islands, situated from seven to ten miles south of the main coast, and known respectively as Cat Island, Sloop Island, Horn Island, Petit Bois Island, and Dauphine Island. The vast watery area between the mainland and these islands is known as Mississippi Sound, because the southern end of the large state of Mississippi forms its principal northern boundary. The Chandeleur and many other low marshy islands lie to the south of the above-named chain. Northern yachtmen can pass a pleasant winter in these waters. The fishing along the Gulf coast is excellent. Not having had an opportunity to identify their scientific nomenclature, I can give only the common names by which many species of these fish are known to the native fishermen. Among those found are red-fish, Spanish mackerel, speckled trout, black trout, blue-fish, mullet, sheep's-head, croakers, flounders, and the aristocratic pompano. Crabs and eels are taken round the piers in large numbers, while delicious shrimps are captured in nets by the bushel, and oysters are daily brought in from their natural beds. The fish are kept alive in floating wells until the cook is ready to receive them. Venison is sold in the markets at a very low price, while the neighboring gardens supply all our summer vegetables during the winter months. I thought, while we rowed along this attractive coast in the balmy atmosphere, with everything brightened and beautified by the early moon, how many were suffering in our northern cities from various forms of pulmonary troubles induced by the severe winter weather, while here, in a delightful climate, with everything to make man comfortable, private houses and hotels were closed, and the life- giving air blowing upon the sandy coast, from the open Gulf of Mexico, dying softly away unheeded by those who so much needed its healing influences. This region, being entirely free from the dampness of the inland rivers of Florida, and having excellent communication by rail with the North and New Orleans, offers every advantage as a winter resort, and will doubtless become popular in that way as its merits are better known. About nine o'clock in the evening we passed the Biloxi light-house, and decided, as the night was serene and the waters of the Gulf tranquil, to run under one of the bath-houses, and there enjoy our rest, not caring to enter a strange village at that hour. The piling of some of the piers was destitute of the usual shark barricade, and selecting two of these inviting retreats, we pushed in our boats, moored them to the piles, and were soon fast asleep. About daybreak the weather changed, and the sea came rolling in, pitching us about in the narrow enclosure in a fearful manner. The water had risen so high that we could not get out of our pens; so, climbing into the bath-rooms above, we held on to the bow and stern lines of our boats, endeavoring to keep them from being dashed to pieces against the pilings of the pier. While in this mortifying predicament, expecting each moment to see our faithful little skiffs wrecked most ingloriously in a bath-house, sounds were heard and some men appeared, who, coming to our assistance, proved themselves friends in need. We fished the boats out of the pen with my watch-tackle, and hoisted each one at a time into the bath-house that had covered it. Two gentlemen then approached, one claiming Saddles as his guest, while the other, Mr. J. P. Montross, conducted me to his attractive tree-embowered home; and with the soft and winning accent of an educated gentleman of Yucatan, the country of his birth, placed his house and belongings at my disposal. "I was in New Orleans when you went through that city," he said, "and learning that you would pass through Biloxi, I at once telegraphed to my agent here to detain you if possible as my guest until I should arrive." We remained a week in Biloxi, where I became daily more and more impressed with the great natural advantages of these Gulf towns as winter watering-places for northern invalids or sportsmen. During one of my rambles about Biloxi, I stumbled upon a curious little plantation, the lessee of which was entirely absorbed in the occupation of raising water-cresses. In Mr. Scheffer's garden, which was about half an acre in extent, I found fifteen little springs flowing out of a substratum of chalk. The water was very warm and clear, while the springs varied in character. There was a chalk- spring, a sulphur-spring, and an iron-spring, all within a few feet of each other. The main spring flowed out of the ground near the head, or highest part of the garden, while ditches of about two feet in width, with boarded sides to prevent their caving in, carried the water of the various springs to where it was needed. The depth of water in these ditches was not over eighteen inches. Their preparation is very simple, sand to the depth of an inch or two being placed at the bottom, and the roots, cuttings, &c., of the cresses dropped into them. This prolific plant begins at once to multiply, sending up thousands of hair-like shoots, with green leaves floating upon the surface of the running water. Mr. Scheffer informed me that he marketed his stock three times a week, cutting above water the matured plants, and putting them into bundles, or bunches, of about six inches in diameter, and then packing them with the tops downward in barrels and baskets. These bunches of cresses sell for fifteen cents apiece on the ground where they are grown. New Orleans consumes most of the stock; but invalids in various places are fast becoming customers, as the virtues of this plant are better understood. It is of great benefit in all diseases of the liver, in pulmonary complaints, and in dyspepsia with its thousand ills. The ditches in this little half-acre garden, if placed in a continuous line, would reach six hundred feet, and the crop increases so fast that one hundred bunches a week can be cut throughout the year. The hot suns of summer injure the tender cresses; hence butter-beans are planted along the ditches to shade them. The bean soon covers the light trellis which is built for it to run upon, and forms an airy screen for the tender plants. During the autumn and winter months the light frame-work is removed, and sunlight freely admitted. Cresses can be grown with little trouble in pure water of the proper temperature; and as each bed is replanted but once a year, in the month of October, the yield is large and profitable. The intelligent cultivator of this water-cress garden frequently has boarders from a distance, who reside with him that they may receive the full benefit of a diet of tender cresses fresh from the running water. Few, indeed, know the benefit to be derived from such a diet, or the water-cress garden would not be such a novelty to Americans. We, as a nation, take fewer salads with our meals than the people of any of the older sister-lands, perhaps, because in the rush of every- day life we have not time to eat them. We are, at the same time, adding largely each year to the list of confirmed dyspeptics, many of whom might be saved from this worst of all ills by a persistent use of the fresh water-cress, crisp lettuce, and other green and wholesome articles of food. Such advice is, however, of little use, since many would say, like a gentleman I once met, "Why, I would rather die than diet!" Three hundred feet from the garden the water of its springs flows into the Gulf of Mexico, the waves of which beat against the clean sandy shore. Among other things in this interesting town, I discovered in the boat- house belonging to the summer residence of Mr. C. T. Howard, of New Orleans, John C. Cloud's little boat, the "Jennie." Strange emotions filled my mind as I gazed upon the light Delaware River skiff which had been the home for so many days of that unfortunate actor, whose disastrous end I have already related to my reader. The boat had been brought from Plaquemine Plantation on the Mississippi River to this distant point. It was about fifteen feet in length, and four feet wide amidships. She was sharp at both bow and stern, and was almost destitute of sheer. There was a little deck at each end, and the usual galvanized-iron oar-locks, without out- riggers, while upon her quarters were painted very small national flags. She was built of white pine, and was very light. Each summer, when guests are at Bi1oxi, sympathizing groups crowd round this little skiff; and listen to the oft-repeated story of the poor northerner who sacrificed his own life while engaged in the attempt to win a bet to support his large and destitute family. Here by the restless sea, which seems ever to be moaning a requiem for the dead, I left the little "Jennie," a monument of American pluck, but, at the same time, a mortifying instance of the fruitlessness of our national spirit of adventure when there is no principle to back it. [Arrival at the Gulf of Mexico--Camp Mosquito.] CHAPTER X. FROM BILOXI TO CAPE SAN BLAS POINTS ON THE GULF COAST.-- MOBILE BAY.-- THE HERMIT OF DAUPHINE ISLAND.-- BON SECOURS BAY.-- A CRACKER'S DAUGHTER.-- THE PORTAGE TO THE PERDIDO.-- THE PORTAGE FROM THE PERDIDO TO BIG LAGOON.-- PENSACOLA BAY.-- SANTA ROSA ISLAND.-- A NEW LONDON FISHERMAN.-- CATCHING THE POMPANO.-- A NEGRO PREACHER AND WHITE SINNERS.-- A DAY AND A NIGHT WITH A MURDERER.-- ST. ANDREW'S SOUND.-- ARRIVAL AT CAPE SAN BLAS. ON the morning of February 8 we left Biloxi, and launching our boats, proceeded on our voyage to the eastward, skirting shores which were at times marshy, and again firm and sandy. At Oak Point, and Belle Fontaine Point, green magnolia trees, magnificent oaks, and large pines grew nearly to the water's edge. Beyond Belle Fontaine the waters of Graveline Bayou flow through a marshy flat to the sea, and offer an attractive territory to sportsmen in search of wild-fowl. Beyond the bayou, between West and East Pascagoula, we found a delta of marshy islands, and an area of mud flats, upon which had been erected enclosures of brush, within the cover of which the sportsman could secrete himself and boat while he watched for the wild ducks constantly attracted to his neighborhood by the submarine grasses upon which they fed. At sunset we ran into the mouth of a creek near the village of East Pascagoula, and there slept in our boats, which were securely tied to stakes driven into the salt marsh. At eight o'clock the next morning, the tide being low, we waded out of the stream, towing our boats with lines into deeper water, and rowed past East Pascagoula, which, like the other watering-places of the Gulf, seemed deserted in the winter. The coast was now a wilderness, with few habitations in the dense forests, which formed a massive dark green background to the wide and inhospitable marshes. As we proceeded upon our voyage wildfowl and fish became more and more abundant, but few fishermen's boats or coasting vessels were seen upon the smooth waters of the Gulf. About dusk we ascended a creek, marked upon our chart as Bayou Caden, and passing through marshes, over which swarmed myriads of mosquitoes, we landed upon the pebbly beach of a little hammock, and there pitched our tent. This portable shelter, which we had made at Biloxi, proved indeed a luxury. It was only six feet square at its base, weighing but a few pounds, and when compactly folded occupying little space; but after the first night's peaceful sleep under its sheltering care it occupied a large place in our hearts; for, having driven out the mosquitoes and closely fastened the entrance, we bade defiance to our tormentors, and realized by comparison, as we never did before, the misery of voyaging without a tent. Moving out of the Bayou Caden the next day, a lot of fine oysters was collected in shoal water, and by a lucky shot, a fat duck was added to the menu. We were now on the coast of Alabama, so named by an aboriginal chief when he arrived at the river, from which he thought no white man would ever drive him, and turning to his followers, exclaimed, Alabama!-- "Here we rest." Alas for chief and followers, who to-day have no spot of ground where they can stand and cry, "Alabama!" There were several bays to be crossed before we reached a point in the marshes which extended several miles to the south, and was called Berrin Point. To the east of this was a wide bay, bounded by Cedar Point, which formed one side of the entrance to Mobile Bay. Miles across the water to the south lay Dauphine Island, which it was necessary to reach before we could cross the inlet to Mobile Bay. The wind rose from the south, giving us a head sea, but we pulled across the shallow bay, through which ran a channel called "Grant's Pass," it having been dredged out to enable vessels to pass from Mississippi Sound to Mobile Bay. This tedious pull ended by our safe arrival at Dauphine Island, upon the eastern point of which we found, close to the beach, a group of wooden government buildings, once occupied by some of the members of the United States Army Engineer Corps. Here lived, as keeper of the property, a genial recluse, Mr. Robinson Cruse, who for eight years had led an almost solitary life, his nearest neighbor on the island being the sergeant in charge of Fort Gaines, which officer, I was informed, was seldom seen outside of his dismal enclosure. Solitude, however, did not seem to have had the usual effect upon Mr. Cruse, for he welcomed us most cordially, and cooked us a truly maritime supper of many things he had taken from the sea. When darkness came, and the winds were howling about us, he piled in his open fireplace pieces of the wrecks of unfortunate vessels which had foundered on the coast, and had cast up their frames and plankings on the beach near his door. Grouping ourselves round the crackling fire, our host opened his budget of adventures by sea and by land, entertaining us most delightfully until midnight, when we spread our blankets on the hard floor in front of the fire, and were soon travelling in the realms of dreamland. The following day the wind stirred up the wide expanse of water about the island to such a degree of boisterousness that we could not launch our boats. Our position was somewhat peculiar. Between Dauphine Island and the beach of the mainland opposite was an open ocean inlet of three and a half miles in width, through which the tide flowed. Fort Gaines commanded the western side of this inlet, while Fort Morgan menaced the intruder on the opposite shore. North of this Gulf portal was the wide area of water of Mobile Bay, extending thirty miles to Mobile City, while to the south of it spread the Gulf of Mexico, bounded only by the dim horizon of the heavens. To the east, and inside the narrow beach territory of the eastern side of the inlet, was Bon Secours Bay, a sort of estuary of Mobile Bay, of sixteen miles in length. The passage of the exposed inlet could be made in a small boat only during calm weather, otherwise the voyager might be blown out to sea, or be forced, at random, into the great sound inside the inlet. In either case the rough waves would be likely to fill the craft and drown its occupant. In case of accident the best swimmer would have little chance of escape in these semi-tropical waters, as the man-eating shark is always cruising about, waiting, Micawber-like, for something "to turn up." The windy weather kept us prisoners on Dauphine Island for two days, but early on the morning of February. 