A ROMANCE OF THE CUMBERLAND
Early in the day they passed the pinnacle,
And now the shadow of each human form
Was lengthening backwards like Lombardy poplars
Fallen toward the east.
For days the fairest maiden of the caravan
Had fevered—whether from malaria and fatigue,
Or more because of one whom they had left behind,
Beyond the wooded mountains,
Neither sire nor matron could agree.
But Martha Waters, as they laid her stretcher down
And prepared the camp for coming night,
Declared unless they rested here for days to come,
Her bones must bleach beside the trail
That led into the Dark and Bloody Ground.
And so they waited for the fever to abate,
But when they thought her strong enough,
A score of hardy pioneers trudged down
The slope and launched canoes and dug-outs
And a flatboat in the turgid waters
Of the Cumberland, for heavy rains had fallen
And all the mountain streams were swollen
In these early days of June.
But the air was sweet with the odor
Of wild honeysuckle and the ivy
With its starry clusters fringed
The milky way of elder bloom
That filled each sheltered cove
Like constellations on a summer night.
But now the rains had ceased, the air
Was fresh and bracing, and each glorious day
Out-rivaled all the rest in beauty.
Lying on her pallet on the flatboat,
The maiden breathed the fragrant atmosphere,
And drank refreshing whiffs of air
That drove the fever from her blood
And wakened dreams of conquest
In the wilderness toward which
Her life was drifting rapidly.
But how could she find heart for conquest?
Why seek this new land anyway, where only
And forever to card the wool and spin the flax
Would be the woman's portion?
Would ever in the forest or beyond it
In the rolling bluegrass,
Return the vision that was hers,
When only a few brief months ago
She watched the sea gulls battling with the storm
Above the waves of Chesapeake Bay?
Oh, how that day was filled with meaning
For her now! For as the birds disported
With the whirlpools of the air,
A lover's magic words were whispered in her ear,
How that storm and stress of life to those that love
Are little more than winds to swallows of the sea.
But now, if hardship meant so little,
Why had he remained behind, when she
Was forced to go upon the long and weary journey?
Ah! Could it be he cared no longer for her love?
His arm was strong. Then was his heart
Not brave enough to conquer this new world,
Where savage lurked and wild beast made
The darkness dreaded by the most courageous soul?
For days the fleet had drifted down the river,
But now her boat was anchored to a tree
That grew upon an island in the Cumberland,
And every man and woman but the convalescent
Had gone ashore to stalk a deer or gather berries
That everywhere were found along the river bank.
But Martha Waters lay upon her bed and pondered—
Dreaming day dreams, as she watched
A golden oriole who fed her young
In boughs that overhung the water,
And a vague unhappiness arose
Within her heart, until she tossed
Again in fever on her couch.
She could hear the roaring falls
A mile below, but she thought the sounding
Cataract the sickness booming in her ears again.
When she looked to eastward where the mountain
Rose a thousand feet, she saw a crown of wealth
Upon its crest of which no pioneer yet had dreamed.
Long she lay and marveled at its beauty,
Wondering how many ages would elapse before
The god of Mammon would transport its treasures
To his marts beside the sea.
Feverish she mused and pondered until at last she slept.
And then upon the little island,
A city rose as from the ocean wave—
A city of a thousand streets, and every house
Was made from trees that grew upon the mountain.
Many were the palaces of wealth and beauty,
But those who dwelt therein she did not recognize.
Strange were their faces and their manners haughty,
And while they lived in luxury and ease,
Others toiled at mill and furnace. Oh! The awful din
Of sledge and hammer, beating in her ears.
She woke. A storm seemed just about to burst in fury,
So loud and terrible was the roaring!
But the sky was clear. It is the booming
Of the falls, for her boat has broke its moorings,
And now is rapidly drifting toward the cataract,
But four hundred yards away!
She leaped upon her feet and screamed for help.
It was impossible for her to swim ashore,
And her fever-wasted frame could find no strength
With which to steer the boat.
Again she saw the crown of wealth
Upon the mountain top, untouched by human hands.
But the island city now had faded from her vision,
The mountain lowered and the world grew dark.
Onward the boat shot faster toward the roaring falls.
But look! A race is on! A birch canoe,
Driven by as swift a hand as ever gripped
An oar, is leaping o'er the waves in mad pursuit.
With every stroke the Indian bark is gaining twenty feet.
Will it reach the flatboat soon enough to save the girl?
But who is he that rides the fleet canoe?
No red man ever had an arm like that,
For already he has reached the speeding raft,
And with gigantic strength he steers it toward the shore.
But no! The current is too swift!
A moment more and all will be engulfed within
The swirling flood. It is too late! Too late?
But love is swifter than the angry tide,
For like a mighty porpoise, wallowing in the wave,
The valiant hero leaps into the stream,
And holding Martha Waters in his strong right arm
High above the water, reaches shore
A hundred feet above the deadly precipice.
The air was growing chilly even on this summer night,
And the emigrants had gathered round a crackling fire,
Discoursing of the past, and listening to a modest tale of love.
Simply and unfaltering James Hunt related
How his heart had hungered back beside the old Potomac,
Till he found he could no longer brook the passion
That grew stronger as the days of summer lengthened.
At last he started, and following every night
The blazing dogstar, and resting through the day till evening,
In just three weeks he reached the river
Where he found the birch canoe that rode
The seething waters like a greyhound of the ocean.
Then the maiden told her vision of the island city,
How its palaces and mansions, rich as gold and beautiful as crystal,
Were constructed by her people, toiling hundreds,
Sore and weary, of times cold and hungry.
She had seen them fell the forests,
Hew and mill and dress the lumber,
Till the soil and reap the harvests, gathering into others' garners.
Stalwart were these men and women, pure of heart
And strong of muscle, fitted for the tasks before them.
She had seen her brothers laboring at the forge and sounding anvil;
Sisters toiling at the wheel and distaff, heard them at the loom
While flying shuttle threaded warp with web of beauty;
Watched them till they fell asleep with weariness,
While the sons of leisure feasted.
Thus the maiden told her story, saying:
"Shall we undertake the journey? Plows are waiting
In the furrows back in Maryland, my people,
Back beyond the rugged mountain. There are harvests
Yet ungarnered, waiting for scythe and sickle.
Calculate the cost, and weigh it, for my vision is prophetic.
For my part, I choose this lover, for my guide and valiant leader.
He shall point the way forever,
Though he take the road that's darkest."
Then James Hunt, the hero lover,
Who had never quailed at danger,
Trembling for his happy passion,
Rose and pointed toward the westward,
Toward the Pleiades descending,
Deep behind the gloomy forest.
"Let us face toward dark Kentucky, fell its forests,
Build its roads and bridge its rivers,
Give our children to the nation.
What though others reap our harvests,
Hoard the wealth we have created?
Ours shall be the nobler portion.
Blessed is the one that suffers,
If he spends himself for others.
Should the toiling millions falter,
Though they work for others' comfort,
Building homes they can not enter?
Christ was born within a manger,
May we not produce a leader,
Who shall save our nation's honor?
At to-morrow morning's dawning,
Ere the sunrise gild the treetops,
Let us take the darkling pathway."
Still the Pleiades are circling,
Still the dogstar glows in heaven,
But the oak and pine and poplar
All have gone from off the mountain—
Passed into the marts of Mammon,
By the hands of toil and labor.
Silent are the loom and distaff,
In the cabin and the cottage,
And the songs of scythe and sickle
Gathering in the golden harvests.
But the pain of drudgery lingers,
And the heart still longs and hungers
For the fruitage it shall gather,
Yet beyond the wooded westward.