So that was Ellen! And it moreover was none less than Ellen Meriwether, daughter of my father"s friend and business a.s.sociate, whom I had traveled thus far to see, and whom, as I now determined, I must meet at the very first possible opportunity. Perhaps, then, it might very naturally come about that--but I dismissed this very rational supposition as swiftly as I was able.
CHAPTER XI
THE MORNING AFTER
Events had somewhat hurried me in the two days since my arrival at Jefferson Barracks, but on the morning following the awkward ending of my match with Orme I had both opportunity and occasion to take stock of myself and of my plans. The mails brought me two letters, posted at Wallingford soon after my departure; one from Grace Sheraton and one from my mother. The first one was--what shall I say? Better perhaps that I should say nothing, save that it was like Grace Sheraton herself, formal, correct and cold. It was the first written word I had ever received from my fiancee, and I had expected--I do not know what. At least I had thought to be warmed, comforted, consoled in these times of my adversity. It seemed to my judgment, perhaps warped by sudden misfortune, that possibly my fiancee regretted her hasty promise, rued an engagement to one whose affairs had suddenly taken an att.i.tude of so little promise. I was a poor man now, and worse than poor, because lately I had been rich, as things went in my surroundings. In this letter, I say, I had expected--I do not know what. But certainly I had not expected to see sitting on the page written in my fiancee"s hand, the face of another woman. I hated myself for it.
The second letter was from my mother, and it left me still more disconcerted and sad. "Jack," it said, "I grieve unspeakably. I am sad beyond all imaginings of sadness. I need thee. Come back the first day thee can to thy mother."
There was indeed need for me at home. Yet here was I with my errand not yet well begun; for Captain Stevenson told me this morning that the Post Adjutant had received word from Colonel Meriwether saying that he would be gone for some days or weeks on the upper frontier. Rumor pa.s.sed about that a new man, Sherman, was possibly to come on to a.s.sume charge of Jefferson, a man reported to be a martinet fit to stamp out any demonstration in a locality where secession sentiment was waxing strong.
Meriwether, a Virginian, and hence suspected of Southern sympathy, was like many other Army officers at the time, shifted to points where his influence would be less felt, President Buchanan to the contrary notwithstanding. The sum of all which was that if I wished to meet Colonel Meriwether and lay before him my own personal request, I would be obliged to seek for him far to the West, in all likelihood at Fort Leavenworth, if not at the lower settlements around the old town of Independence. Therefore I wrote at once both to my fiancee and to my mother that it would be impossible for me to return at the time, nor at any positive future time then determinable. I bade a hasty good-by to my host and hostess, and before noon was off for the city. That night I took pa.s.sage on the _River Belle_, a boat bound up the Missouri.
Thus, somewhat against my will, I found myself a part of that motley throng of keen-faced, fearless American life then pushing out over the frontiers. About me were men bound for Oregon, for California, for the Plains, and not a few whose purpose I took to be partisanship in the border fighting between slavery and free soil. It was in the West, and on the new soils, that the question of slavery was really to be debated and settled finally.
The intenseness, the eagerness, the compelling confidence of all this west-bound population did not fail to make the utmost impression upon my own heart, hitherto limited by the horizon of our Virginia hills. I say that I had entered upon this journey against my will. Our churning wheels had hardly reached the turbid flood of the Missouri before the spell of the frontier had caught me. In spite of sadness, trouble, doubt, I would now only with reluctance have resigned my advance into that country which offered to all men, young and old, a zest of deeds bold enough to banish sadness, doubt and grief.
CHAPTER XII
THE WRECK ON THE RIVER
I made friends with many of these strange travelers, and was attracted especially by one, a reticent man of perhaps sixty odd years, in Western garb, full of beard and with long hair reaching to his shoulders. He had the face of an old Teuton war chief I had once seen depicted in a canvas showing a raid in some European forest in years long before a Christian civilization was known--a face fierce and eager, aquiline in nose, blue of eye; a figure stalwart, muscular, whose every movement spoke courage and self-confidence. Auberry was his name, and as I talked with him he told me of days pa.s.sed with my heroes--Fremont, Carson, Ashley, Bill Williams, Jim Bridger, even the negro ruffian Beckwourth--all men of the border of whose deeds I had read. Auberry had trapped from the St.
Mary"s to the sources of the Red, and his tales, told in simple and matter-of-fact terms, set my very blood atingle. He was bound, as he informed me, for Laramie; always provided that the Sioux, now grown exceedingly restless over the many wagon-trains pushing up the Platte to all the swiftly-opening West, had not by this time swooped down and closed all the trails entirely. I wished nothing then so much as that occasion might permit me to join him in a journey across the Plains.
Among all these west-bound travelers the savage and the half-civilized seemed to me to preponderate; this not to say that they were so much coa.r.s.e and crude as they were fierce, absorbed, self-centered. Each man depended upon himself and needed to do so. The crew on the decks were relics from keel-boat days, surly and ugly of temper. The captain was an ex-pilot of the lower river, taciturn and surly of disposition. Our pilot had been drunk for a week at the levee of St. Louis and I mis...o...b.. that all snags and sandbars looked alike to him.
Among the skin-clad trappers, hunters and long-haired plainsmen, I saw but one woman, and she certainly was fit to bear them company. I should say that she was at least sixty years of age, and nearly six feet in height, thin, angular, wrinkled and sinewy. She wore a sunbonnet of enormous projection, dipped snuff vigorously each few moments, and never allowed from her hands the long squirrel rifle which made a part of her equipage. She was accompanied by her son, a tall, thin, ague-smitten youth of perhaps seventeen years and of a height about as great as her own. Of the two the mother was evidently the controlling spirit, and in her case all motherly love seemed to have been replaced by a vast contempt for the inefficiency and general lack of male qualities in her offspring. When I first saw them she was driving her son before her to a spot where an opening offered near the bow of the boat, in full sight of all the pa.s.sengers, of whose attention she was quite oblivious.