13 a calm prevailed, taking advantage of which, we hurried across the open expanse of water, not daring to linger until our kind host could prepare breakfast. The shoal water of the approaches to the enterprising cotton port of Mobile make it necessary for large vessels to anchor thirty miles below the city, in a most exposed position. We passed through this fleet, which was discharging its cargo by lighters, and gained in safety the beach in Bon Secours Bay, near Fort Morgan. While preparing our breakfast on the glittering white strand, we received a visit from Mr. B. F. Midyett, the light-keeper of Mobile Point. He was a North Carolinian, but told us that Indian blood flowed in his veins. He was from the neighborhood of the lost colony of Sir Walter Raleigh, a history of which I gave in my "Voyage of the Paper Canoe." Midyett (also spelled Midget) may have been a descendant of that feeble colony of white men which so mysteriously disappeared from history after it had abandoned Roanoke Island, North Carolina, being forced by starvation to take refuge among friendly Indians, when its members, through intermarriage with their protectors, lost their individuality as white men, and founded a race of blue-eyed savages afterwards seen by European explorers in the forests of Albemarle and Pamplico sounds. The light-keeper begged us to make him a visit; but it was necessary to hurry to the end of Bon Secours Bay before night, as a north wind would give us a heavy beam sea. Passing "Pilot Town," where the little cottages of oystermen, fishermen, and pilots were clustered along the beach, we pulled past a forest-clad strand until dusk, when we reached the end of Bon Secours Bay, where it was necessary to make a portage across the woods to the next inland watercourse. The eastern end of Bon Secours Bay terminated at the mouth of Bon Secours River, which we ascended, finding on the low shores a well- stocked country store, and several small houses occupied by oystermen. We slept in our boats by the river's bank, and the next morning turned into a narrow creek, on our right hand, which led to a small tidal pond, called Bayou John, the bottom of which was covered in places with large and delicious oysters. Crossing the lagoon, we landed in a heavy forest of yellow pines. This desolate region was the home of John Childeers, a farmer; and we were informed that he alone, in the entire neighborhood, was the possessor of oxen, and was in fact the only man who could be hired to draw our boats seven miles to Portage Creek, which is a tributary of Perdido River. [Map Mobile Bay to Cape San Blas.] Leaving Saddles to watch our boats, I entered the tall pine forest, and after walking a mile came upon the clearing of the backwoodsman. His two daughters, young women, were working in the field; but the sight of a stranger was so unusual to them, that, heedless of my remonstrances and gentle assurances of goodwill, they took to their heels and ran so fast that it was impossible to overtake them until they arrived at the log cabin of their father. The dogs then made a most unceremonious assault upon me, when the maidens, forgetting their fears, made a sally upon the fierce curs, and clubbed them with such hearty good-will that the discomfited canines hastily took refuge in the woods. The family listened to my story, and insisted upon my joining them in their mid-day meal, which consisted of pork, sweet-potatoes, and corn- bread. My host agreed to haul the boats the next day to Portage Creek for five dollars, and I returned to Saddles to make preparations for the overland journey. That night we feasted sumptuously upon fat oysters six inches in length, rolled in beaten eggs and cracker- crumbs, and fried a delicate brown. These, with good hot coffee and fresh bread, furnished a supper highly appreciated by two hungry men. With the morning came our farmer, when about an hour was spent in securely packing our boats in the long wagon. The duck-boat was placed upon the bottom, while the light skiff of my companion rested upon a scaffolding above, made by lashing cross-bars to the stanchions of the wagon. This peculiar two-storied vehicle swayed from side to side as we travelled over uneven ground, but the boats were securely lashed in their places, and the parts exposed to chafing carefully protected by bundles of coarse grass and our blankets. We travelled slowly through the heavily grassed savannas and the dense forests of yellow pine towards the east, in a line parallel with, and only three miles from, the coast. The four oxen hauled this light load at a snail's pace, so it was almost noon when we struck Portage Creek near its source, where it was only two feet in width. Following along its bank for a mile, we arrived at the logging-camp of Mr. Childeers. There we found the creek four rods in width, and possessing a depth of fifteen feet of water. The lumbermen haul their pine logs to this point, and float them down the stream to the steam sawmills on Perdido River. The boats were soon launched upon the dark cypress waters of the creek, the cargo carefully stowed, and the voyage resumed. Though the roundabout course through the woods was fully seven miles, a direct line for a canal to connect the Bon Secours and Portage Creek waters would not exceed four miles. About two miles from the logging-camp the stream entered "Bay Lalanch," from the grassy banks of which alligators slid into the water as we rowed quietly along. We now entered a wide expanse of bay and river, with shores clothed with solemn forests of dark green. The wide Perdido River, rising in this region of dismal pines, flows between Bear Point and Inerarity's Point, when, making a sharp turn to the eastward, it empties into the Gulf of Mexico. In crossing the river between the two points mentioned, we were only separated from the sea by a narrow strip of low land. The Perdido River is the boundary line between the states of Alabama and Florida. In a bend of the river, nearly three miles east of Inerarity's Point, we landed on a low shore, having passed the log cabins of several settlers scattered along in the woods. It was now necessary to make a portage across the low country to the next interior watercourse, called "Big Lagoon." It was a shallow tidal sheet of water seven miles in length by one in width, and separated from the sea by a very narrow strip of beach. We camped in our boats for the night, starting off hopefully in the morning for the little settlement, to procure a team to haul our boats three-quarters of a mile to Big Lagoon. The settlers were all absent from their homes, hunting and fishing, so we returned to our camp depressed in spirits. There was nothing left for us but to attempt to haul our boats over the sandy neck of land; so we at once applied ourselves to the task. The boats were too heavy for us to carry, so we dragged the sneak-box on rollers, cut from a green pine-tree, half-way to the lagoon; and, making many journeys, the provisions, blankets, gun, oars, &c., were transported upon our shoulders to the half-way resting-place. So laborious was this portage that when night came upon us we had hauled one boat only, with our provisions, tent, and outfit, to the beach of Big Lagoon. The Riddle still rested upon the banks of the Perdido River. The tent was pitched to shelter us from mosquitoes, and partaking of a hearty supper, we rolled ourselves in our blankets and slept. The camp was in a desolate place, our only neighbors being the coons, and they enlivened the solitude by their snarling and fighting, having come down to the beach to fish in apparently no amiable mood. Before midnight, that unmistakable cry so human in its agonizing tone, warned us of the approach of a panther. Coming closer and closer, the animal prowled round our tent, sounding his childlike wail. It was too dark to get a glimpse of him, though we watched, weapons in hand, for his nearer approach. Saddles had hunted the beast in his Louisiana lairs, and was eager to make him feel the weight of his lead. We succeeded in driving him off once, but he returned and skulked in the bushes near our camp for half an hour, when his cries grew fainter as he beat a retreat into the forest. We worked hard until noon the next day in the vain attempt to haul the Riddle from the Perdido, when I launched the duck-boat on Big Lagoon and rowed easterly in search of assistance, leaving Saddles behind to guard our stores. When six miles from camp, I discovered upon the high north shore of the lagoon the clearing and cabin of Rev. Charles Hart, an industrious negro preacher, who labored assiduously, cultivating the thin sandy soil of his little farm, that he might teach his fellow-freedmen spiritual truths on the Lord's day. This humble black promised to go with his scrawny horse to the assistance of Saddles, and at once departed on his mission, happy in the knowledge that he could serve two unfortunate boatmen, and honestly earn two dollars. Going into camp upon the shore, I kept up a bright fire to notify my absent companion of my whereabouts. At seven o'clock the Rev. Mr. Hart returned and claimed his fee, reporting that he had hauled the Riddle to the lagoon, where he found Saddles pleasantly whiling away the hours of solitude in the useful occupation of washing his extra shirt and stockings. He assured me the Riddle would soon appear. A little later Saddles reached my camp, and we tented for the night on the beach. At daylight we took to our oars, and rowed out of the end of the lagoon into Pensacola Bay. Skirting the high shores on our left, we approached within a mile of the United States naval station Warrington, where we went into camp upon the white strand, in a small settlement of pilots and fishermen, who kindly welcomed us to Pensacola Bay. We slept in our boats on the sandy beach, beside a little stream of fresh water that flowed out of the bank. The morning of the 19th of February was calm and beautiful, while the songs of mockingbirds filled the air. Across the inlet of Pensacola Bay was the western end of the low, sandy island of Santa Rosa, which stretches in an easterly direction for forty-eight miles to East Pass and Choctawhatchee Bay, and serves as a barrier to the sea. Behind this narrow beach island flow the waters of Santa Rosa Sound, the northern shores of which are covered with the same desolate forests of yellow pine that characterize the uplands of the Gulf coast. At the west end of Santa Rosa Island the walls of Fort Pickens rose gloomily out of the sands. It was the only structure inhabited by man on the long barren island, with the exception of one small cabin built on the site of Clapp's steam-mill, four miles beyond the fort, and occupied by a negro. We crossed the bay to Fort Pickens, and followed the island shore of the sound until five o'clock P. M., when we sought a camp on the beach at the foot of some conspicuous sand hills, the thick "scrub" of which seemed to be the abode of numerous coons. From the top of the principal sand dune there was a fine view of the boundless sea. Our position, however, had its inconveniences, the principal one being a scarcity of water, so we were obliged to break camp at an early hour the next day. The Santa Rosa Island shore was so desolate and unattractive that we left it, and crossed the narrow sound to the north shore of the mainland, where nature had been more prodigal in her drapery of foliage. Before noon a sail appeared on the horizon, and we gradually approached it. Close to the shore we saw a raft of sawed timbers being to wed by a yacht. The captain hailed us, and we were soon alongside his vessel. The refined features of a gentleman beamed upon us from under an old straw hat, as its owner trod, barefooted, the deck of his craft. He had started, with the raft in tow, from his mill at the head of Choctawhatchee Bay, bound for the great lumber port of Pensacola, but being several times becalmed, was now out of provisions. We gave him and his men all we could spare from our store, and then inquired whether it would be possible for us to find a team and driver to haul our boats from the end of the watercourse we were then traversing, across the woods to the tributary waters of St. Andrew's Bay. The captain kindly urged us to go to his home, and report ourselves to his wife, remaining as his guests until he should return from Pensacola,-- "when," he said, "I myself will take you across." This plan would, however, have caused a delay of several days, so we could not take advantage of the kind offer of the ex-confederate general. Having considered a moment, our new friend proposed another arrangement. "There is," he said, "only one person living at the end of Choctawhatchee Bay, besides myself, who owns a yoke of oxen. He can serve you if he wishes, but remember he is a dangerous man. He came here from the state of Mississippi, after the war, and by exaction, brutality, and even worse means, has got hold of most of the cattle, and everything else of value, in his neighborhood. He can haul your boats to West Bay Creek in less than a day's time. The job is worth three or four dollars, but he will get all he can out of you." Thanking the captain for the information, and the warning he had given us, we waved a farewell, and rowed along the almost uninhabited coast until dusk, when we crossed the sound to camp upon Santa Rosa Island, as an old fisherman at Warrington had advised us; "for," said he, "the woods on the mainland are filled with varmints,--cats and painters,-- which may bother you at night." On the morning of the 21st we rowed to the end of the sound, which narrowed as we approached the entrance to the next sheet of water, Choctawhatchee Bay. There were a few