CHAPTER III.
ON THE DISPUTED TERRITORY.
The straggling, unkempt, and forlorn town of Parkville, Missouri, wascrowded with strangers when the emigrants arrived there after a longand toilsome drive through Iowa. They had crossed the Mississippi fromIllinois into Iowa, at Fulton, on the eastern shore, and afterstopping to rest for a day or two in Clinton, a pretty village on theopposite bank, had pushed on, their faces ever set westward. Then,turning in a southwesterly direction, they travelled across the lowerpart of the State, and almost before they knew it they were on thesacred soil of Missouri, the dangers of entering which had beenpictured to them all along the route. They had been warned by thefriendly settlers in Iowa to avoid St. Joseph, one of the crossingsfrom Missouri into Kansas; it was a nest of Border Ruffians, so theywere told, and they would surely have trouble. They must also steerclear of Leavenworth; for that town was the headquarters of a numberof Missourians whose names were already terrible all over the NorthernStates, from Kansas to Massachusetts Bay.
"But there is the military at Fort Leavenworth," replied Mr. Bryant."Surely they will protect the citizens of the United States who arepeaceful and well-behaved. We are only peaceable immigrants."
"Pshaw!" answered an Iowa man. "All the army officers in this part ofthe country are pro-slavery men. They are in sympathy with thepro-slavery men, anyhow, and if they had been sent here to keepfree-State men out of the Territory, they couldn't do any differentfrom what they are doing. It's an infernal shame, that's what it is."
Bryant said nothing in reply, but as they trudged along, for the roadswere very bad, and they could not often ride in their vehicles now,his face grew dark and red by turns. Finally he broke out,--
"See here, Aleck," he cried, "I don't want to sneak into theTerritory. If these people think they can scare law-abiding andpeaceable citizens of a free country from going upon the land of theseUnited States, we might just as well fight first as last. For one, Iwill not be driven out of a country that I have got just as much rightto as any of these hot-headed Missouri fellows."
His brother-in-law looked troubled, but before he could speak theimpetuous and fiery Sandy said: "That's the talk, Uncle Charlie!Let's go in by the shortest way, and tackle the Border Ruffians ifthey tackle us. Who's afraid?" And the lad bravely handled his"pepper-box," as his old-fashioned five-barrelled revolver wassportively called by the men of those days; for the modern revolverwith one barrel for all the chambers of the weapon had not then comeinto use. "Who's afraid?" he repeated fiercely, looking around.Everybody burst out laughing, and the valorous Sandy looked rathercrestfallen.
"I am afraid, for one," said his father. "I want no fighting, nobloodshed. I want to get into the Territory and get to work on ourclaim, just as soon as possible; but if we can't get there without afight, why then, I'll fight. But I ain't seeking for no fight." WhenAleck Howell was excited, his grammar went to the four winds. His viewof the situation commended itself to the approval of Oscar, who saidhe had promised his mother that he would avoid every appearance ofhostile intention, keep a civil tongue in his head, have his weaponsout of sight and his powder always dry.
The emigrants decided to go into Kansas by way of Parkville.
At Claybank, half-way between the Iowa line and the Missouri River,they encountered a drover with a herd of cattle. He was eager todicker with the Kansas emigrants, and offered them what theyconsidered to be a very good bargain in exchanging oxen for theirhorses. They were now near the Territory, and the rising prices ofalmost everything that immigrants required warned them that they werenot far from the point where an outfit could no longer be bought atany reasonable price. The boys were loth to part with their buggy;for, although they had been often compelled to go afoot through someof the worst roads in the States of Iowa and Missouri, they had clungto the notion that they might have a pair of horses to take into theTerritory, and, while the buggy was left to them, they had a refuge intimes of weariness with walking; and these were rather frequent. Thewagon was exchanged for another, suitable for oxen.
The immigrants drove gayly into Parkville. They were in sight of thePromised Land. The Big Muddy, as Missourians affectionately call theturbid stream that gives name to their State, rolled sluggishlybetween the Parkville shore and the low banks fringed with cottonwoodsthat were the eastern boundary of Kansas. Looking across, they couldsee long lines of white-covered wagons, level plains dotted withtents, and the rising smoke of many fires, where people who had gonein ahead of them were cooking their suppers; for they enteredParkville late in the afternoon. It was a commonplace-looking view ofKansas, after all, and not at all like what the lads had fancied itwould be. Sandy very emphatically expressed his disappointment.
"What would you have, Sandy?" asked his uncle, with some amusement."Did you expect to see wild honey dripping out of the cottonwoods andsycamores, buffaloes and deer standing up and waiting to be shot at,and a farm ready to be tilled?"
