Gustave Aimard
The Frontiersmen

CHAPTER III

 
"'Tis pleasant, through the loop-holes of retreat,
To peep at such a world; to see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd;
To hear the roar she sends, through all her gates,
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls, a soft murmur, on the uninjured ear."
 

WILLIAM COWPER

The individual we have mentioned, who now came rapidly, towards Ralph, was somewhat advanced in years – not less, perhaps, than sixty. Yet, in his whole bearing and appearance could be seen the iron frame and hardihood, which in these days have given place to a certain effeminacy of manners. The hardy, robust race of men who cleared our forests, and encountered cheerfully the sufferings and privations, and endured the toil incident to a pioneer life, are passing away; and however much our vanity may suffer in making the confession, their sons and successors are apt to lack in those iron qualities which succeeded against obstacles, the magnitude of which most of us do not appreciate.

The countenance of this individual exhibited tokens of the energy of this now nearly departed class of men; yet upon it, at the same time, glowed an expression of honesty and intelligence, which at once win the heart and command confidence and respect. The frosts of time had but lightly touched his hair, and at the first glance, one would have guessed him at least ten years younger than he actually was.

Matthew Barton, for such was his name, about two years before the period we have assigned for our narrative, had left one of the settlements at the eastward, and removed with his family to this remote region. He had been unfortunate in his pecuniary affairs, and his confidence had been betrayed by a friend for whom he had incurred obligations nearly to the amount of his small fortune. With the remains of his little property he had removed to the west, advancing beyond the remotest dwelling in this section of the State. He was satisfied that he had years of labor left in him yet; and with a prudent foresight, he saw that a few years, at most, would surround him with neighbors, who would be likely to follow him to the fertile and beautiful valley he had selected. Suddenly, perhaps, for one advanced to his age, and yielding partially to the feelings of mortification he endured at the idea of struggling with poverty among those who had seen him in a more prosperous condition, he resolved upon this course, and it was at once adopted.

His wife had died a number of years before, leaving him but one child, a daughter, who at this time had arrived at about twenty years of age. He had purchased, with the remains of his property, a negro, to assist him in his farming operations, and thus provided, we behold him in the new house of his old age.

Ralph advanced rapidly forward to meet him, and hearty were the greetings between them.

"Right glad am I to see you here, Ralph," said Barton, "yours is the first friendly face I have seen from the settlements in many a day; and I can say, too, that there is no other I would more gladly see. Oneidas and Tuscaroras are well enough in their place, but it does one good to see a little of the old eastern blood, once in a while."

The first greetings over, Ralph, with a blush – very faint indeed, but still a blush – of which the old gentleman was entirely unconscious, inquired about his old playmate, Ruth.

"Well and happy, Ralph – at least, as happy as one can be, so far from friends; but she will be right glad to see you, I doubt not."

Ralph introduced Ichabod to Mr. Barton, as a worthy gentleman from the settlements, who had been induced to accompany him through the wilderness; and the party then proceeded towards the cottage, which, on a nearer approach, if it lost some of the enchantments which distance had lent it, gained on the score of adaptation to the purposes for which it had been erected. It was situated in the midst of a few acres of land which had been almost entirely cleared, and which showed abundant signs of having already repaid, for the season, the labor which had been bestowed upon it. A log barn had been erected, a short distance from the house, and about the premises were seen the usual fixtures of a pioneer habitation. The house itself was built of logs, but they had been hewn and squared with some care; and, altogether, it had the appearance of a neat and comfortable residence. It had, also, with a foresight against contingencies which might occur, been adapted as a place of defense against any attacks which might be made upon it by Indians.

"Stir your shanks, Sambo!" said Barton to the negro, "and inform your mistress that she has visitors coming."

The negro hurried away on his errand, while the party proceeded more leisurely towards the dwelling.

Ralph was welcomed by Miss Barton with all the warmth and pleasure that might have been expected from their early friendship. Years had elapsed since they had been separated, and, in the look of mutual joy and pleased surprise at the changes which time had wrought in each other, might be traced, perhaps, in both, the existence of a tenderer feeling than belongs to mere friendship.