shanties along the narrow outlet on the main shore, where some settlers, beguiled to this desolate region by the sentimental idea of pioneer life in a fine climate, known as "FLORIDA FEVER," were starving on a fish diet, which, in the cracker dialect, was "powerful handy," and bravely resisting the attacks of insects, the bane of life in Florida. Seven miles from the end of Santa Rosa Island the boats emerged from the passage between the sounds, and entered Choctawhatchee Bay. As the wind arose we struggled in rough water, shaping our course down to the inlet called East Pass, through which the tide ebbed and flowed into the bay. Here we encountered an original character known as "Captain Len Destin." He was a fisherman, from New London, Connecticut, and had a comfortable house on the high bank of the inlet, surrounded by cultivated fields, where he had lived since 1852. Having married a native of the country, he settled down to the occupation of his fathers; and being a prince among fishermen, he was able to send good supplies of the best fish to the Pensacola markets. His modus operandi was rather peculiar. Having rowed along the beach on the open Gulf, a boat-load of fishermen, with their nets ready to cast, rested quietly upon their oars in the offing, while a sharp-eyed man walked along the coast, peering into the transparent water, searching for the schools of fish which feed near the strand. The fishermen cautiously follow him, until, suddenly catching sight of a lot of pompanos, sheep's- heads, and other fish, he signals to his companions, and they, quietly approaching the unsuspicious fish, drop their long net into the water, and enclose the whole school. Drawing the net upon the beach, the fish were taken out and carried to Captain Len's landing, inside of the inlet, where they were packed in the refrigerator of a fleet-sailing boat, which, upon receiving its cargo, started immediately for Pensacola. In this way the pompano, the most delicious of southern fishes, being repacked at Pensacola in hogsheads of ice, found its way quickly by rail to New York city, where they were justly appreciated. Captain Len generously supplied our camp with fish; so making a good fire, we broiled them before it, baking bread in our Dutch oven; and finishing our sumptuous repast with some hot coffee, we turned a deaf ear to the whistling wind that blew steadily from the north-east. A little schooner of four tons was riding out the gale near the landing. She was bound for Apalachicola and St. Marks, Florida. Her passengers were crowded into a cabin, the confined limits of which would have attracted the attention of any society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, had it contained a freight of quadrupeds instead of human beings. The heads of white and black men and women could be seen above the hatchway at times, as though seeking for a breath of pure air. The Reverend Mr. B., a colored preacher, crawled out of the hold, and visited my camp. Finding that I sympathized strongly with his unfortunate race, he opened his heart to me, telling of his labors among them. He also gave me an account of his efforts to encourage some observance of the first day of the week among the white inhabitants of Key West; he and other colored Christians having petitioned the mayor of that city to enforce the laws which require a decent respect for the Lord's day. He grieved over the sinful condition of the inhabitants of that ungodly city, and gave me a sketch of his plans for improving the morality of his white brethren. He had been travelling, like St. Paul, upon the sea, to visit and encourage the weak negro churches in Florida. His address was that of a gentleman, and his heart beat with generous impulses. I rowed out to the little craft in the offing, and found in the diminutive cabin eight FIRST-CLASS NEGRO passengers, while in the vessel's hold, reclining upon the cargo, were four white men who were voyaging SECOND class. The cordage of the little craft was rotten, and the sails nearly worn out, yet all these people were cheerful, and willing to put to sea as soon as the young skipper would dare to venture out upon the Gulf. The gale finally exhausted itself. On the 24th we rowed along the southern wooded shore of Choctawhatchee Bay, towards its eastern end. The sound is put down on our charts as Santa Rosa Bay, though the people know it only by its Indian name. It is nearly thirty miles long, and has. an average width of five miles. Its shores are covered by a wilderness, and the settlements are few and far between. As we had not left Captain Len's landing until afternoon, we made only ten miles that night, and camped, supper-less, on "Twelve Mile Point," but making an early start the next morning, we reached at noon the eastern shore of the bay near the log cabin of the man of murderous deeds, to whom we were to look for assistance in the transportation of our boats across the wilderness to the next inland watercourse. A tall man, with a most sinister countenance, but rather better dressed than the average backwoodsman, soon made his way to our boats. I plainly stated my object in calling upon him, and expressed a wish that he would not be severe in his charges, as in that case I should return to Captain Len's landing, put to sea, and follow the coast instead of the interior waters to the inlet of St. Andrew's Bay. He agreed to make the portage for ten dollars, stating that the distance was about fourteen miles; and we in our turn promised to be ready to attend to the loading of the boats the next morning. As we walked about the plantation, its owner became quite communicative, even pointing out the spot where his wife's nephew had been shot dead, leaving him heir to five hundred head of cattle. He spoke of his differences with his neighbors, and assured us that nothing but lynch law would "go down" in their wild region, where, he said, no law existed. He had been a physician in his native state of Mississippi, but there were so many widows and orphans who could not pay his fees that he gave up his profession, and came to the Gulf coast of Florida, where he met a widow, who owned, with her nephew, one thousand head of cattle, which roamed through the savanna bottoms of the coast, requiring no care except an occasional salting. Having married the innocent woman, his first victim, he then, according to the testimony of his neighbors, hired a man to shoot his nephew, and had so become the sole owner of the whole herd of cattle, which roamed over thirty square miles of territory. Here was, indeed, a cheerful guide for two lone voyagers through the uninhabited wilds! Saddles and I made up our minds, however, to accept the inevitable gracefully, and at nine o'clock the next morning the boats were lashed into the wagon, and the retired physician, with two of his men on horseback, accompanied by Saddles and myself on foot, slowly left the clearing, and defiled along an almost undefined trail through the forest. I noticed that the men were well armed, and all on the alert. Occasionally one of the men would be sent off to the right or left to search for cattle signs, but our guide himself hung close to the wagon, seeming to consider prudence the better part of valor. Opening the conversation with this quondam physician, I asked his opinion in regard to several well-known remedies, and discovered that he used but three. The best medicine, he said, was CALOMEL, the next QUININE, and what they would not cure, GLAUBER'S SALTS would. In fact, he considered salts the specific for all diseases. Leading gently to the subject, I spoke of his nephew's death, when he assured me the cruel deed had been done by a settler named Bridekirk, who had squatted upon some land belonging to the young man, and though the intruder never had it conveyed to him by government, he considered it his own. Anxious to protect his nephew's interest, the physician took up the claim, and moved his family to the disputed territory. "Bridekirk," he said, "swore my nephew should never live on what he called HIS claim, and a short time afterwards took his revenge. I had sent the boy for a spur I left at a neighbor's, and when just outside my fence a man who was concealed in a thicket shot the poor fellow. I KNOW it was the devil Bridekirk who did it." "Did you find his trail?" I asked. "No," he answered; "we could not pick it up. It was all stamped out. No one could recognize it, but I know Bridekirk was the assassin. lie threatened my life too; but he's dead now." "Dead!" I exclaimed; "when did he die?" "Oh, about a week ago. He lived a few miles from here, and one morning SOMEBODY shot him in his doorway." "Who could have done that?" I inquired. A savage gleam lit up the physician's eye, as he said, slowly: "My wife's nephew had some relation in a distant state, and it was reported they would see that Bridekirk got his deserts." "They came a long way to take their revenge," I remarked. "Yes, a very long way," he answered; and then added: "This Bridekirk would have been arrested for stealing my cattle if he had lived a week or two longer. Me and a neighbor was out looking up our cattle round here, not long ago, and we saw there were a good many fresh burns in the woods, and as we knew that cattle would go to such places to nibble the fresh grass that starts up after a fire, we set out for a big burnt patch. While we were in the woods, towards sunset, we saw two men on horseback driving an old bell-steer and four or five young cattle, all of which we easily recognized in the distance as part of my herd. We followed the men cautiously, keeping so far in the woods that they could not see us, when they mounted a little hill, and the last rays of the setting sun striking upon them, we saw that it was Bridekirk and a neighbor who were stealing my stock. We hid in the swamp until nine o'clock at night, and then rode to Bridekirk's clearing. There was a stream in a hollow below his house, but his cattle-pen was on the rising ground a little way off. We tied our horses in the woods, and crawled up to the cow-pen. There we found all the cattle the thieves had stolen excepting the bell-steer. There was a fire down in the hollow by the stream, and we could see Bridekirk and the other fellow skinning my bell-steer, which they had just killed. Said I to my friend, Now we have 'em!' and I took aim at Bridekirk with my gun. My friend was a LAW man, so he said, No, don't shoot; there is some law left, and we have EVIDENCE now. Let's go and indict them. Then if the sheriff won't arrest them, we can find plenty of chances to pull the trigger on them. I go in for law first, and LYNCHING afterwards.' Well, it was a hard thing to lose such a chance when we were boiling over, but I put my gun on my shoulder, and my friend let the bars of the pen down, and we drove the other cattle out as quietly as possible into the woods. "Next day, Bridekirk's neighbor, who had helped kill the beef, left for parts unknown. Why? because, when he found the bars let down, and the cattle gone, and measured our tracks, he knew WHO had been watching him, and he thought it safest to skedaddle. Bridekirk then kept close in his cabin. He knew who was on his trail THIS TIME. We got the men indicted, and the sheriff had the order of arrest; but he held it for a week, and probably sent word to Bridekirk to keep out of the way. So law, as usual in these parts, fizzled, and it became necessary to try something surer. "Now I was told that one morning last week, before daybreak, Bridekirk and his hired man heard a noise in the yard that sounded as though some animal was worrying the hens. He suspected it was somebody trying to draw him out into the yard, so he would not go, but tried to get his man to see what was up. The man was afraid, too, for he had his suspicions. At last the noise outside stopped, and the sun began to rise. As nobody seemed to be about, Bridekirk stuck his head out of the door, and, not seeing anything, slowly stepped outside. Now there were two men hidden behind a fence, with their guns pointed at the door. As soon as that cow-thief got fairly out of his house, we--THESE FELLOWS, I MEAN--pulled trigger and shot him dead. The authorities held a sort of inquest on the case, but all that is known of the matter is that he came to his death by shots from unknown parties." Little did this cold-blooded man suspect, while relating his story to me, that his own end would be like Bridekirk's, and that he would soon fall under an assassin's hand. I became thoroughly disgusted with my companion, who kept close to my side hour after hour as we trudged through the wilderness. One of his arms was held stiffly to his side, and seemed to be almost useless. He had attempted a piece of imposition on a man who lived near the creek we were approaching, and had received the contents of the settler's shot-gun in his side. Most of the charge had lodged in the shoulder and arm, and the cripple now inveighed against this man, and advised us to keep clear of him when we rowed down the creek. "I have nothing against Mr. B.," he said; "but he is no GENTLEMAN, and you better not camp near him." Before sunset we entered a heavily grassed country, where deer were abundant. They sprung from their beds in the tall grass, and bounded away as we advanced. At twilight the oxen finished their long pull on the banks of a little watercourse known as West Bay Creek, so called because it flows into the West Bay of St. Andrew's Sound. Here we camped for the night. The two hired men left us to visit a friend who lived several miles distant; but the doctor remained with his oxen in our camp all night. When the tent was pitched he was permitted to enjoy its shelter alone, for Saddles and I took to our boats, leaving the murderer to his own uneasy dreams. I settled his bill before retiring, so he decamped at an early hour the next morning, having first found out where I had hidden my cordage, and purloining therefrom my longest and best rope. This was a loss to me, for it was used to secure the boats when they were being hauled from place to place; but I would gladly have parted with any of my belongings to be free from the presence of my unwelcome guest; and how resigned his neighbors must have felt when, a few weeks later, they read in their newspapers that "W. D. Holly was shot last week in his house, in Washington County, Florida, by some unknown parties"! We made a hasty Sunday breakfast of cornstarch, and pulled down the creek, anxious to put some distance between ourselves and the doctor. Four miles down