"Well," replied the boy, a little shamefacedly, "I didn't exactlyexpect to see all those things; but somehow the country looks awfulflat and dull. Don't you think so?"
For answer, Mr. Bryant pointed out a line of blue slopes in thedistance. "Those are not very high hills, my boy, to be sure, but theyare on the rolling prairie beyond, and as soon as we get away from theriver we shall find a bluffy and diversified country, I'll warrantyou."
"Yes; don't you remember," broke in Oscar, eagerly, "GovernorRobinson's book told all about the rolling and undulating country ofthe Territory, and the streams that run under high bluffs in someplaces?"
Sandy admitted that this was true of the book; but he added, "Somebooks do lie, though."
"Not Governor Robinson's book," commented his brother Charlie, with aslight show of resentment. For Charlie had made a study of the reportsfrom the Promised Land.
But a more pressing matter was the attitude of the border-State mentoward the free-State emigrants, and the question of making thenecessary purchases for their farming scheme. Parkville was all alivewith people, and there were many border-State men among them. Some ofthese regarded the newcomers with unmistakable hostility, notingwhich, Sandy and Oscar took good care to keep near their two grown-upprotectors; and the two men always went about with their weaponswithin easy reaching distance. All of the Borderers were opposed toany more free-State men going into the Territory; and many of themwere disposed to stop this by force, if necessary. At one time, thesituation looked very serious, and Sandy got his "pepper-box" intoposition. But the trouble passed away, and the arrival of fifteen ortwenty teams, accompanied by a full complement of men, checked arising storm of wrath.
From Platte City, a short distance up the river, however, came dolefuland distressing stories of the ill-treatment of the free-State men whohad gone that way. They were harassed and hindered, and, in somecases, their teams were deliberately turned about and driven back onthe road by which they had come. It was useless to remonstrate whenthe rifles of a dozen men were levelled at the would-be immigrants.But our travellers in Parkville heard a good story of the bravery ofone free-State man who had been refused transportation across theferry at Platte City, kept by an ardent pro-slavery man. The intendingimmigrant, unconscious of any hindrance to his crossing, was calmlydriving down to the ferry-boat, a flat-bottomed craft propelled bylong oars, or sweeps, when the ferryman stopped him with the question,"What hev ye got into yer waggin?"
"Oxen," sententiously replied the newcomer.
"And what's them thar cattle follering on behind?" he asked, pointingto a drove of milch-cattle in the rear.
"Caouws," answered the immigrant, in the broad pronunciation peculiarto provincial people of the New England States.
"All right," was the rejoinder; "a man that says 'caouws' can't goover this yere ferry withouten he's got the tickets." No argumentwould induce the ferryman to explain what the tickets were and wherethey could be procured. Finally, his patience exhausted, thefree-State man suddenly drew from the big pockets of his frock a pai
rof tremendous pistols, ready cocked, and, holding them full in theface of the surprised ferryman, he said,--
"Here are my tickets, and I'm going across this ferry right off,caouws or no caouws!" And he went.
Even at Parkville, where there was very little difficulty in crossing,as compared with what there had been earlier in the struggle forKansas, they were advised by discreet friends and sympathizers to beon the lookout for opposition. Every fresh arrival of free-State menangered yet more the Borderers who were gathered there to hinder and,if possible, prevent further immigration. Mr. Bryant chafed under thenecessity of keeping his voice hushed on the topic that engaged allhis thoughts; and Oscar and Sandy were ready to fight their wayacross the river; at least they said so.
They did find, however, that the buying of provisions and farming-toolsrequired for their future use, was out of the question in Parkville.Whether it was the unexpected demand, or a refusal of the Missouriansto sell to free-State men, they could not determine. But the prices ofeverything they wanted were very high. What should they do? Thesearticles they must have. But their cost here was far beyond theirmost extravagant estimates. When Mr. Howell was reminded by hisbrother-in-law how he had said that no politics could interfere withtrade and prices, he was amused.
"Of course," he said, "it does look as if these Missourians would notsell at fair prices because they want to hinder us; but don't you seethat the demand is greater than the supply? I know these folks arebitterly hostile to us; but the reason why they have so small a stockof goods on hand is that they have sold out to other free-State menthat have come before us to buy the same things. Isn't that so?"
Mr. Bryant was obliged to admit that this was a reasonable explanation;but as he had begun by thinking that every Borderer hated a free-Stateman and would do him an injury if he could, he did not give up thatnotion willingly. He was certain that there was a plot in the highprices of bacon, flour, corn-meal, and ploughs.
