Merry’s Adventures.
CHAPTER XXV.—(Conclusion.)
Leaving New York with my “two friends,” as Bill called them, I proceeded to New Jersey, and thence I travelled to Washington. I was well received wherever I went, and though I did not get rich, still I procured money enough to pay my expenses. Having spent some time at Washington, and having seen the President, Mr. Jefferson, and several other famous men, I departed, and travelled through the southern states, and in about a year reached New Orleans.
During the expedition, I saw many new things, and acquired a good deal of information. I also met with many curious adventures; but I cannot stop to tell them here. Having spent several weeks at New Orleans, I set my face northward; and proceeding along the banks of the Mississippi, one day, as I was approaching the town of Natchez, in descending a steep bank, I stumbled and fell, and my box was thrown violently to the foot of the hill. The glass at the top of the box was entirely broken out, and my travelling companions, seeing that they could secure their liberty if they chose, gradually slid out of their confinement, and brandishing their tongues, and rattling their tails, they glided away into a neighboring thicket. In vain did I coax and threaten: neither fear nor affection could stop their progress, and thus suddenly I took leave of them forever. It might seem that a couple of serpents were not the objects upon which the heart is likely to fix its affection—yet I felt a sort of desolation when they were gone, and calling to mind the friend who had bestowed them upon me, and my helpless condition, now that they were departed, I sat down by the road-side, and indulged myself in a hearty fit of tears.
In a short time, however, I recovered my spirits, and entered the town of Natchez. I here took passage on board a small sloop, and in five weeks reached St. Louis—a voyage which is now made, in steamboats, in four or five days. Here I found myself nearly out of money—and seeing that it was necessary to do something, I purchased a small stock of beads and other trinkets, and set off on foot to trade with the Indians, of which there were several tribes in that region. My business was to exchange the goods I carried, for furs. In the first trip, I succeeded so well as to try it again, and finally I became a regular fur dealer, and carried on a considerable trade.
In my excursions, I met with many incidents that might be worth telling; but I can only stop to relate one of them. On a certain occasion I had penetrated into the Indian territory, to a considerable distance from any white man’s settlement. Having learned something of the Indian manners and customs, and a few words of their language, I almost felt myself at home among them, particularly as some of the men spoke English. It was not, therefore, a cause of any anxiety, at the time to which I refer, that I was obliged to seek lodging in one of their villages.
It was a beautiful summer night, and I slept alone beneath a hut of skins. About midnight I was waked by a slight noise, and saw the dark figure of an Indian, about to enter the hut. I started in some alarm, but he put out his hand in token of peace, and begged that I would listen to a request which he had to make.
He sat down by my side, and stated that he loved a dark-eyed girl of the tribe, but that she would not return his affection. He was the bravest of the young chiefs in battle, as he said: the swiftest of foot in the race; the strongest in wrestling; the most successful in hunting—and yet the maiden, Zary, refused to become his wife. In this condition, he begged me to give him some charm by which he could conquer the heart of the girl, and persuade her to yield to his suit. I had, among my wares, a pair of ear-rings about three inches long, set with glass of various colors—green, red, and yellow. These I gave to the chief, and told him to present them to Zary. He thanked me after his Indian fashion, and went away. I did not know the result at the time, but I learned it at a subsequent period.
At last, the war with England broke out, and the Indians being incited to hostilities against us, there was no farther opportunity to venture among them. I therefore left St. Louis, and after a variety of incidents, reached New York. Here I spent a few days, and then set off for Salem, where I arrived without accident.
At first, the place seemed a good deal altered. Every house was in fact precisely as I left it, three years before—but still, all seemed on a smaller scale than I had fancied. The roads and lanes were narrower than they had once seemed; the old tavern of the Cock and Bull was not more than two thirds as large, and the meeting-house seemed to me to have shrunken to one half of its former dimensions. But my friends were still the same, at least so far as to be glad to see me. In some few cases, I could see the effect of habitual attendance upon the bar-room, which flourished much the same as ever. This was manifest, by an increased slovenliness of dress; a bloating of the face; a tottling step; an uncertain and staring look, as if the mind wandered; and, in short, a general aspect of degradation both of body and soul.