the stream, where it debouched into West Bay, we found the homes of two settlers. The one living on the right bank was the man who had given Mr. Holly his stiff arm, the other had built himself a rude but comfortable cabin on the opposite shore. Though there was one delicate-looking woman only in this cabin, without any protector, she hospitably asked us to make our camp at her landing, adding, that when her husband returned from the woods she might be able to give us some meat. Soon a dog came out of the dense forest, followed by a man who bore upon his shoulders the hind-quarters of a deer which he had killed. He bade us welcome, while he remarked that there were no Sundays in these parts, where one day was just like another; and then presenting us with half his venison, regretted that he had not been aware of our arrival, as he could have killed another deer, his dog having started fifteen during a short ramble in the woods. In the thickets of "ti- ti," which are almost as dense as cane-brakes, the deer, panthers, and bears take refuge; and in this great wilderness of St. Andrew's Bay expert hunters can find venison almost any day. On Monday morning we rowed through West Bay, across the southern end of North Bay, and skirted the north coast of the East Bay of St. Andrew's, with its picturesque groves of cabbage-palms, for a few miles, when we turned southward into the inlet through which the tidal waters of the Gulf pass in and out of the sound. We were now close to the sea, with a few narrow sandy islands only intervening between us and the Gulf of Mexico, and upon these ocean barriers we found breezy camping-grounds. Our course was by the open sea for six or eight miles, when we reached a narrow beach thoroughfare, called Crooked Island Bay, through which we rowed, with Crooked Island on our right hand, until we arrived at the head of the bay, where we expected to find an outlet to the sea. Being overtaken by darkness, we staked our boats on the quiet sheet of water, and at sunrise pushed on to find the opening through the beach. Not a sign of human life had been seen since we had left the western end of the East Bay of St. Andrew's Sound, and we now discovered that no outlet to the sea existed, and that Crooked Island was not an island, but a long strip of beach land which was joined to the main coast by a narrow neck of sandy territory, and that the interior watercourse ended in a creek. Our portage to the sea now loomed up as a laborious task. We needed at least one man to assist us, and we were fully half a day's row from the nearest cabin to the west of us, while we might look in vain to the eastward, where the uninhabited coast-line stretched away with its shining sands and shimmering waters for thirty miles to Cape San Blas. There, upon a low sand-bar, against which the waves lashed out their fury, rose a tall light-tower, the only friend of the mariner in all this desolate region. We could not look to that distant light for help, however, and were thrown entirely upon our own feeble resources. Going systematically to work, we surveyed the best route across Crooked Island, which was over the bed of an old inlet; for a hurricane, many years before, washed out a passage through the sand- spit, and for years the tide flowed in and out of the interior bay. Another hurricane afterwards repaired the breach by filling up the new inlet with sand; so Crooked Island enjoyed but a short-lived notoriety, and again became an integral part of the continent. [The portage across Crooked Island.] Our survey of the portage gave encouraging results. The Gulf of Mexico was only four hundred feet from the bay, and the shortest route was the best one; so, starting energetically, we dragged the boats by main force across Crooked Island, and launched them in the surf without disaster. We then rowed as rapidly as the rough sea would permit along the coast towards the wide opening of St. Joseph's Bay, the wooded beaches of which rose like a cloud in the soft mists of a sunny day. The bay was entered at four o'clock in the afternoon, and, being out of water, we hauled our boats high on to the beach, and searched eagerly for signs of moisture in the soil. Leaving Saddles to build a fire and prepare our evening meal, I proceeded to investigate our new domain, and soon discovered the remains of a cabin near a station, or signal-staff, of the United States Coast Survey. Men do not camp for a number of days at a time in places destitute of water; and the fact of the cabin having been built on this spot proved conclusively to me that water must be found in the vicinity. After a careful and patient search, I discovered a depression in the high sandy coast, and although the sand was perfectly dry, I thought it possible that a supply of water had been obtained here for the use of the United States Coast Survey party--the same party which had erected the cabin and planted the signal near it. Going quickly to the beach, I found the shell of an immense clam, with which I returned, and using it as a scoop, or shovel, removed two or three bushels of sand, when a moist stratum was reached, and my clam- shovel struck the chime of a flour-barrel. In my joy I called to Saddles, for I knew our parched throats would soon be relieved. It did not take long to empty the barrel of its contents, which task being finished, we had the pleasure of seeing the water slowly rise and fill the cistern so lately occupied by the sand. In half an hour the water became limpid, and we sat beside our well, drinking, from time to time, like topers, of the sweet water. Our water-cans were filled, and no stint in the culinary department was allowed that evening. The flames from our camp-fire shot into the soft atmosphere, while the fishes, attracted by its glare, leaped by scores, in a state of bewilderment, from the now quiet water. St. Joseph's Bay has an ample depth of water for sea-going vessels, while its many species of shells make it one of the best points on the northern Gulf coast for the conchologist. Although sorry to leave our limpid spring, we launched the boats at seven o'clock the next morning, following the north side of the bay until we arrived at the deserted site of the city of St. Joseph. It seemed impossible to realize that on this desolate spot there had been, only thirty or forty years before, a prosperous city, with a large population and a busy cotton-port, accessible to the largest vessels, and threatening a steady rivalry with Apalachicola. Railroads were the enemies of these southern cities as they diverted the cotton, grown in the interior, from its natural channels by river to the Gulf of Mexico. The system of "time-freights," on railroads to the eastern Atlantic ports of Charleston and Savannah, had reduced the once promising city of St. Joseph to one shanty and a rotten pier. Apalachicola also felt the iron hand of competition, and her line of steamboats lost the carriage upon her noble river of the cotton from the distant interior. Railroads were rapidly constructed running east and west, and the rivers flowing to the south were robbed of their commerce. Beyond St. Joseph city the scenery became almost tropical in its character, and palmettos grew in rank luxuriance on the low savannas. The long narrow coast on the south side of the bay trended suddenly to the south, and terminated in Cape San Blas, while the sound was ended abruptly by a strip of land which connected the long cape to the main. The system of interior watercourses here came to a natural end; and pulling our boats upon the strand, we landed by a large turtle-pen, near which was a deserted grass hut, evidently the home of the turtle- hunter during the "turtle season." Leaving the boats on the salt marsh, we entered the woods and ascended the sand-hills of the Gulf coast, when a boundless view of the sea broke upon us. The shining strand stretched in regular lines four miles to the south, where the light-tower on the point of the cape rose above the intervening forest. Greeting it as the face of a friend, we rejoiced to see it so near; and standing entranced with the beauty of the vision before us,- -the boundless sea, the most ennobling sight in all nature,--we congratulated ourselves that we had arrived safely at Cape San Blas. [Map Cape San Blas to Cedar Keys.] [Map Cape San Blas to Cedar Keys.] CHAPTER XI. FROM CAPE SAN BLAS TO ST. MARKS A PORTAGE ACROSS CAPE SAN BLAS.-- THE COW-HUNTERS.-- A VISIT TO THE LIGHT-HOUSE.-- ONCE MORE ON THE SEA.-- PORTAGE INTO ST. VINCENT'S SOUND.-- APALACHICOLA.-- ST. GEORGE'S SOUND AND OCKLOCKONY RIVER.-- ARRIVAL AT ST. MARKS.-- THE NEGRO POSTMASTER.-- A PHILANTHROPIST AND HIS NEIGHBORS.-- A CONTINUOUS AND PROTECTED WATER-WAY FROM THE MISSISSIPPI TO THE ATLANTIC COAST. A PORTAGE now loomed in our horizon. The distance across the neck of land was one-third of a mile only, but the ascent of the hills of the Gulf beach would prove a formidable task. I proposed to Saddles that he should return to the boats, while I hurried down the beach to the point of the cape to find a man to assist us in their transportation from the bay to the sea. While discussing the plan, a noise in the thicket caught my ear, and turning our eyes to the spot, we saw two men hurrying from their ambush into the forest. We at once started in pursuit of them. When overtaken, they looked confused, and acknowledged that the presence of strangers was so unusual in that region that they had been watching our movements critically from the moment we landed until we discovered them. These men wore the rough garb of cow-hunters, and the older of the two informed me that his home was in Apalachicola. He was looking after his cattle, which had a very long range, and had been camping with his assistant along St. Joseph's Sound for many days, being now en route for his home. Two ponies were tied to a tree in a thicket, while a bed of palmetto leaves and dried grass showed where the hunters had slept the previous night. These men assured us that the happiest life was that of the cow- hunter, who could range the forest for miles upon his pony, and sleep where he pleased. The idea was, that the nearer one's instincts and mode of life approached to that of a cow, the happier the man: only another version, after all, of living close to nature. One of these wood-philosophers, taking his creed from the animals in which all his hopes centred, said we should be as simple in our habits as an ox, as gentle as a cow, and do no more injury to our fellow-man than a yearling. He was certain there would be less sin in the world if men were turned into cattle; was sure cattle were happier than men, and generally more useful. Upon learning our dilemma, the good-natured fellows set at once to work to help us. We cut two pine poles, and placing one boat across them, each man grasped an end of a pole, and thus, upon a species of litter, we lifted the burden from the ground and bore it slowly across the land to the sea. Returning to the bay, we transported the second boat in the same manner; and making a third trip, carried away our provisions, blankets, &c It was now evening, and viewing with satisfaction our little boats resting upon the beautiful beach, we thanked our new friends heartily for their kindness. The owner of a thousand cattle gave us a warm invitation to visit his orange grove in Apalachicola, and then retired with his man to their nest in the woods, while we slept in our boats, with porpoises and black-fish sounding their nasal calls all night in the sea which beat upon the strand at our feet. In the morning the wind arose and sent the waves tumbling far in upon the beach. After breakfast I walked to the extremity of the cape, and dined with Mr. Robert Colman, the principal light-keeper. He was a most ingenious man, and an expert in the use of tools. The United States Light House Establishment selects its light-keepers from the retired army of wounded soldiers. In all my voyages along our coast, and on inland waters, I have found the good results of the perfect discipline exercised by the superintendents of this bureau. These keepers live along a coast of some thousands of miles in extent on the Atlantic and Pacific oceans and the Gulf of Mexico, many of them in isolated positions, but honesty, economy, and intelligent skill are everywhere apparent; and these men work like an army of veterans. I have intruded upon their privacy at all hours, but have never found one of them open to criticism. There is no shirking of the onerous duties of their position. Too much praise cannot be given to these light-keepers in their lonely towers, or to the intelligent heads which direct and govern their important work. As I was leaving the light-house, a young woman approached me, and introducing herself as a visitor to the keeper's family, said she had a favor to ask. Would it be too much trouble for the stranger, after he reached New York, to inquire the price of a switch of human hair of just the shade of her own flaxen locks, and write her about it! Of course such an appeal could not be disregarded; but I confess that as I gazed upon the boundless sea, and along the uninhabited strand, and into the unsettled forests, I wondered where the men or women were to be found to appreciate the imported New York switch. Would it not "waste its sweetness on the desert air" in the unpeopled wilderness? The boisterous weather kept us on the beach until Friday, when we launched our boats and rowed along the coast three miles to a point opposite a lagoon which was separated from the sea by a narrow strip of land. While pulling along the beach, great black-fish, some of them weighing at least one thousand pounds, came up out of the sea and divided into four companies. The first ranged itself upon our right, the second upon our left, the third, forming a school, proceeded in advance, while the fourth brought up the rear. Unlike the frisky porpoises, these big fellows convoyed us in the most dignified manner, heaving their dark, shining, scaleless bodies half out of the water as they surged along within a few feet of our boats. When we arrived at our point of disembarkation, and turned shoreward to run through the surf, our strange companions seemed loath to leave us, but rolled about in the offing, making their peculiar nasal sounds, and spouting, like whales, jets of spray into the air. A landing was accomplished without shipping much water, and we immediately hauled the boats across the beach, about three or four hundred feet, into a narrow lagoon, the western branch of St. Vincent's