In this serious dilemma, Charlie came to the relief of the party withthe information that a free-State man, whose team had just recrossedthe river for a load of supplies sent him by a wagon that was toreturn to Iowa, brought news that a large trading-post had been openedat a new Kansas town called Quindaro. He said that the Iowa man toldhim that prices were just now lower in Quindaro than they had everbeen in Parkville.
"Quindaro?" said Oscar, musingly;--"why, that must be an Indianname,--feminine Indian name, too, unless I miss my guess."
Mr. Bryant had heard of Quindaro. It was a brand-new town, a few milesdown the river, settled by free-State men and named for a young,full-blooded Indian girl of the Delaware tribe. The town was on theborders of the Delaware reservation, which in those days came close tothe Missouri River. Charlie, also, had gathered some facts about thetown, and he added that Quindaro was a good place to start from, goingwestward. The party had laid in a stock of groceries--coffee, tea, andother articles of that description--before leaving home. Now theyneeded staple provisions, a few farming tools, a breaking-plough, andsome seed corn. Few thought of planting anything but corn; but thethrifty settlers from Illinois knew the value of fresh vegetables, andthey were resolved to have "garden truck" just as soon as seeds couldbe planted and brought to maturity.
"And side-meat?" asked Sandy, wonderingly, as he heard his fatherinquiring the price of that article of food. Side-meat, in the Southand West, is the thin flank of a porker, salted and smoked after thefashion of hams, and in those parts of the Southwest it was (andprobably is) the staple article of food among the people. It is soldin long, unattractive-looking slabs; and when Sandy heard its namementioned, his disgust as well as his wonder was kindled.
"Side-meat?" he repeated, with a rising inflection. "Why, I thought wewere going to live on game,--birds and buffalo and the like!Side-meat? Well, that makes me sick!"
The two men laughed, and Mr. Howell said,--
"Why, Sandy, you are bent on hunting and not on buckling down to farmwork. How do you suppose we are going to live if we have nothing toeat but wild game that we kill, and breadstuffs and vegetables that webuy?"
Sandy had thought that they might be able to step out into the woodsor prairie, between times, as it were, and knock down a few head ofgame when the day's work was done, or had not begun. When he said asmuch, the two heads of the party laughed again, and even Charliejoined in the glee.
"My dear infant," said his father, seriously, but with a twinkle inhis eye, "game is not so plenty anywhere as that; and if it were, weshould soon tire of it. Now side-meat 'sticks to the ribs,' as thepeople hereabouts will tell you, and it is the best thing to fall backupon when fresh meat fails. We can't get along without it, and that isa fact; hey, Charlie?"
The rest of the party saw the wisdom of this suggestion, and Sandy wasobliged to give up, then and there, his glowing views of a land soteeming with game that one had only to go out with a rifle, or even aclub, and knock it over. But he mischievously insisted that ifside-meat did "stick to the ribs," as the Missourians declared, theydid not eat much of it, for, as a rule, the people whom they met werea very lank and slab-sided lot. "Clay-eaters," their new acquaintancefrom Quindaro said they were.
"Clay-eaters?" asked Charlie, with a puzzled look. "They areclayey-looking in the face. But it can't be possible that theyactually eat clay?"
"Well, they do, and I have seen them chewing it. There is a fine, softclay found in these parts, and more especially south of here; it has agreasy feeling, as if it was a fatty substance, and the natives eat itjust as they would candy. Why, I should think that it would form asand-bar inside of a man, after awhile; but they take to it just asnaturally!"
"If I have got to choose between side-meat and clay for a regulardiet," said Sandy, "give me side-meat every time."
That night, having made their plans to avoid the prying eyes of theborder-State men, who in great numbers were now coming in, well-armedand looking somewhat grimly at the free-State men, the little partycrossed the river. Ten dollars, good United States money, was demandedby the ferryman as the price of their passage; it looked like robbery,but there was no other way of getting over the river and into thePromised Land; so it was paid, with many a wrench of the patience ofthe indignant immigrants; and they pitched their tent that night underthe stars and slept soundly on the soil of "bleeding Kansas."
Bright and early next morning, the boys were up and stirring, for nowwas to begin their camp life. Hitherto, they had slept in their tent,but had taken their meals at the farm-houses and small taverns of thecountry through which they had passed. They would find few suchconveniences in the new country into which they had come, and they hadbeen warned that in Kansas the rule was "every man for himself."