Ruth Barton, as we have already said, was about twenty years of age. In figure, she was of the medium female height, but with a form fully developed by healthful exercise; her countenance possessed a gentle quietness, which was peculiarly feminine; but withal it gave evidence of a confidence and self-reliance necessary to the women as well as to the men of the frontier settlements of that period. She was, as her appearance would indicate, the life of the family – always busy in the labors and duties of the household; and, under her superintendence, there were a regularity and neatness which, to the most fastidious of housekeepers, might perhaps have been a little surprising. But these were not the only qualifications which Ruth Barton possessed. She was not satisfied with the mere routine of ordinary duties, but she had found time to adorn her mind with many of the accomplishments of education – far beyond most of those even, who were elevated above her by the means and opportunity of acquiring a thorough education. Her mind was of a somewhat imaginative cast, and she possessed a deep and quiet love for the beauties of Nature. She loved her new home in the wilderness – the beautiful valley which her father had selected, possessed charms which she admired; and she had never wished to exchange it, though solitary and neighborless, for the more populous country in which she had once resided.

There was also present in the room an ill-clad, stout-looking man, by the name of Guthrie, apparently about forty-five years of age. His countenance had a vulgar cast; and it wore, besides, an ill-natured expression, that repelled any attempt at an intimate acquaintance. This Guthrie had, during the war of the Revolution, been a Tory; and it had been suspected that he was one of the most active agents in inciting the Indians of this locality to revolt. He resided at some distance below, on the river, in a log shanty erected by him. He was a sort of squatter, and tilled a few acres which had been partially cleared by the Indians years before; but relied principally upon his gun and fish-pole for a livelihood. Occasionally he went to the settlements with such skins or other articles as he could exchange. He was merely tolerated in the family of Mr. Barton, whenever he made his appearance; and knowing the ill favor with which he was received, it was seldom that he intruded himself upon them.

As the party entered the door, Guthrie, who had been sitting listlessly by the fireside, arose with a sort of dogged air; but as the tall figure of Ichabod met his eye, he shrank quietly back again, and endeavored, as much as possible, to withdraw himself from observation. Ichabod did not observe him, or, at least, exhibited no signs of recognition.

"We have been expecting you, Captain Weston, for some days," said Ruth; "we learned by Guthrie, who came about a week ago from the settlements, that you had returned from the army; and we have been awaiting the fulfilment of an old promise to visit us."

"I left Philadelphia but a few weeks since," replied Ralph: "I was mindful of my promise, and set out on my visit here as soon as my business arrangements would allow; but I hardly think I should have found my way here at all, had it not been for my friend, Mr. Jenkins. He picked his way through your wilderness like an old acquaintance."

Ichabod acknowledged the attention which this remark attracted towards him, by gradually elevating his form and replying:

"Well, these woods are something like an old acquainance to me, seeing as how I have been through here on some sharp war paths, afore now. It was down yonder in them flats, we had a terrible skrimmage with them red sarpints the Senecas and Onondagas; but we gave 'em a touch of Independence, con-found 'em!"

"How long ago, Mr. Jenkins," asked Barton, "did the fight which you mention occur?"

"Well, as near as I can calculate, I should think it was in the fall of '79."

"That must have been the same affair which I have heard you mention, Guthrie," said Barton, addressing that individual, who sat in the corner of the large fireplace, with his hat drawn over his eyes.

"Yes," growled Guthrie, without moving.

"What! old veteran, was you there, too?" asked Ichabod, approaching him.

"No, I wan't there," replied Guthrie ferociously, partly turning his face towards Ichabod.

"Well, you needn't be so savage about it, friend," said Ichabod, slowly. "Them that fout there, so far as I know, hadn't nothing to be ashamed on." Then turning away, he muttered to himself, "I've seen them features afore, somewhere – down in the settlements, perhaps. But I say, Squire," turning towards Barton, "you've done a mighty smart business, clearing up here, lately."

"Yes, something of a business. We have not been idle. Sambo and I have got ten or fifteen acres pretty well cleared."

In the meantime, Ruth was busy making preparations for the family supper, and providing otherwise for the comfort of their guests. Guthrie took the opportunity quietly to leave the room, and with his rifle on his shoulder, proceeded rapidly in a southerly direction.

The conversation then turned upon the political condition of the country, the depreciated state of the currency, and the anticipated proceedings of Congress.