Sound. Indian Pass was two miles east of our portage. It is an inlet of the sea, through which small vessels pass into St. Vincent's Sound, en route for the town of Apalachicola. Heavy seas were, however, breaking upon its bar at that time, and it would have been a dangerous experiment to have entered it in our small boats. Emerging from the lagoon, the broad areas of St. Vincent's Sound and Apalachicola Bay met our gaze, while beyond them were spread the waters of St. George's Sound. Following the coast on our left, numerous reefs of large and very fat oysters continually obstructed our progress. We gathered a bushel with our hands in a very few minutes; but as the wind commenced to blow most spitefully, and the heavy forests of palms on the low shore offered a pleasant shelter, we disembarked about sunset in a magnificent grove of palmetto-trees, spending a pleasant evening in feasting upon the delicious bivalves, roasted and upon the half shell. The tempest held us prisoners in this wild retreat for two days, and during that time, if we had been the possessor of a dog, we might have supped and dined upon venison and wild turkey. As it was, we were well content to subsist upon wild ducks and the fine oysters, with bread from fresh wheat-flour, baked in our Dutch oven, or bake-kettle, and coffee that never tastes elsewhere as it does in camp. At last the gale went down with the sun, and we rowed in the evening thirteen miles up the bay to Apalachicola, and went into camp upon the sandy beach at the lower end of the town. While sleeping soundly in our boats, at an early hour the next morning some one came "gently tapping at my chamber-door," or, in sea phrase, pounding upon my hatch. I soon discovered that my visitor was Captain Daniel Fry, United States Inspector of Steamboats. His pretty cottage, environed with beds of blooming flowers, was perched upon the sandy bluff above us. The captain, in a nautical way, claimed us as salvage, and we were soon enjoying his generous hospitality. In this isolated town, once a busy cotton-shipping port, there was a population of about one thousand souls, among whom, conspicuous for his urbane manners and scientific ability, lived Dr. A. W. Chapman, the author of the "Flora of the Southern United States." While at New Orleans I had addressed a letter to the postmaster at St. Marks, Florida, requesting him to forward my letters to Apalachicola, but the request had not been noticed. The mystery was, however, explained by Lieutenant N., of the Coast Survey schooner Silliman, who one day called upon me, and said that when he stopped at St. Marks for his mail, a few days previous to my arrival at Apalachicola, he saw about thirty letters addressed to me lying loosely upon the desk of the negro postmaster of that marshy settlement. My letter of instruction had been received, but as the postmaster could not read, no notice had been taken of it. The coast survey officer had kindly gathered my letters in one parcel, and had deposited them for safe- keeping with the postmaster's white clerk. The responsible position of postmaster was filled by an ignorant colored man, because his politics were those of the party then in power. Nor was this an exceptional case, many such appointments having been made, as an inevitable result of a peculiar enfranchisement in which there is no restriction, and where license stands for liberty. While on my "Voyage of the Paper Canoe," I met in one county in Georgia, through which flows the beautiful Altamaha, the colored county treasurer, who lived in a little backwoods' settlement a few miles from Darien. He could neither read nor write, but his business was managed and the county funds handled by a white politician of the "reconstructing" element then in power, which was sapping the life- blood of the south, and bonding every state within its selfish grasp by dishonest legislative acts. The poor black man was simply a tool for the white charlatan, living in a miserable log cabin, and receiving a very small share of the peculations of his white clerk. When all the enfranchised are educated, and not until then, will the great source of evil be removed from our politics which to-day endangers our future liberty of self-government. We are floating in a sea of unlimited and unlettered enfranchisement, vainly tugging at the helm of our ship of state, while master-minds stoop to cater to the prejudices of hundreds of thousands of voters who cannot read the names upon the ticket they deposit in the ballot-box--the ballot-box which is the guardian of the constitutional liberties of a republic. We left the kind people of Apalachicola, and crossed the bay to St. George's Sound, with a cargo of delicacies, for Captain Fry had filled our lockers with various comforts for the inner man, while our friend, the cattle-owner, whom we had met at Cape San Blas, and who had now returned to his home, stocked us with delicious oranges from his grove on the outskirts of the city. Four miles to the east of Cat Point we saw the humble homes of Peter Sheepshead and Sam Pompano, two fishermen, whose uniform success in catching their favorite species of fish had won for them their euphonious titles. We camped at night near the mouth of Crooked River, which enters the sound opposite Dog Island, having rowed twenty-four miles. If we continued along the sound, after passing out of its eastern end, we would be upon the open sea, and might have difficulty in doubling the great South Cape; so we took the interior route, ascending Crooked River through a low pine savanna country, to the Ocklockony River, which is, in fact, a continuation of Crooked River. The region about Crooked and Ocklockony rivers is destitute of the habitation of man. About midway between St. George's Sound and the Gulf coast we traversed a vast swamp, where the ground was carpeted with the dwarf saw palmettos. A fire had killed all the large trees, and their blasted, leafless forms were covered with the flaunting tresses of Spanish moss. The tops of many of these trees were crowned by the Osprey's nest, and the birds were sitting on their eggs, or feeding their young with fish, which they carried in their talons from the sea. So numerous were these fish-hawks that we named the blasted swamp the Home of the Osprey. We spent one night in this swamp serenaded by the deep calls of the male alligators, which closely resembled the low bellowing of a bull. About noon the next day signs of cultivated life appeared, and we passed the houses of some settlers, and the saw-mill of a New Yorker. At dusk our boats entered a little sound, and by nine o'clock in the evening we arrived at the Gulf of Mexico, in a region of shoal water, much cut up by oyster reefs. The tide being very low, the boats were anchored inside of an oyster reef, which afforded protection from the inflowing swell of the sea. We shaped our course next day for St. Marks, along a low, marshy coast, where oyster reefs, in shoal water, frequently barred our progress. From South Cape to St. Marks the coast, broken by the mouths of several creeks and rivers, trends to the northeast, while for twenty miles to the east of the light house, which rises conspicuously on the eastern shore of the entrance to St. Marks River, the coast bends to the southeast to the latitude of Cedar Keys, where it turns abruptly south, and forms one side of the peninsula of Florida. The great contour of the Gulf of Mexico, into which St. Marks River empties, is known to geographers as Apalachee Bay. On that part of the coast between the St. Marks and Suwanee rivers, the bed of the Gulf of Mexico slopes so gradually that when seven miles away from the land a vessel will be in only eighteen feet of water. At this distance from the shore is found the continuous coral formation; but nearer to the coast it is found in spots only. While traversing this coast from St. Marks to Cedar Keys, I observed the peculiar features of a long coast-line of salt marshes, against which the waves broke gently. With the exception of a few places, where the upland penetrated these savannas to the waters of the sea, the marshes were soft alluvium, covered with tall coarse grasses, the sameness of which. was occasionally broken by a hammock, or low mound of firmer soil, which rose like an island out of the level sea of green. The hammocks were heavily wooded with the evergreen live-oaks, the yellow pine, and the palmetto. From half a mile to two miles back of the low savannas of the coast, rose, like a wall of green, the old forests, grand and solemn in their primeval character. The marshes were much cut up by creeks, some of which came from the mainland, but most of them had their sources in the savannas, and served as drains to the territory which was frequently submerged by the sea. When the southerly winds send towards the land a boisterous sea, the long, natural, inclined plane of the Gulf bottom seems to act as a pacifier to the waves, for they break down as they roll over the continually shoaling area in approaching the marshes; and there is no undertow, or any of the peculiar features which make the surf on other parts of the coast very dangerous in rough weather. The submarine grass growing upon the sandy bottom as far as six or eight miles from shore, also helps to smooth down the waves. When the strong wind blows off the coast on to the Gulf, it is known to seamen as a "norther," and so violent are these winds that their force, acting on the sea, rapidly diminishes its depth within twelve or fifteen miles of the marshes. A coasting-vessel drawing five feet of water will anchor off Apalachee Bay in eight feet of water, at the commencement of a "norther," and in four or five hours, unless the crew put to sea, the vessel will be left upon the dry bottom of the Gulf. After the wind falls, the water will return, and the equilibrium will be restored. We ascended St. Marks River; and passed the site of a town which had been washed out of existence in the year 1843 by the effects of a hurricane on the sea. These hurricanes are in season during August and September. The village of St. Marks consisted of about thirty houses, the occupants of which, with two or three exceptions, were negroes. The land is very low, and at times subjected to inundation. A railroad terminated here, but the business of the place supported only two trains a week, and they ran directly to the capital of Florida, the beautiful city of Tallahassee, eighteen miles distant. The negro postmaster courteously presented me with my package of letters, and I had an opportunity to observe the way in which he fulfilled his duties. When the mail arrived, it was thrown upon a desk in one corner of a small grocery store, and any person desiring an epistle went in, and, fumbling over the letters, took what he claimed as his own. The railroad agent, a young northerner, I found sleeping soundly in his telegraph office, though the noonday sun was pouring in his windows. He apologized for being caught napping, but declared it was his only amusement in that desolate region of damps, and assured me a man would deteriorate less rapidly by sleeping away his idle hours than by keeping awake to what was going on in the neighboring hamlet. Besides the United States Signal officer, his only intelligent neighbor was a brother of the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, who had purchased a property, two or three years before, in the once flourishing town of Newport, a few miles up the river. He spoke feelingly of the efforts of the Rev. Charles Beecher to educate his enfranchised negro neighbors; of his inviting them to his house, and laboring for the welfare of their souls. All the patient and Christian efforts of the philanthropist had proved unavailing, and thieving and lying were still much in vogue. It has been proposed by engineers to connect all the interior Gulf- coast watercourses from the Mississippi River at New Orleans to the Suwanee River in Florida. To achieve this end it will be necessary to excavate several canals at points now used as portages. From St. Marks to the Suwanee River there are some rivers which might be used in connecting and perfecting this great interior water-way. I mentioned in my "Voyage of the Paper Canoe," that preliminary surveys, under General Gilmore, had been made for a continuous water way across northern Florida to the Atlantic coast, via the Suwanee and St. Mary's rivers. Detailed surveys are now in progress. Those interested in this enterprise hope to see the produce of the Mississippi valley towed in barges through this continuous water-way from New Orleans to the Atlantic ports of St. Mary's, Fernandina, Savannah, and Charleston. The northwestern as well as the southern states would derive advantage from this extension of the Mississippi system to the Atlantic seaboard, and its execution seems to be considered by many a duty of the national government. There has been little written upon the water-courses of northwestern Florida, but several of the central, southern, and Atlantic coast rivers and lakes have been carefully explored by Mr. Frederick A. Ober, of Massachusetts, a young and enthusiastic naturalist, who, as correspondent of the "Forest and Stream," has published in the columns of that paper a mass of interesting and valuable geographical matter, throwing much light on regions heretofore unfamiliar to the public. CHAPTER XII. FROM ST. MARKS TO THE SUWANEE RIVER ALONG THE COAST.-- SADDLES BREAKS DOWN.-- A REFUGE WITH THE FISHERMEN.-- CAMP IN THE PALM FOREST.-- PARTING WITH SADDLES.-- OUR NEIGHBOR THE ALLIGATOR.-- DISCOVERY OF THE TRUE CROCODILE IN AMERICA.- - THE DEVIL'S WOOD-PILE.-- DEADMAN'S BAY.-- BOWLEGS POINT.-- THE COAST SURVEY CAMP.-- A DAY ABOARD THE "READY."-- THE SUWANEE RIVER.