They made sad work with their first breakfast in camp. Oscar had takena few lessons in cooking from his mother, before leaving home, and thetwo men had had some experience in that line of duty when out onhunting expeditious in Illinois, years before. So they managed to makecoffee, fry slices of side-meat, and bake a hoe-cake of Indian-cornmeal. "Hog and hominy," said Sandy's father. "That's the diet of thecountry, and that is what we shall come to, and we might as well takeit first as last."
"There's worse provender than this, where there's none," said Mr.Bryant, cheerfully; "and before we get through we shall be hungry morethan once for hog and hominy."
It was an enlivening sight that greeted the eyes of the newcomers asthey looked around upon the flat prairie that stretched along theriver-side. The tents of the immigrants glistened in the rising sun.The smoke of many camp-fires arose on the summer air. Groups of menwere busily making preparations for their long tramp westward, and,here and there, women and children were gathered around thewhite-topped wagons, taking their early breakfast or getting ready forthe day's march. Here, too, could now be seen the rough andsurly-looking border men who were on the way to points along the routethat were to be occupied by them before too many free-State men shouldcome in. An election of some sort, the newcomers could not exactlymake out what, was to t
ake place in a day or two, and the Missourianswhom they had seen flocking into Parkville were ready to vote as soonas they got into the Territory.
Breakfast over, the boys sauntered around through the camps, viewingthe novel sights with vast amusement. It was like a militia muster athome, except that the only soldier element they saw was the band ofrough-looking and rough-talking men who were bound to vote and fightfor slavery. They swaggered about with big pistols girt at their hipsand rifles over their shoulders, full-bearded and swarthy, each one acaptain apparently, all without much organization, but very serious intheir intention to vote and to fight. It really seemed as if they hadreached the fighting-ground at last.
"See here, daddy," said Oscar, as he came in from the camps when theDixon caravan was ready to move; "see what I found in this newspaper.It is a piece of poetry, and a mighty fine piece, too"; and the boybegan to read some lines beginning thus,--
"We cross the prairie as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea, To make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free!"
"Oh, well; I can't bother about poetry, now," said the father,hastily. "I have some prose work on hand, just about this time. I'mtrying to drive these pesky cattle, and I don't make a very good fistat it. Your Uncle Aleck has gone on ahead, and left me to manage theteam; but it's new business to me."
"John G. Whittier is the name at the top of these verses. I've heardof him. He's a regular-built poet,--lives somewhere down East."
"I can't help that, sonny; get on the other side of those steers, andsee if you can't gee them around. Dear, dear, they're dreadfulobstinate creatures!"
That night, however, when they were comfortably and safely camped inQuindaro, amid the live-oaks and the tall sycamores that embowered thepretty little town, Oscar again brought the newspaper to his father,and, with kindling eyes, said,--
"Read it out, daddy; read the piece. Why, it was written just for us,I do declare. It is called 'The Kansas Emigrants.' We are KansasEmigrants, aren't we?"
The father smiled kindly as he looked at the flushed face and brighteyes of his boy, and took from him the paper folded to show theverses. As he read, his eyes, too, flashed and his lip trembled.
"Listen to this!" he cried. "Listen to this! It is like a trumpetcall!" And with a voice quivering with emotion, he began the poem,--
"We cross the prairie as of old The pilgrims crossed the sea, To make the West, as they the East, The homestead of the free!"
"Something has got into my eyes," said Mr. Howell, as the last stanzawas read. "Great Scott! though, how that does stir a man's blood!" Andhe furtively wiped the moisture from his eyes. It was time to put outthe light and go to sleep, for the night now was well advanced. ButMr. Bryant, thoroughly aroused, read and re-read the lines aloud.
IN CAMP AT QUINDARO. THE POEM OF "THE KANSAS EMIGRANTS."]
"Sing 'em," said his brother-in-law, jokingly. Bryant was a goodsinger, and he at once tuned up with a fine baritone voice, recallinga familiar tune that fitted the measure of the poem.
"Oh, come now, Uncle Charlie," cried Sandy, from his blankets in thecorner of the tent, "that's 'Old Dundee.' Can't you give us somethinglively? Something not quite so solemn?"
"Not so solemn, my laddie? Don't you know that this is a solemn age weare in, and a very solemn business we are on? You'll think so beforewe get out of this Territory, or I am greatly mistaken."
"Sandy'll think it's solemn, when he has to trot over a piece of newlybroken prairie, carrying a pouchful of seed corn, dropping five grainsin each sod," said his father, laughing, as he blew out the candle.
"It's a good song; a bully good song," murmured the boy, turning overto sleep. "But it ought to be sung to something with more of arig-a-jig-jig to it." So saying, he was off to the land of dreams.