“I don’t think any of them have learned how many we have on board,” added McGowan.
“It is well they didn’t.”
But it is high time the inmates of the flat-boat should receive a more special introduction to the reader.
Theophilus McGowan, the author of this emigration scheme, was a middle aged man of large frame, weighing considerably over two hundred pounds. He came from Western Pennsylvania, where he was a prominent citizen, greatly respected, having performed a very important part in the Revolutionary war, now brought to a close. He procured a wife as obese and genial-natured as himself, and a daughter as pretty and plump as it is safe to imagine. This was their only child, and, at first, it may seem hard to find a reason why he should leave his comfortable home and emigrate to this great solitude, the abode of the deadly red man. But it requires no prophetic eye, to see that this very region—the great West—was destined speedily to become settled, civilized, and one of the most important sections of the young nation. His experience in camp life and the vicissitudes of the great contest, had nurtured a roving disposition in him, and he had entered into the scheme with as much zest, as if he were a young man, and was in quest of a bride and a new home.
Associated with him was Abram Smith, a man somewhat younger than himself, who brought with him his two sons, Abram and Stoddard. Abram was a quiet, reserved sort of man like his father, and nearly thirty years of age. Both had the true mettle of the pioneer in them. Reticent and undemonstrative, yet they possessed that noiseless, unwavering determination, which could be checked by no obstacle that it was possible for human will to overcome. Every trial and difficulty they took as a matter of course, and it may be safely ventured that if father and son ever knew that it was appointed to run a gauntlet of Indians, in order to reach their destination, they would not have hesitated or turned aside for an instant.
Mrs. Smith was a cypher,—meek, uncomplaining, faithful, she went through her routine of duties, greatly after the manner of a machine that is regularly wound up and runs itself down. She would no more have dreamed of questioning the authority and wisdom of her husband, than a slave would have dared to dispute with a despot.
Stoddard Smith, who was several years younger than his brother, (it may as well be expressed at this point,) was prompted more by admiration of Ruth McGowan, than a love for this outrageous solitude. Brought up in the neighborhood, he had learned to look upon her with admiring eyes, and came in due time to be accepted as her lover, in preference to scores of others, who had cast longing looks in that direction. His disposition was such that he would have been pronounced a son of McGowan, far sooner than one of his rightful father. Free, open-hearted, brave almost to recklessness, sometimes noisy in his exuberance of spirits, he was the very antipode of his family.
“Friend and companion! I greet you,” was his salutation, as Joe Napyank came over the gunwale. “You seem rather anxious to see us.”
“And so would you be,” answered the hunter, as he turned towards McGowan, and the other two devoted themselves to the danger that had sprung so suddenly upon them. A few more words which have been already recorded, and the conversation was reduced to disjointed sentences, principally occasioned by what was happening around them. Finally, when it became certain there was no fear of further molestation from the savages, they mingled more freely with each other. Mrs. McGowan and Smith came above and greeted the hunter, who was a most welcome addition to the party, and after remaining a few moments went below. Ruth, however, staid on deck in converse with her father, lover and Napyank. Abram Smith and father were at the bow, where they had abundant opportunity for their favorite pastime—silence.
“It seems to me you don’t look very much scart,” replied the hunter, addressing Ruth McGowan.