-- THE END. LEAVING St. Marks, we rowed down the stream to the forks of the St. Marks and Wakulla rivers. The sources of the Wakulla were twelve miles above these forks, and consisted of a wonderful spring of crystal water, which could be entered by small boats. This curious river bursts forth as though by a single bound, from the subterranean caverns of limestone. Each of the several remarkable springs in Florida is supposed, by those living in its vicinity, to be the veritable "fountain of youth;" and this one shared the usual fate, for we were assured that this was the spring for which the cavalier Ponce de Leon vainly sought in the old times of Spanish exploration in the New World. On Monday, March 13th, we left St. Marks River, and, as the north wind blew, were forced to keep from one to two miles off the land on the open Gulf to find even two feet of water. In many places we found rough pieces of coral rocks upon the bottom, and in several instances grounded upon them. As the wind went down, the tide, which on this coast frequently rises only from eighteen inches to two feet, favored us with more water, and by night we were able to get close to the marshes, and enter a little creek west of the Ocilla River, where, staking our boats along side the soft marsh, we supped on chocolate and dry bread, and slept comfortably in our little craft until morning. We were now in an almost uninhabited region, where only an occasional fisherman or sponger is met; but as we pulled along the coast the day after our camp in the marshes, we were struck with the absence of any sign of the presence of man. We had hoped to meet with the vessels of sponge-gatherers anchored in the vicinity of Rock Island, to which place they resort to clean their crop; but when we passed the island in the afternoon, so scantily clothed with herbage, and upon which a few palms grew out of the shallow soil, it was deserted, while not a single sail could be seen upon the horizon of the sea. My companion had not been well for several days, and he informed me at this late date that he was subject to malarial fever, or, as he called it, "swamp fever." It had been contracted by him while living on one of the bayous of southern Louisiana during a warm season. Swamp fever, when at its height, usually produces temporary insanity; and he alarmed me by stating that he had been deprived of his reason for days at a time during his attacks. The use of daily stimulants had kept up his constitutional vigor for several months; but as ours was a temperance diet, he gradually, after we left Biloxi and the regions where stimulants could be obtained, became nervous, lost his appetite, and was now suffering from chills and fever. He was much depressed after leaving St. Marks, and had long fits of sullenness, so that he would row for hours without speaking. I tried to cheer him, and on one occasion penetrated the forest a long distance to obtain some panacea with which to brace his unsettled nerves. Saddles had deceived me as to the necessity of taking daily drams, which habit is, to say the least, a most inconvenient one for persons engaged in explorations of isolated parts of the coast, and voyaging in small boats; so we had both suffered much in consequence of his bad habit. To furnish one moderate drinker with the liquid stimulant necessary for a boat voyage from New Orleans to Cedar Keys, at least five gallons of whiskey, and a large and heavy demijohn in which to store it securely, must form a portion of the cargo. This bulk occupies important space in the confined quarters of a boat, every inch of which is needed for necessary articles, while the momentary and artificial strength given to the system is never, except as a remediable agent, productive of any real or lasting benefit. My unfortunate companion had become so accustomed to the daily use of liquor, and his shattered system had been so propped by it, that he had been like a man walking on stilts; and now that they were knocked away, his own feet failed to support him, and a reaction was the inevitable result. After leaving Rock Island, and when about four miles beyond the Fenholloway River, while off a vast tract of marshes, poor Saddles broke down completely. He could not row another stroke. I towed his boat into a little cove, and was forced to leave him, with the fever raging in his blood, that I might search for a creek, and a hammock upon which to camp. Looking to the east, I saw a long, low point of marsh projecting its attenuated point southward, while upon it rose a signal-staff of the United States Coast Survey. A black object seemed heaped against the base of the signal; and while I gazed at what looked like a bear, or a heap of dark soil, it began to move, breaking up into three or four fragments, each of which seemed to roll off into the grass, where they disappeared. [Saddles breaks down.] I pulled for the point as rapidly as possible, for I hoped, while hardly daring to believe, that this singular apparition might be human beings. The high grass formed an impenetrable barrier for my curious vision; but nearing the spot, voices were plainly audible on the other side of the narrow point, as though a party of men were in lively discussion. Rowing close to the land, and resting on my oars to gain time to reconnoitre either friends or foes, the deep but cultivated voice of a man fell upon my ear. A patriot was evidently haranguing his fellow fishermen, who, after lunching beside the Coast Survey signal, and not observing the proximity of a stranger, had repaired to their boats on the east side of the marsh. "Yes," came the tones of the orator through the high grass, yes, to this state have we Americans been reduced! Not satisfied with having ravaged our country, conquering BUT NOT SUBDUING our Confederate government, the enemy has put over us a CARPET-BAG government of northern adventurers and southern scalawags and NIGGERS. Fifty niggers sit as representatives of our state in the legislature of Florida, and vote in a solid body for whichever party pays them their price. They are giving away our state lands to monopolists, and we have tax bills like THIS one imposed upon us." Here the orator paused, apparently taking a paper from his pocket. "Here it is," he resumed, "in black and white. On a wild piece of forest land, and a few acres of clearing, (which they appraise at twenty-five cents, when it cost me only six cents and a quarter per acre,) I was saddled with this outrageous bill. I will read to you the several items: MR. L. H................................. DR. To State Taxes proper,----- .70 on - - $100.00 General Sinking Fund,----- .30 " - - 100.00 Special Sinking Fund,----- .16 " - - 100.00 General School Tax,------- .10 " - - 100.00 _______________________ Total State Tax,-- 1.26 " - - 100.00 To County Tax proper,----- .50 " - - 100.00 County School Tax,------- .50 " - - 100.00 Special County Building Tax,.35 " - - 100.00 County Specific Tax,---- 2.00 " - - 100.00 _______________________ Total County Tax,--- 3.35 " - - 100.00 Total State and County Tax,$4.61 on- - 100.00 "You will find by these figures that I am compelled to pay a state and county tax, on an over-appraised property, amounting to four dollars and sixty-one cents upon every one hundred dollars I possess. Under this kind of taxation we are growing poorer every day of our lives. Now, gentlemen, can you censure me for detesting the Carpet-bag government of my native state after you have heard this statement? Rome in days of tyranny did no such injustice to her citizens. To be a Roman was greater than to be a king; and here let me remark-- Bob Squash! what's that you are squinting at through the grass?" "Lor' sakes, Massa Hampton, I does b'lieve it's a man in a sort of a boat. I nebber see de like befo'!" At this point the company struggled through the high grass and invited me to land. Being seriously alarmed for my companion, who was lying helpless in his boat half a mile away, I quickly explained my situation, and was at once advised to ascend Spring Creek, on the east side of the point of marsh, to the swamp, where the orator said I would find his camp, and his partner in the fishing-business, who would assist me to the best of his ability. The orator promised to follow us after making one more cast with his seine for red-fish. I returned as fast as possible to Saddles, and trying to infuse his failing heart with courage, fastened his boat's painter to the stern of the duck-boat, and followed the course indicated by the fishermen. Upon entering Spring Creek, with my companion in tow, we were soon encompassed on all sides by the marshes; and as the boats slowly ascended the crooked stream, the fringes of the feathery-crested palms appeared close to the margins of the savanna. The land increased in height a few inches as I followed the reaches of the creek, and, when a mile from its mouth, entered the rank luxuriance of a swamp, where, in a thicket of red cedars, palmettos, and Spanish bayonets, I discovered two low huts, thatched with palm-leaves, which afforded temporary shelter to Captain F., a planter from the interior, his friend the orator, and their employees both white and black. The kind- hearted captain understood my companion's case at a glance, and when our tent was pitched, and a comfortable bed prepared, Saddles was put under his care. He could not have fallen into better hands, for the planter had gone through many experiences in the treatment of fevers of all kinds. It was indeed a boon to find in the unpeopled wilds a shelter and a physician for the sick man but the future loomed heavily before me, for though Saddles might improve, he would be pretty sure on the eighth day to have a return of his malady, and would probably again break down in a raving condition. The camp was a restful and interesting retreat. To reach the spot, the fishing-party had been obliged to cut a road eight miles through a swampy district, in places building a rough crossway to make their progress possible. The creek had its sources in several springs, which burst from the earth just above the camp. The water was of a blue tint, and slightly impregnated with sulphur, lime, and iron. In this secluded place there was an abundance of deer and wild turkeys. The early morning meal of these hunters and fishermen was a veritable djeuner a la fourchette, for their menu included venison, turkey, sweet-potatoes, hoe-cakes made from fresh maize flour, and excellent coffee. Captain F. and an old negro woman remained in camp to clean and salt down the fish caught on the previous afternoon, while the orator and his party went down the creek in two long, narrow scows, loaded with two nets, their necessary fishing implements, and a hearty luncheon. Long poles were used to propel their craft. Upon meeting with a school of fish, they encompassed it with the two nets, each of which was three hundred feet long, and easily captured the whole lot, which was composed of several species. When in luck, the fishing-party returned to the camp by noon; but when the wind interfered with their success, they did not reach their swampy retreat until night. After a rest, and a good warm supper, the orator and one of his white associates, each with his torch of resinous pine wood and well-loaded gun, would quietly traverse the silent forests and grassy savannas, luring to destruction the fascinated and unsuspecting deer. Thus stalking through the darkness, and peering eagerly on all sides, the appearance of the fire-like globes of the deer's eyes, from the reflected light of the hunters' torches, was the signal to fire, which meant, with their unerring aim, death to their prey and future feasts for themselves. With their venison these men served a very palatable dish made from the terminal bud of the palmetto known as the "cabbage," and from which the tree derives its name of "cabbage-palm." A negro ascended the palm and cut the bud at its junction with the top of the tree. It was then thrown to the ground, and climbing other trees, more followed in quick succession. When a sufficient quantity had been gathered, the turnip part, from which the tender shoot starts, was cut off and thrown aside, as it was bitter to the taste. The shoot, divested of this part, resembled a solid roll, from four to six inches in diameter. From this was unrolled and thrown aside the outer coverings, leaving the tender white interior tissues about three inches in diameter and fourteen inches in length. Thus divested of all objectionable matter, the cabbage could be eaten raw, though it was much improved by cooking, the boiling process removing every trace of the acrid, or turnip, flavor. These men ate it dressed in the same way as ordinary cabbage, and it was an excellent substitute for that dish. The black bear is as fond of the palmetto cabbage as his enemy the hunter. He ascends the tree, breaks down the palm-leaves, and devours the bud, evidently appreciating the feast. After the removal of the bud the tree dies; so this is after all an expensive dainty. Captain F. had pre-empted a tract of one hundred and sixty acres of land, to cover the sources of Spring Creek, and it was his intention to resort to this camp every year during the mullet-fishing season, which is from September to January. The salted mullet is the popular market-fish with the back-country people, though the red-fish is by far the finer for table use. While with these men, we were treated with the generous hospitality known only in the forest, but Saddles did not improve. He seemed to be suffering from a low form of intermittent fever, and looked like anything but a subject for a long row. Captain F. insisted upon sending the invalid in his wagon sixteen miles to his home, where he promised to nurse the unfortunate man until he was able to travel forty miles further to a railroad station. On the 15th of March, the party, having made their final arrangements, were ready to make the start for home. It was our last day together. Circumstances over which I had no control forced me to part from Saddles. I furnished him with a liberal supply of funds to enable him to reach Fernandina, Florida, by rail, and afterwards sent him a draft for an amount sufficient to pay his expenses from Cedar Keys to New Orleans, as he abandoned all his previous intentions of returning to his old home in the north. The Riddle with its outfit, and about sixty pounds of shot and a large supply of powder, I presented to the good captain who had so generously offered to care for my unfortunate companion. As I was to traverse the most desolate part of the coast between Spring Creek and Cedar Keys alone, I deemed it prudent to divest myself of everything that could be spared from my boat's outfit, in order to lighten the hull. I had made an estimate of chances, and concluded that four or five days would carry me to the end of my voyage, if the weather continued favorable; so, on the evening of March 15, the little duck- boat was prepared for future duty. The hunters and fishermen brought into camp the spoils of the forest and the treasures of the sea, while the grinning negress exerted herself to prepare the parting feast. Deep in the recesses of the wild swamp our camp-fire crackled and blazed, sending up its flaming tongues until they almost met the dense foliage above our heads, while seated