"The greatest difficulty that lies in the way of a proper management and settlement of our affairs," said Ralph, in reply to some remark of Barton, "it seems to me, is in the limited powers of Congress. Impotent for any purpose, it has a herculean task before it. I think it will be found necessary to adopt a stronger government."

"No, no," replied Barton, who seemed to be tenacious of State rights, and to labor under a great fear of the evil consequences of a centralization of power. "Congress has power enough. The disorders under which the country labors, would have been no less under any form of government. Without resources, in a long and harassing war, the burden of indebtedness and the depreciated condition of the currency, were unavoidable; but all that will be necessary to restore us, will be a few years of peace. Things will come round of themselves."

"But," said Ralph, "how is our indebtedness to be paid? The country is already exhausted by taxation. The States themselves are overburdened with their own debts: when to these are added those contracted by Congress, it is very difficult, under the present order of things, to see our way clearly out of our embarrassments. No credit in Europe – no money at home – no confidence anywhere. With a few years of peace, had Congress the power to levy impost duties, much might be done. Even the late measure of a proposed impost duty of five per cent. has been lost by the obstinacy of Rhode Island, which would not concur in the measure."

"Say, the patriotism of Rhode Island, rather," answered Barton, "if that term may be applied to a State. I look upon that system of impost duties as a direct robbery of the people. Give Congress that power, and you give away the whole property of the nation. Duties would be laid that would deprive the poorer classes of all the comforts – ay, of many of the necessaries of life. That won't do."

"How, then," asked Ralph, "would you pay off our indebtedness, and support the burthens of government?"

"By direct taxation!"

"But that system, you would find, I think," said Ralph, "would not answer the purpose. It would only reach a certain class, and would be very strongly resisted. But, by the other system, the trifling addition to the cost of articles of general consumption would be little felt, and after a time, would be generally acquiesced in. Besides, all classes of persons would be reached, and almost universally in proportion to their means."

"It is only a return to the principle of the stamp act," said Barton, who was a little excited; "and our seven years of warfare and suffering will have been useless, if, after all, we are to permit any authority, in its discretion, to impose burdens upon us."

"I don't know about that, Squire," interrupted Ichabod, who had listened to this discussion with much interest, and to whose mind the factory speculation proposed to Ralph, recurred. "Wouldn't such a system a little better allow us to take care of ourselves? Couldn't we a little easier build up manufactories of our own? Just add that five or ten per cent, to the profits of our own manufacturers, and pretty soon we'd hold them furrin manufacturers off at arm's length. You'd see factories of all sorts starting up all over the country, and there would be a pleasure in that, to a man who loved his own country – to wear cloth and drive nails made at home. Now, couldn't you, Squire if a duty of ten or fifteen per cent, was laid on woollen fixins', afford to go into the factory business, on your own hook, on this river of your'n, here?"

"Fiddlesticks!" ejaculated Barton, "what could I do in the factory business?"

"Well, perhaps you mightn't do anything at it, Squire," replied Ichabod; "but somebody else might. Now, suppose somebody should locate a business of that kind down here, I'll tell you how you could make a nice spec out of it, without laying out any capital at all – although it would be kind'er fair to lend a helping hand, jist to start, perhaps, seeing you could make so well out of it."

Barton looked at Ichabod, as if he began to doubt his sanity; but to Ralph, the earnestness of the one and the surprise of the other, was a matter of great amusement.

Ichabod continued, pleased at the surprised attention which Barton was giving to him:

"You see, Squire, s'pose that business should be started down here, jist opposite them flats, it would be necessary to bring in lots of people, and you could lay out them flats into building-lots, and realize something handsome out of it."

"Pshaw!" said Barton, "a city down here! Well, I'll tell you what I'll do, Mr. Jenkins. I'll give you the land for your factory, together with your water-privilege, and we'll divide the profits on the city lots;" and the old gentleman laughed heartily at the suggestion.

"That's what I call fair," said Ichabod, slowly; "but couldn't you, Squire, do a little something towards furnishing the capital?"

"Furnishing the capital!" ejaculated Barton; "why, as to that, I haven't capital enough to furnish my own farm, small as it is. No: I think, Mr. Jenkins, I have made you a very fair offer."