Raymond was perhaps a little thinner and paler than when I left him; Matt Olmsted seemed absolutely unchanged; but as to my best friend—Bill Keeler—alas! my heart bled to look at him. It was of an afternoon that I reached the village, in the stage-coach. Without making myself known at the tavern to a single individual, I walked to Bill’s house, which was at a short distance, and standing by itself. As I approached it, I remarked with pain, that it had a shabby, neglected, and desolate appearance. The garden by its side was overgrown with weeds—the fence was broken down in several places: the gate of the little door-yard was laying flat by the road-side. All had on the appearance of waste and neglect, as if the proprietor cared not for the place.
I was on the point of turning back, but seeing a child at the door, I went up and spoke to it. It looked me in the face, and I could see, even in the soft features of infancy, the semblance of my friend. I could not help smiling to note in a child, the features which were so associated in my own mind with the boyish tricks, youthful frolics, and Yankee shrewdness of the father. In a few moments, the mother came to the door, and asked me to walk in. I did so, but she did not recognise me for some time. When I left Salem, she was the picture of ruddy health, and light-hearted happiness; she was now thin and pale, and her countenance told of sorrow. Her house was ill furnished, and had a comfortless appearance.
We went on conversing for some time; at last I enquired for her husband, and thus she recognised me. Soon after, Bill came in. He knew me instantly—but I thought the meeting gave him pain, rather than pleasure. I noticed that he looked poor and shabby, and he seemed to be oppressed with the consciousness of it. However, he soon rallied, and went on talking in his usual way, putting a great many questions, and much faster than I could answer them. “Where’s the box and the two sucking doves, Bob?—Mr. Merry—I beg your pardon!—How you have altered! Why, you’re grown up complete. Where have you been all this time? Let me see—it’s better’n four years since you left us, aint it? I dare say you’ve been all over the world. Did you go to China, where they have houses made of crockery? Come, tell us all about it.”
Thus Bill rattled on, for a time, and at last I left him. The next day at early dawn, I took my way to the mountain. It was autumn, and the leaves had already fallen from the trees. The chilly winds sighed through the branches of the forests that clothed the shaggy cliffs, and seemed to speak of coming winter. The birds had fled, the insects were hushed, the flowers had gone down to their tombs. I could not but feel a sort of melancholy, which in some degree prepared me for the scene which followed.
As I approached old Sarah’s cave, I saw her sitting at the door. I went nearer and spoke to her—but she answered me not. I looked again, and perceived that her head was leaning against the rock—her white hair hanging loose upon her shoulders. She seemed asleep, and I spoke again—and again. I took hold of her arm to awake her—but she awoke no more. Alone—with no friend at her side—no one to hear her parting words, no one to say a last prayer—she had departed, and doubtless her spirit had gone to a better world.
I returned to the village and told what I had seen. Some of the inhabitants went to the mountain with me, and we buried the hermitess near the cave which she had chosen as her home. If the reader should ever be passing through the little town of Salem, let him obtain a guide to the mountain, and if he cannot show him the exact site of old Sarah’s grave, he will still point out the ruins of the cave, and the shelving rock, beneath which it was built.
After remaining a few months at Salem, finding it necessary to engage in some business in order to obtain the means of living, I again went to New York. But business of every kind was greatly depressed, and finding nothing to do, I turned my attention to the seat of war, along the line that divides the United States from Canada. Setting out on foot, I soon made my way to Fort Niagara, and afterwards to Cleveland, on the southern border of Lake Erie.
