“But I spoke of a bona fide concern—of a real railway, honestly made and fairly worked,” answered I; “what would you say to that?”
“Say!” replied the Major, with infinite contempt, “say! Let me see the gonies. Trot ’em up to me, sir. Just let me have a look at the simple ones that are at the head of the business, and I’ll tell them what I think, fast enough. No, Nauvoo is a rising place, a neat location, but it can wait for a rail one while, unless every sage plant on the prairie turns to silver dollars.”
After this I asked the Major no more questions. We reached Nauvoo, and through the dusk I espied the shingled roofs of its houses, the bold bluffs of limestone, the rushing coffee-coloured river, and the unfinished building-lots with their heaps of wreck and rubbish. We put up at the General Jackson Hotel. I had a letter of introduction to Squire Park of Nauvoo, a gentleman in the flatboat interest, who owed his title of Squire to his being in the commission of the peace. But on repairing to his house I was doomed to disappointment—the more vexatious because Mr Park had been eulogised by Judge Tips as a man who knew the West thoroughly. Squire Park was gone to Cairo on business, and was not expected back before the end of the month. On consulting the map I carried, I found that a place called Keosauque was the nearest of the few towns in Iowa to the line of railway, real or imaginary, in connection with which my name, and those of other men of respectability and substance, were flaming, in advertisements and on the broadsheets of a prospectus, throughout the British metropolis. I set off to Keosauque, mounted on an Indian pony, and accompanied by a guide in the shape of a wiry backwoodsman, in an enduring costume of leather, and who gave accommodation to my portmanteau behind his saddle. For some miles we rode in silence over the apparently boundless sea of grass, mottled with weeds and flowers, and occasionally studded with lone farmhouses and maize fields, or by herds of grazing cattle. Those half-reclaimed mustangs are not the most pleasant mount for a timid rider, nor am I, George Bulkeley of Stamford Hill, a very adventurous horseman; and before we had got far, I began to wish the brute I rode would desist from what seemed an alternation of starts and stumbles. My guide, a good-humoured wild man, observed my embarrassment, and undertook its removal.
“See here, Colonel,” said he—strangers in the West are usually decorated with visionary epaulettes—“you mustn’t keep the rein so slack as that, nor yet hold your hand up level with your cravat, or, scalp me, but you’ll be spilt! Mustangs want a tight grip on the bit. So—steady now. Stick in your knees, Colonel, and scorn to ketch hold of the pummel—so. Do as you see me do; give him a touch of the spur, but mind his kicking—for mustangs can kick, they can. You’ll do nicely, now.”
Ichabod was a skilful riding-master, by instinct, I suppose; and, thanks to his forcible instructions, I was soon on better terms with my refractory quadruped. On we rode, over the waving grass, through the rank weeds, through the belts of cottonwood timber and maples that skirted every streamlet, and past the swampy bottoms where sluggish waters wound like wounded snakes. We dined on dried venison, jerked beef, parched corn, and hominy, at a farm which did duty for an inn, and slept at another house of the same character. Next day we resumed our route; and as we rode towards Keosauque, I ventured to ask Ichabod if he had ever heard of the Great Nauvoo and Nebraska Railway. I had been hitherto averse to propounding this query; for how could I tell whether the interests of my informant might conflict with mine?—but with this rough frontiersman I felt I was safe. He, at least, was no rival speculator—no shareholder in a competing line—no steamboat proprietor, or lord of many stage-waggons. But his first answer was not satisfactory. It was comprised in the one word, “Anan!”
“The Railway”—asked I again—“from Nauvoo to Nebraska: not a finished thing, of course; but you surely must have seen or heard of the works—the bridges, the embankments, and the rest of the preparations?”
Ichabod shook his head. “You’re talking Greek to me, Colonel, and that air a fact.”
“How is it possible,” cried I, in an agony, “that there can have been a railway begun in this country, and the settlers unaware of it? Surely you must be a stranger to this part of the State yourself!”
“You’re wrong there, Colonel,” answered Ichabod; “I’m Illinois born, but I’m Iowa bred. In this State I was raised; and I don’t believe there’s a thing happened over the border sin’ I could mount a horse, be it buffler or deer, loping Indian, runaway nigger, or Yankee pedlar, without my hearing on’t. Stop” (and he smote his knee with a palm as hard as iron)—“I’ve got it. You’re talking of Harvey’s Folly.”
And I thought the young backwoodsman would have tumbled off his horse in the extravagant burst of mirth which this discovery produced. “Who-whoop!” cried he; “I’ve seen queer sights, but never did I think to see a stranger come out in a bee-line from the old country—no offence, Colonel!—to ax about Harvey’s Folly. I’d nigh forgot that the thing existed at all. Wah! but it beats coon-catching!”