Just at this moment, Sambo announced their supper to be ready, and Ichabod was obliged to desist from the further prosecution of his project. But, extremely well satisfied with the progress already made, he began seriously to dream of the manufacturing firm of "Barton, Weston, Jenkins & Co."

CHAPTER IV

2d Fisherman. – "Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea."

1st Fisherman. – "Why, as men do on land – the great ones eat up the little ones." – PERICLES.

Ralph was now fairly installed as a member of the family of Mr. Barton. He had found an opportunity, in the course of the evening of his arrival, to exchange a few words of conversation with Ruth; and he was now satisfied that the partiality with which, in former days, she had regarded him, had not given place to indifference. The consciousness of this fact amply repaid him for long years of absence, and led him to look forward to such a future as only appears to the vision of those who reason from the heart. The future, cold, impassable, dark, and filled with mysterious dread, to him who has outlived the power of youthful passion – to the young and the hopeful, is the unattained but attainable region, where exist all the charms and raptures which can be bodied forth by an ardent imagination. So different are the views of life which can be made by a few active, busy years.

On the morning of the day after their arrival, Ralph and Ichabod, accompanied by Barton, examined the farm and the improvements which had been made by the energy of the latter. Some fifteen acres of forest had already been cleared, and Sambo, on this morning, was engaged in still farther invading the domains of the wilderness; and with his bare and muscular arms was wielding the axe like a redoubtable soldier among a multitude of enemies.

There is something pleasant to the eye in beholding the struggle of man with the wilderness; to see old, mossy trees, that had stood for ages, faithful guardians of the soil, whose long, leafy boughs and bushy crowns, seemed to belong as much to the sky in which they waved and nodded, as to the earth which sustained them, bow down their heavy heads with a crash, that to the imaginative mind, seems, with its echoes, like a mournful wail issuing from the surviving forest. As the tree falls, the golden sunlight darts into a new and unexplored region, and the melancholy forest abode recedes, as if pursued by an implacable enemy. But it is a rescue of the earth from the long slumber of past time, and an offering to the comforts and necessities of the future.

It is scarcely to be wondered at, that in earlier times, when the imaginations of men overruled their powers of reason, the sombre, melancholy forest abode was peopled with fanciful beings – children of the shadow and of the forest – Fairies, Dryads, and Satyrs, with Arcadian landscapes, and the good god Pan to preside over sylvan sports! But in these days of utility, the reed of the shepherd and the music of the sylvan gods are drowned in the clatter of saw-mills, and the hoarse song of the woodchopper.

Ichabod, who had not forgotten the conversation of the previous evening, endeavored, two or three times, to revive the project which on that occasion he had proposed to Barton; but he was unsuccessful in his attempts to renew the discussion. After a few hours thus spent, the party returned to the cottage. Barton proposed, for the afternoon, a fishing excursion upon the pond. "It is filled," said he, "with pickerel and perch – both very delicious fish, and they are taken with the utmost ease. This is just the season for them."

Ralph inquired if the streams contained any specimens of trout; and Barton answered, "that the river contained some very fine specimens, although they were not so numerous as in the smaller streams. Occasionally we take pike, but they do not come so far up the river in very large quantities. But," he continued, with a zeal that showed he was not a stranger to the gentle art, "our brooks are filled – absolutely filled – with trout. There is a stream, about a mile and a half west of us, which comes from the northwest, through a wilderness, with which I am almost wholly unacquainted, where they can be taken in great numbers. In an hour, we can catch as many as it will be convenient to carry. If you like, we will go over there to-morrow, or next day; but for to-day, I am anxious to show you sport nearer by."

It was arranged, that in the afternoon the suggestion of Barton should be followed; and hearing the latter giving some directions to Sambo, which it will be unnecessary here to repeat, Ralph and Ichabod proceeded leisurely towards the cottage.

"There is a charm, for me, about a life in the woods," said Ralph, "which I cannot explain. Mingled with the idea of a nearer approach to the Court of Nature, is that of separation from the passions and vices of men in the world. One feels to exclaim with the Bard of Avon,

 
"Is not this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?"
 