About this time, a company of riflemen was raised, chiefly to operate against the Indians, who were very troublesome along the borders of the lake. In this I enlisted, and we were soon marched into the quarter where our services were needed. Here we joined a small detachment of American troops, and set out with them to march northward to join the army of General Winchester, then in the vicinity of the river Raizin.
Our route lay through a country consisting alternately of prairies and forests; and as we were passing through one of the latter, we were suddenly attacked by a party of Indians. A smart engagement followed, and several of our party were killed. I was myself wounded in the knee, by a bullet, and falling to the earth, fainted from loss of blood and the anguish of the wound. When I recovered my senses, I was alone, except that one of my dead companions was near me. I attempted to rise, but fell again to the earth.
At this moment, I saw a tall Indian peering through the woods. He saw me, and with some caution came to the spot. He lifted his scalping-knife over my head, and as my senses faded away, I supposed that my last hour had come.
It was long before I was conscious of existence. When my reason returned, I was on a straw bed in an English blockhouse, where I had been taken by the Indian who found me after I was wounded. It was the young chief whom I had supplied with a charm, some years before, by which, as he told me, he was able to win the heart of the beautiful Zary. As he was about to take my scalp, he recognised me, and with a heart full of gratitude, took me to the fort, and caused me to be attended with the utmost care. These things I learned by degrees, for it was several weeks before I was able to listen to the whole story. When I came fully to myself, I found what I had not before known, that the surgeon of the fort had amputated my leg, as the only means of saving my life. My recovery was slow, and when at last I was able to rise from my bed, it was with the sad consciousness that I was a cripple for the remainder of my days.
Months passed away, and I was again at Salem. There still swung the sign of the Cock and Bull, and there still flourished the tavern. It had lost, indeed, its former character; for the greater part of the travel had been directed from this route, and instead of being the local point for numerous lines of stages, it was now the stopping place of only a tri-weekly stage. But the bar-room was as well filled as ever; and when I returned, I found nearly the same set of persons there who had been accustomed to visit it before. A few indeed were missing; and, on enquiry, I learned that they had all gone down to their graves. Their place was however occupied by others, who bore the same general aspect.
The tavern-keeper who succeeded my uncle, followed his example, and shared his fate. He drank liberally, was called a clever fellow, and died early. His successor, so far as I could judge, was walking in their footsteps. Thus flourished the Cock and Bull. My readers may call it a sad place, but no one thought so then. It was esteemed a good tavern, and there were none to remark its deadly influence. It is true that it was a place where men went to get poison, which took away their reason, brutified their souls, and destroyed their bodies. It was a school where vice and crime were taught; a place which converted many a kind husband and good father into a ruthless savage—and sent down many a noble form to a premature grave. Yet in these days such things were deemed matters of course. Let us be thankful that the deadly influence of the tavern and the grog-shop is now understood.
But poor Bill Keeler—how shall I tell his story! Alas, he too was the victim of the village tavern! He was naturally a kind-hearted, generous fellow—quick-witted, active and ingenious. If any one had met him on the highway, and struck him to the earth, and taken his life, he would have been called a murderer. But a tavern-keeper could not only take his life, but degrade his body and soul, and it was a very respectable business! So it was once—thank Heaven it is so no more!
I have not the heart to tell the details of my poor friend’s downward steps in the path of ruin. It must be sufficient to say that when I returned to Salem, I found his widow with a large family, struggling against poverty, but with cheerfulness and success. It was for some time a part of the care, as well as the pleasure of my life, to do something for the education of these children. In this occupation I forgot my own sorrows, and I became contented, I may almost say, happy. It is a curious fact that cripples are generally cheerful, and I really believe, that, in spite of what may seem the frown of fortune, their lot is generally brighter than that of the average of mankind. I can at least say, that, though I have seen what is called hard luck in life, it has generally been the result of my own weakness or folly. At all events, I hope my story will show my young readers how many evils flow from the neglect of early advantages; and that a man with a wooden leg, may still be
Merry.
Hualpa discovering the mine.