"Git up, there, Andy Jackson!" she said. "Stan" up!"
The boy, his long legs braiding under him, and his peaked face still more pale, did as he was bid. He had no sooner taken his position than to my surprise I saw his mother cover him with the long barrel of a dragoon revolver.
"Pull your gun, you low-down coward," she commanded, in tones that might have been heard half the length of the boat. Reluctantly the boy complied, his own revolver trembling in his unready hand.
"Now, whut"d you do if a man was to kivver you like I"m a-doin" now?"
demanded his mother.
"G-g-g-Gawd, Maw, I dunno! I think I"d j-j-j-jump off in the river,"
confessed the boy.
"Sh.o.r.e you would, and good luck if you"d git plumb drownded, you white-livered son of misery. Whatever in Gawd A"mighty"s world you was borned for certainly is more"n I can tell--and I your Maw at that, that orto know if anybody could."
"Madam," I interrupted, astonished at this discourse, "what do you mean by such talk to your son--for I presume he is your son. Why do you abuse him in this way?" I was sorry for the shivering wretch whom she had made the object of her wrath.
"Shut up, and mind yore own business," answered the virago, swiftly turning the barrel of her weapon upon me. "Whut business is this here of yores?"
"None, madam," I bowed, "but I was only curious."
"You keep your own cur"osity to yourself ef you"r goin" to travel in these parts. That"s a mighty good thing for you to learn."
"Very true, madam," said I, gently disengaging the revolver barrel from the line of my waist, "but won"t you tell me why you do these things with your son?"
"It"s none of your d.a.m.ned business," she answered, "but I don"t mind tellin" you. I"m tryin" to make a man out"n him."
"Ah, and this is part of the drill?"
"Part of it. You, Andrew Jackson, stick yore pistol up agin your head the way I tol" you. Now snap it, d.a.m.n you! Keep _on_ a-snappin"! Quit that jumpin", I tell you! Snap, it till you git through bein" scared of it. Do it now, or by Gawd, I"ll chase you over the side of the boat and feed you to the catfish, you low-down imertation of a he-thing. Mister,"
she turned to me again, "will you please tell me how come me to be the mother of a thing like this--me, a woman of ole Missoury; and me a cousin of ole Simon Kenton of Kentucky beside?"
"My good woman," said I, somewhat amused by her methods of action and speech, "do you mind telling me what is your name?"
"Name"s Mandy McGovern; and I come from Pike," she answered, almost before the words were out of my mouth. "I"ve been merried three times and my first two husbands died a-fightin, like gentlemen, in diffikilties with friends. Then along come this Danny Calkins, that taken up some land nigh to me in the bottoms--low-downest coward of a, man that ever disgraced the sile of yearth--and then I merried _him_."
"Is he dead, too, my dear woman?" I asked.
"Don"t you "dear woman" me--I ain"t free to merry agin yit," said she.
"Naw, he ain"t dead, and I ain"t deevorced either. I just done left him.
Why, every man in Pike has whupped Danny Calkins one time or other. When a man couldn"t git no reputation any other way, he"d come erlong and whupped my husband. I got right tired of it."
"I should think you might."
"Yes, and me the wife of two real men befo" then. If ever a woman had hard luck the same is me," she went on. "I had eight chillen by my two husbands that was real men, and every one of them died, or got killed like a man, or went West like a man--exceptin" this thing here, the son of that there Danny Calkins. Why, he"s afraid to go c.o.o.n huntin" at night for fear the cats"ll get him. He don"t like to melk a keow for fear she"ll kick him. He"s afraid to court a gal. He kaint shoot, he kaint chop, he kaint do nothin". I"m takin" him out West to begin over again where the plowin"s easier; and whiles we go along, I"m givin" him a "casional dose of immanuel trainin", to see if I can"t make him part way intoe a man. I dunno!" Mrs. McGovern dipped snuff vigorously.
Thereafter she looked at me carefully. "Say, mister," said she, "how tall are you?"
"About six feet, I think."
"Hum! That"s just about how tall my first husband was. You look some like him in the face, too. Say, he was the fightin"est man in Pike. How come him to get killed was a diffikilty with his brother-in-law, a Dutchman that kept a saloon and couldn"t talk English. Jim, he went in there to get a bite to eat and asked this Dutchman what he could set up.
Paul--that was the Dutchman"s name--he says, "Well, we got dawg--mallard dawg, and red head dawg, and canvas back dawg--what"s the kind of dawg you like, Chim?"
"My husband thought he was pokin" fun at him, talkin" about eatin"
dawg--not knowin" the Dutchman was tryin" to say "duck," and couldn"t.
"I might have a piece of duck," said Jim, "bit I ain"t eatin" no dawg."
""I _said_ dawg," says Paul, still a-tryin" to say "duck."
""I know you did," says Jim, and then they clinched. Jim He broke his knife off, and the Dutchman soaked him with a beer mallet. "But Mandy,"
says Jim to me, jest before he shet his eyes, "I die content. That there fellow was the sweetest cuttin" man I ever did cut in all my life--he was jest like a ripe pumpkin." Say, there was a man for you, was Jim--you look some like him." She dipped snuff again vigorously.
"You compliment me very much, Mrs. McGovern," I said.
"Say," she responded, "I got two thousand head o" hawgs runnin" around in the timber down there in Pike."