"I don't dispute the general idea," said Ichabod, "about the sweetness of a life in the woods. I have never tried it very much, but I always have a different sort of feeling from usual when I find myself in the forest; but I reckon that it can't be considered very patriotic for a Captain in the Revolutionary Army to be quoting Shakspeare, or any other British poet. What did he know about our woods? All the woods he ever saw were but a child's play-ground compared with the eternal, never-ending forests of America. As for me, if I've got any poetry to quote, I can find enough of our own manufacture. I believe in the home manufacture of that article, just as much as I do in that of the other kind we were talking about last night."

Ralph smiled at Ichabod's literary bigotry. He answered:

"I do not know any reasonable objection to our admiring the men of genius of a foreign or hostile nation, or their writings. Men of genius are the property of the world. Whatever they may think or say that may delight and instruct one people, may equally delight and instruct all others. We are yet in the infancy of the poetic art, and have produced no poets capable of winning a world-wide reputation."

"That's precisely what the British say, Captain; and if I didn't know that your heart was true as steel to the American cause, I should be a little jealous of you. No poets of reputation! Did you ever read Freneau, Captain? To my mind, he's got more poetry in his little finger than Shakspeare had in his whole body. Now, did Shakspeare ever write anything equal to Freneau's "Antiquity of America"?"

And Ichabod began reciting, in a loud voice —

 
"'America, to every climate known,
Spreads her broad bosom to the burning zone;
To either pole extends her vast domain,
Where varying suns in different summers reign.'"
 

"That's the way the poem begins, and it fully keeps up its pitch all the way through."

Ralph had some knowledge of the poetical compositions of Freneau, who had really produced some poems, full of a fine, poetic feeling, and who was much beyond the mass of his poetical contemporaries in this country; yet, although he entertained a feeling of respect for the ability and services of the revolutionary poet, he could not share the high degree of admiration which Ichabod entertained for him.

"I'll grant," said Ralph, scarcely knowing how to reply to the irritated Ichabod, "that Shakespeare never did write precisely such a poem; and I will admit that I do not believe he ever could have written such an one."

"I knew you were right at heart, Captain," exclaimed Ichabod, highly elated over his equivocal victory. "Some of his verses have done as much towards bringing down the British, as whole regiments of Continentals could have done. But then, Freneau is only one of a whole circle of poets. The British boast about their old ballads; now, I'll take an even bet, that I can show 'em ballads, written here at home, that will make 'em ashamed. Why, we've had a woman that would eclipse 'em all, to my mind – Mrs. Bradstreet, of whom another poet said:

 
"'Her breast was a brave palace, a broad street,
Where all heroic, ample thoughts did meet.'"
 

"Mrs. Bradstreet did possess a sweetness of expression," said Ralph; "and, with a higher cultivation, she might have written some fine poetry."

"Might, Captain! Lord bless you, she did! Speaking of the Squire's fishing expedition, what other poet ever said as fine things about fish, for instance, as she did?

 
"'Ye fish, which in this liquid region 'bide,
That for each season have your habitation,
Now salt, now fresh, where you think best to glide,
To unknown coasts to give a visitation.
In lakes and ponds you leave your numerous fry:
So Nature taught, and yet you know not why,
You wat'ry folk that know not your felicity.'"
 

Ralph was much amused at the earnestness of Ichabod, and he did not wish to irritate him by any depreciating criticism upon verses which he considered so extraordinary; but remarked:

"An admiration of poetic productions depends very much upon the quality of our taste. I presume that I have very little taste for such things; but I do think that our ballad poetry has done us good service. Written in a popular style, and sung or recited by men who felt the particular sentiments usually contained in them, these ballads have frequently proved effective in inspiring a proper, natural feeling."

"Them's my sentiments, Captain," said Ichabod; "and I'm glad to see that you're right on that p'int. We've got ballads on all sorts of subjects, from the time of King Philip's war down to these days. Did you ever read the ballad of 'Lovewell's Fight,' Captain? I call it a great poem. After speaking of the valiant Captain Lovewell, it goes on to say:

 
"'He and his valiant soldiers
Did range the woods full wide,
And hardships they endured,
To quell the Indian's pride.
 
 
"''Twas nigh unto Pigwacket,
Upon the eighth of May,
They spied a rebel Indian
Soon after break of day.
He on a bank was walking,
Upon a neck of land
Which leads into a pond, as
We're made to understand.'
 