upon the ground we feasted, and told tales of the past. Poor Saddles tried to be cheerful, but made a miserable failure of it; and his pale face was the skeleton at our banquet, for human nature is so constituted that a suffering man gains sympathy, even though he be only paying the penalty of his own past misdemeanors. My boat was tied alongside the bank of the creek, close to the palmetto huts. There were only two feet of water in the stream as I sat in the little sneak-box at midnight and went through the usual preparations for stowing my self away for the night. I touched the clear water with my hands as it laved the sides of my floating home, but my gaze could not penetrate the limpid current, for the heavy shades of the palms gave it a dark hue. I thought of the duties of the morrow, and also of poor Saddles, who was tossing uneasily upon the blankets in his tent near by, when there was a mysterious movement in the water under the boat. Some thing unusual was there, for its presence was betrayed by the large bubbles of air which came up from the bottom and floated upon the surface of the water. Being too sleepy to make an investigation, I coiled myself in my nest, and drew the hatch-cover over the hold. The next morning my friends clustered on the bank, giving me a kind farewell as I pushed the duck-boat gently into the channel of the creek. Suddenly Saddles, who had been gazing abstractedly into the water under my boat, hurried into the tent, and in an instant reappeared with the gun I had given him in his hands. He slowly pointed it at the spot in the water where my boat had been moored during the night, and drawing the trigger, an explosion followed, while the water flew upward in fine jets into the air. Then, to the astonished gaze of the party on the bank, an alligator as long as my boat arose to view, and, roused by the shock, hurried into deeper water. [Parting with Saddles.] It was now evident what the lodger under my boat had been, and I confess the thought of being separated from this fierce saurian by only half an inch of cedar sheathing during a long night, was not a pleasant one; and I shuddered while my imagination pictured the consequences of a nocturnal bath in which I might have indulged. Having observed in different countries the habits of some of the individuals which compose the order SAURIA,--the lizards,--I will present to the reader what I have gleaned from my observation upon two species, one of which is the true alligator (A. Mississippiensis), the other the well-known true crocodile (C. acutus), which recently has been declared an inhabitant of the United States. It is only a few years since it was found living on the North American continent, for previous to its discovery in southern Florida, its nearest known habitat to the United States was the island of Cuba. The order of lizards is separated into families. The family to which the alligators, crocodiles, and gavials belong, is called by naturalists CROCODILO. The distinctions which govern the separation of the family CROCODILO into the three genera of alligators, crocodiles, and gavials, consist of peculiarities in the shape of the head, in the peculiar arrangement of the teeth, webbing of the feet, and in some minor characteristics; for, outside of these not very important anatomical differences, the habits of the three kinds of reptiles are in most respects quite similar, some of the species being more ferocious, and consequently more dangerous, than others. The alligator, also called caiman by the Spanish-American creoles, inhabits the rivers and bayous of the North and South American continents, while the crocodiles are natives of Africa, of the West Indies, and of South America. The fierce gavial genus is Asian, and abounds in the rivers of India. The alligator (A. Mississippiensis) and the crocodile (C. acutus) are the only species which particularly interest the people of the United States, for they both belong to our own fauna. Our alligator inhabits the rivers and swampy districts of the southern states. I have never heard of their being found north of the Neuse River, though they probably ascend in small numbers some of the numerous rivers and creeks of the northern side of Albemarle Sound in North Carolina. The bayous and swamps of Louisiana and the low districts of Florida are particularly infested with these animals. The frequent visits of man to their haunts makes them timid of his presence; but where he is rarely or never seen, the larger alligators become more dangerous. During warm, sunny days this reptile delights in basking in the sunlight upon the bank of a stream for hours at a time. At the approach of man he crawls or slides from his slimy bed into the water, but if his retreat be cut off; or he become excited, a powerful odor of musk exudes from his body. During the winter months he hibernates in the mud of the bayous for days and weeks at a time. When the alligator enters the water, a pair of lips or valves close tightly, hermetically sealing his ears so that even moisture cannot penetrate them. His nostrils are protected in the same way. As the season for incubation approaches, the female searches for a sandy spot, and digging a hole with her fore-feet, deposits there her eggs, which are somewhat smaller than those of a goose. They are usually placed in layers, carefully covered up in the sand, and if not disturbed by wild animals, are hatched by the heat of the sun. It frequently happens that the alligator cannot find a sand-bank in which to place her eggs, and on such occasions she scrapes together with her fore-feet grass, leaves, bark, and sticks, mixed with mud, and converting the whole into a low platform, deposits the eggs upon it in separate layers, each layer being sandwiched with the mixture of mud, sticks, &c., until more than one hundred white eggs, of a faint green tint, are carefully stowed away in the nest. The exterior of the nest, which has a mound-like character, is daubed over with mud, the tail of the alligator being used as a trowel. The first duties of maternity being over, the female alligator acts as policeman until the eggs are hatched. Her office is not a sinecure, for the fowls of the air, and the creeping things upon earth, are attracted to the entombed delicacies secreted in this oven-like structure in the swamp. Many a luckless coon and cracker's pig searching for a breakfast, receive instead a blow from the strong tail of the female alligator, and are swept into the grasp of her terrible and relentless jaws. Moisture and heat act their parts in assisting the process of incubation, and the little alligators, a few inches in length, issue from the shell, and are welcomed by their mail-clad mother into the new world. Like young turtles just from the shell, the baby alligators make for the water, but unlike the young of the sea-turtles, the saurians have the assistance of their parent, who not unfrequently takes a load of them upon her back. From the first inception of nest-building until the young are able to take care of themselves, this reptile mother, like the female wild-turkey, resists the encroachments of her mate who would devour, not only the eggs, but his own crawling children. In fact, if opportunity were offered by the absence of the mother from the nest and the young, his alligatorship would eat up all his progeny, and exterminate his species, without a particle of regret. He has no pride in the perpetuation of his family, and it is to the maternal instincts of his good wife that we owe the preservation of the alligator. The young avoid the larger males until they are strong enough to protect themselves, feeding in the mean time upon fish and flesh of every description. In the water they move with agility, but on land their long bodies and short legs prevent rapid motion. They migrate during droughts from one slough or bayou to another, crossing the intervening upland. When discovered on these journeys by man, the alligator feigns death, or at least appears to be in an unconscious state; but if an antagonist approach within reach of that terrible tail, a blow, a sweep, and a snapping together of the jaws prove conclusively his dangerous character. He is a good fisherman, and can also catch ducks, drawing them by their feet under water. The dog is, however, the favorite diet of these saurians, and the negroes make use of a crying puppy to allure the creature from the bottom of a shoal bayou within reach of their guns. Though clad in a coat of thick, bony scales, a well-directed charge of buckshot from a gun, or a lead ball from a musket, will penetrate the body, notwithstanding all that has been said to the contrary. The negroes in the Gulf states say that "de 'gators swallows a pine knot afore dey goes into de mud-burrows for de winter;" and the fact that pine knots and pieces of wood are found in the stomachs of these animals at all seasons of the year, gives a shade of truth to this statement. Even the hardest substances, such as stones and broken bottles, are taken in considerable quantities from the bodies of dead alligators. Their digestive organs are certainly not sensitive, their nervous systems not delicate, and their intelligence not remarkable. It gives an alligator but little inconvenience to shoot off a portion of his head with a mass of the brain attached to it; and they have been known to fight for hours with the entire brain removed. Though generally fleeing from man upon terra firma, the alligator will quickly attack him in the water. A friend of mine, mounted upon his horse, was crossing a Florida river in the wilderness, when entering the channel of the stream, the horse's feet did not touch the bottom, and he swam for a moment or two, struggling with the current. My friend suddenly felt a severe grip upon his leg, and the pressure of sharp teeth through his trousers, when, realizing in a flash that an alligator's jaws were fastened upon him, he clasped the neck of his horse with all his strength. For a few seconds he was in danger of being dragged from the back of his faithful animal; but his dog, following in the rear, gained quickly on the struggling horse, and the alligator, true to his well-known taste, loosed his hold upon the man, and catching the dog in his strong jaws, dragged the poor brute to the bottom of the river. The alligator is fast disappearing from our principal southern rivers, and is also being captured in considerable numbers in isolated bayous by hunters, who kill the creature for his hide, as the alligator boots have a durability not possessed by any other leather. There is much interest connected with the discovery of the existence of the true crocodile (C. acutus) in the Floridian peninsula. While the alligators have broader heads, shorter snouts, and more numerous teeth than the crocodiles, the unscientific hunter can at once identify the true crocodile (C. acutus) by two holes in the upper jaw, into which and through which the two principal teeth or tushes of the lower jaw protrude, and can be seen by looking down upon the head of the animal. The longest teeth of the alligator do not thus protrude through the head or snout, but fit into sockets in the upper jaw. I first studied the true crocodile in the island of Cuba, where there are two distinct species of the genus, one of which is our Florida species (C. acutus). At that time science was blind to the fact that the true crocodile was a member of the fauna of the United States. At a meeting of the "Boston Society of Natural History," held May 19, 1869, the late comparative anatomist, Dr. Jeffries Wyman, exhibited the head of a crocodile (C. acutus) which had been sent him by William H. Hunt, Esq., of Miami River, which stream flows out of the everglades and empties into Key Biscayene Bay, at the south-eastern end of the Floridian peninsula. A second cranium of the Sharp-nosed Crocodile was afterwards obtained from the same locality, but the honor of killing and recognizing one of these huge monsters belongs to the young and enterprising author of the "Birds of Florida," a work full of original information, the illustrations of which, as well as the setting up of the type, being the work of the author's own hands. I refer to Mr. C. J. Maynard, of Newtonville, Massachusetts, who has furnished me with a graphic description of his meeting with, and the capture of, the crocodile while engaged in his ornithological pursuits during the year 1867. Mr. Maynard says: "This crocodile is particularly noticeable for its fierceness. I have met with it but once. Three of us were crossing the country which lies between Lake Harney and Indian River, on foot, when we came to a dense swamp. As we were passing through it we discovered a huge reptile, which resembled an alligator, lying in a stream just to the right of our path. He was apparently asleep. We approached cautiously within ten rods of him, and fired two rifle-shots in quick succession. The balls took effect in front of his fore-leg, and striking within two inches of each other, passed entirely through his body. As soon as he felt the wounds he struggled violently, twisting and writhing, but finally became quiet. "We waded in, and approached him as he lay upon a bed of green aquatic plants with his head towards us. It was resting on the mud, and one of the party was about to place his foot upon it, when a lively look in the animal's eyes deterred him. Stooping down, he picked up a floating branch, and lightly threw it in the reptile's face. The result was somewhat surprising. The huge jaws opened instantly, and the formidable tail came round, sweeping the branch into his mouth, where it was crushed and ground to atoms by the rows of sharp teeth. His eyes flashed fire, and he rapidly glided forward. Never did magician of Arabian tale conjure a fiercer-looking demon by wave of his wand than had been raised to life by the motion of a branch. For a moment we were too astonished to move. "The huge monster seemed bent on revenge, and in another instant would be upon us. We then saw our danger, and quicker than a flash of light, thought and action came. The next moment the gigantic saurian was made to struggle on his back with a bullet in his brain. It had entered his right eye, and had been aimed so nicely as not to cut the lids. "To make sure of him this time, we severed his jugular vein. While performing this not very delicate operation, he thrust out two singular-looking glands from slits in his throat. They were round, resembling a sea-urchin, being covered with minute projections, and were about