"It then goes on to describe the fight between the company and the Injins that laid in ambush, and winds up with telling who and how many were killed.

 
"'Our worthy Captain Lovewell
Among them there did die;
They killed Lieutenant Robbins,
And wounded good young Frye,'
 

while the rest of the company started for home;

 
'And braving many dangers
And hardship in the way,
They safe arrived at Dunstable,
The thirteenth day of May.'"
 

"Very good, Ichabod – very good! It is really quite American in style, as well as theme."

"But good as it is, Captain, it isn't a circumstance to some of 'em. There's 'Brave Pawling and the Spy,' and 'Bold Hawthorne,' and 'American Taxation.' That last poem, Captain, has got the true essence of poetry in it. If I was the author of that, I'd die content. The poem goes on to say.

 
"'The cruel lords of Britain,
Who glory in their shame,
The project they have hit on
They joyfully proclaim;
'Tis what they're striving after,
Our rights to take away,
And rob us of our charter,
In North America.'
 

"Then 'two mighty speakers, who rule in Piedmont,' propose to King George a plan for taxation of the colonies, to which the king accedes, and says:

 
"'My subjects shall be taxed
In North America
 
 
Invested with a warrant
My publicans shall go,
The tenth of all their current
They surely shall bestow:
If they indulge rebellion,
Or from my precepts stray,
I'll send my war battalion
To North America.'
 

"Then the people of the colonies address King George, and implore him not to tax 'em; and finally say that if he does they'll fight about it, and that

 
"'We never will knock under,
O George, we do not fear
The rattling of your thunder,
Nor lightning of your spear;
 
 
Though rebels you declare us,
We're strangers to dismay;
Therefore you cannot scare us
In North America.'
 

"It's a great poem, Captain; it was written by a schoolmaster in Connecticut."

"It is patriotic in tone," replied Ralph; "it has that merit, at least. Are you much acquainted with the old poets of the country?"

"A little, Captain; I've read them all. Besides Mrs. Bradstreet, there's Roger Wolcott, Nathaniel Ward, Mather Byles, Joseph Green, Peter Foulger, old Michael Wigglesworth, and hosts of others. A splendid galaxy, Captain! There's 'The Day of Doom; or, a Poetical Description of the Great and Last Judgment,' by Wigglesworth. It is rather strong on the old New England religion, but as a piece of poetical work, it's really great. Was anything ever more terrible than the description of the final judgment? After the sentence is pronounced, before the condemned,

 
"'They wring their hands, their caitiff hands,
And gnash their teeth in terror;
They cry, they war, for anguish sore,
And gnaw their tongues for horror;
But get away, without delay,
Christ pities not your cry:
Depart to hell – there ye may yell,
And war eternally.'
 

"We can admire poetry, sometimes, when we don't precisely approve of the sentiments. Did you ever see a more terrific piece of writing than that, Captain?"

"It is full of horrors, I must confess," said Ralph, who was beginning to get weary at the extent of Ichabod's poetical recollections; "but we are near the cottage, and we must now make our preparations for the fishing expedition. Are you anything of a fisherman, Ichabod?"

"I can't say that I am, Captain. With all respect for the taste of other people, it always looked to me like rather poor sport. A man may do that, as he does anything else, for a livelihood; but, for sport, give me a rifle, a sharp eye, and a practised hand. Howsomever, I am with you."

The afternoon seemed to prepare itself expressly for the accommodation of the fishing party. Light clouds covered the sky and a gentle south wind just stirred the face of the water. Sambo had been to the river and caught for bait a quantity of small white fish; and, equipped with hooks and line, Barton, with Ralph and Ichabod, proceeded to the pond, where they entered a boat that had been made by hollowing out two halves of a large log, some three feet in diameter and attaching them together. Barton paddled towards the north-west side, and advanced some fifteen or twenty rods from the shore.

"In this portion of the pond," said he, "the pickerel are most abundant. Perch are found in large quantities near the south-east shore."

They then fastened the bait, which had been kept alive, to the hooks, and threw them overboard. Ichabod was a stranger to this manner of fishing, and he watched the proceedings with an evident degree of interest. Ralph had been accustomed to it in his boyhood and therefore needed no instructions.