the size of a nutmeg, giving out a strong, musky odor. We then took his dimensions, and found he was over ten feet in length, while his body was larger round than a flour-barrel. The immense jaws were three feet long, and when stretched open would readily take in the body of a man. They were armed with rows of sharp, white teeth. The tusks of the lower one, when it was closed, projected out through two holes in the upper, which fact proved to us that it was not a common alligator, but a true crocodile (C. acutus)." If Mr. Maynard had been at that time aware of the value of the prize he had captured, the market-price of which was some four or five hundred dollars, he would not have abandoned his crocodile. He afterwards sent for its head, but could not obtain it. This reptile will probably be found more numerous about the headwaters of the Miami River than further north. It sometimes attains a length of seventeen feet. Since Mr. Maynard shot his crocodile, others from the north have searched for the C. acutus, and one naturalist from Rochester, New York, captured a specimen, and attempted to make a new species of it by giving it the specific name of FLORIDANAS, in place of the older one of C. acutus. The morning sun was shining brightly as I pulled steadily along the coast, passing Warrior Creek six miles from my starting-point off the shores of Spring Creek. About this locality the rocky bottom was exchanged for one of sand. Having rowed eleven miles, a small sandy island, one-third of a mile from shore, offered a resting-place at noon; and there I dined upon bread and cold canned beef. A mile further to the eastward a sandy point of the marsh extended into the Gulf. A dozen oaks, two palmettos, and a shanty in ruins, upon this bleak territory, were the distinctive features which marked it as Jug Island, though the firm ground is only an island rising out of the marshes. Sandy points jutting from the lowlands became more numerous as I progressed on my route. Four miles from Jug Island the wide debouchure of Blue Creek came into view, with an unoccupied fishing- shanty on each side of its mouth. Crossing at dusk to the east shore of the creek, I landed in shoal water on a sandy strand, when the wind arose to a tempest, driving the water on to the land; and had it not been for my watch-tackle, the little duck-boat must have sought other quarters. As it was, she was soon high and dry on a beach; and once beneath her sheltering hatch, I slept soundly, regardless of the screeching winds and dashing seas around me. Before the sun had gilded the waters the next morning, the wind subsided, my breakfast was cooked and eaten, and the boat's prow pointed towards the desolate, almost uninhabited, wilderness of Deadman's Bay. The low tide annoyed me somewhat, but when the wind arose it was fair, and assisted all day in my progress. The marine grasses, upon which the turtles feed, covered the bottom; and many curious forms were moving about it in the clear water. Six miles from Blue Creek I found a low grassy island of several acres in extent, and while in its vicinity frequently grounded; but as the water was shoal, it was an easy matter to jump overboard and push the lightened boat over the reefs. About noon the wind freshened, and forced me nearer to the shore. As I crossed channel-ways, between shoals, the porpoises, which were pursuing their prey, frequently got aground, and presented a curious appearance working their way over a submarine ridge by turning on their sides and squirming like eels. By two o'clock P. M., the wind forced me into the bight of Dead-man's Bay. The gusts were so furious that prudence demanded a camp, and it was eagerly sought for in the region of ominous name and gloomy associations. I had been told that there was but one living man in this bay, which is more than twenty miles wide. This settler lived two miles up the Steinhatchee River, which flows into the bight of Deadman's Bay. In a certain part of the wilderness of this region a tract of savanna and pine lands approached near to the waters of the Gulf, and was known as the "Devil's Wood Pile." Superstition has made this much- dreaded forest the scene of wild and horrible tales. Fishermen had warned me of its dismal shades, and of the wild cattle which roamed unheeded through its dreary recesses. Hunters, they said, had entered it in strong force, but the wild bulls were so fierce that the bravest were driven back, and the dangerous task abandoned. Calves had been born in the fastnesses of the "Devil's Wood Pile," and had grown old without being branded by their owners, who feared the sharp horns of the paternal bulls, the courageous defenders of their native pastures. Skirting the marshy savannas of His Satanic Majesty's earthly dominion, I ascended the Steinhatchee River, when a clearing with a rough house and store gave unmistakable signs of the proximity of the settler of whom I had heard. I was preparing to make my camp near the landing, when the proprietor made his appearance, courteously inviting me to his house, where he held me a willing prisoner for three days, giving me much information in regard to life in the woods. He had been a soldier in the Seminole war, and had passed through varied experiences, but had "settled down," as he expressed it, to the red- cedar business. Six long years had this man and his wife delved and toiled in the desolate region of Deadman's Bay, seeing no one except a few cedar-cutters from the interior, who stocked up at his store before going into the wilderness. A great deal of red cedar is cut on the shores and in the back country of the Steinhatchee River. The squatters and small farmers, called crackers, engaged in this work, are not hampered by the eighth commandment, and Uncle Sam has to suffer in consequence, most of the timber being cut on United States government reserves. It finds its way to the cedar warehouses of merchants in the town of Cedar Keys. I have seen whole rafts of this valuable red cedar towed into Cedar Keys and sold there, when the parties purchasing knew it to be stolen from the government lands. My kind host, Mr. James H. Stephens, was the first honest purchaser of this government cedar I had met, for he cheerfully and promptly paid the requisite tax upon it, and seemed to be endeavoring to protect the property of the government. From Mr. Stephens's hospitable home I proceeded along the Gulf, past Rocky Creek, to Frog Island, a treeless bit of territory where a little shanty had been erected by the Coast Survey officers to shelter a tide-gauge watcher. The island was now deserted. The coast was indeed desolate, and it was a cheering sight in the middle of the afternoon to catch a glimpse of signs of the past presence of man on Pepperfish Key, an island a little distance from land, rising out of the sparkling sea, and crowned with a rough but picturesque shanty,-- another reminder of the untiring efforts of our Coast Survey Bureau. A prominent point of land near this islet runs far into the Gulf, and is known as Bowlegs Point, supposed to be named after a chief of the Seminole Indians, whom I happened to meet many years before I saw the point which had the honor of bearing his name. Our meeting was in a southern city, but I had the misfortune to appear on the wrong day, and lost the honor of being received by that celebrity, as he had partaken too freely of the hospitality of his white friends, and could only utter, "Big Injuin don't receive! Big Injuin too much drunk!" As night approached I crossed a large bay, and entered the very shoal water off Horse Shoe Point, close to Horse Shoe and Bird islands. These pretty islets were green with palmetto and other foliage, while upon the firm land of Horse Shoe Point appeared, in the last rays of the setting sun, a white sandy strand crowned with a palmetto hut and a little white tent. Two finely modelled boats rested upon the beach, and five miles out to sea was pictured upon the horizon, like a phantom ship, the weird and indistinct outlines of a United States Coast Survey schooner. The tide was on the last of the ebb, and finding it impossible to get within half a mile of the point, I anchored my little craft, built a fire in my bake-kettle, made coffee on board, and, quietly turning in for a doze, rested until the tide arose, when in the darkness I hauled my boat ashore and awaited the "break o' day." As soon after breakfast as wood-etiquette admitted, I joined the party on the beach, and was welcomed to their breakfast-table under the shelter of their pretty white tent; learning, much to my satisfaction, that I was an expected guest, as my arrival had been looked for some days before. This party from the schooner "Ready" was engaged in establishing a base-line two miles in length at Horse Shoe Point, and was under the charge of Mr. F. Whalley Perkins, who was assisted by Messrs. John De Wolf, R. E. Duvall, Jr., and William S. Bond. The readers of my "Voyage of the Paper Canoe" may recognize in Mr. Bond, a member of this party, a gentleman whom I had met on board the Coast Survey vessel "Casswell," in Bull's Bay, on the South Carolina coast, the previous winter. Only those who have gone through similar experiences can imagine what I felt at being thus brought into contact with men of intelligence. It was as though a man had been pulling through a heavy fog, and suddenly the sun burst forth in all its glory. Nature is grand and restful, and green savannas and tranquil waters leave fair pictures in our memories; but after all, man is eminently a social being, and needs companions of his kind. [Map of Maria Theresa portage Suwanee-St. Marks.] My lonely voyage had been so monotonous that this return to the society of civilized man had a peculiar effect upon my mind, it being in so receptive a state that the most minute incident was noted; and the tent with its surroundings, the breakfast-table with its genial hosts, the very appearance of the water and the sky, were so indelibly impressed upon my memory that they never can be effaced. It is fortunate the picture is a pleasant one, as in fact were all the hours passed with the gentlemen of the schooner Ready. On Saturday evening the party prepared to go on board the Ready; and as I was to pass Sunday with them, it was deemed prudent to send my boat to a safe anchorage-ground on the east side of Horse Shoe Bay, where, moored among some islands, my floating home would be protected from boisterous seas and covetous fishermen. Climbing the sides of the Ready, I was filled with admiration for the beautiful vessel, the last one built especially for the Coast Survey service. The entire craft, with its clean decks and well-arranged interior, was a model of order and skilful arrangement. The home-like cabin, with its books and various souvenirs of the officers, was in strange contrast with the close quarters of my own little boat. The day was most pleasantly passed; and as the morrow threatened to be windy, Mr. Perkins kindly offered to put me on board the sneak-box before sunset. The gig was manned by a stalwart crew of sailors, and the chief of the party took the tiller ropes in his hands as we dashed away through the waves towards Horse Shoe Bay. At four in the afternoon we entered the sheltered waters of a miniature archipelago close to the coast, and I beheld with a degree of affection and satisfaction, experienced only by a boat man, my own little craft floating safely at her moorings. The officers gave me a sailor's hearty farewell, the boat's crew bent to their oars and were soon far in the offing, growing each moment more indistinct while I gazed, until a white speck, like a gull resting upon the sea, was the only visible sign left me of Mr. Perkins and his party. My voyage of twenty-six hundred miles was nearly ended. The beautiful Suwanee River, from which I had emerged in my paper canoe one year before, (when I had terminated a voyage of twenty-five hundred miles begun in the high latitude of Canada,) was only a few miles to the eastward. Upon reaching its debouchure on the Gulf coast, the termini of the two voyages would be united. It would be only a few hours' pull from the mouth of the Suwanee to the port of Cedar Keys, whose railroad facilities offered to the boat and her captain quick transportation across the peninsula of Florida to Fernandina, on the Atlantic coast, where kind friends had prepared for my arrival. While I gazed upon the smooth sea, a longing to pass the night on the dark waters of the river of song took possession of me, and mechanically weighing anchor, I took up my oars and pulled along the coast to my goal. Before sunset, the old landmark of the mouth of the Suwanee(the iron boiler of a wrecked blockade-runner) appeared above the shoal water, and I began to search for the little hammock, called Bradford's Island, where one year before I had spent my last night on the Gulf of Mexico with the "Maria Theresa," my little paper canoe. Soon it rose like a green spot in the desert, the well-remembered grove coming into view, with the half-dead oak's scraggy branches peering out of the feathery tops of the palmettos. Entering the swift current of the river, I gazed out upon the sea, which was bounded only by the distant horizon. The sun was slowly sinking into the green of the western wilderness. A huge saurian dragged his mail-clad body out of the water, and settled quietly in his oozy bed. The sea glimmered in the long, horizontal rays of light which clothed it in a sheen of silver and of gold. The wild sea-gulls winnowed the air with their wings, as they settled in little flocks upon the smooth water, as though to enjoy the bath of soft sunlight that came from the west. The great forests behind the marshes grew dark as the sun slowly disappeared, while palm-crowned hammocks on the savannas stood out in bold relief like islets in a sea of green. The sun disappeared, and the soft air became heavy with the mists of night as I sank upon my hard bed with a feeling of gratitude to Him, whose all-protecting arm had been with me in sunshine and in storm. Lying there under the tender sky, lighted with myriads of glittering stars, a soft gleam of light stretched like a golden band along the water until it was lost in the line of the horizon. Beyond it all was darkness. It seemed to be the path I had taken, the course of my faithful boat. Back in the darkness were the ice-cakes of the Ohio, the various dangers I had encountered. All I could see was the band of shining light, the bright end of the voyage. [Last night on the Gulf of Mexico.]