Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, Martin Robb, and David Widger
EBEN HOLDEN A TALE OF THE NORTH COUNTRY
By Irving Bacheller
PREFACE
Early in the last century the hardy wood-choppers began to come west,out of Vermont. They founded their homes in the Adirondack wildernessesand cleared their rough acres with the axe and the charcoal pit. Afteryears of toil in a rigorous climate they left their sons little besidesa stumpy farm and a coon-skin overcoat. Far from the centres of lifetheir amusements, their humours, their religion, their folk lore,their views of things had in them the flavour of the timber lands, thesimplicity of childhood. Every son was nurtured in the love of honourand of industry, and the hope of sometime being president. It is to befeared this latter thing and the love of right living, for its own sake,were more in their thoughts than the immortal crown that had been theinspiration of their fathers. Leaving the farm for the more promisinglife of the big city they were as men born anew, and their secondinfancy was like that of Hercules. They had the strength of manhood,the tireless energy of children and some hope of the highest things.The pageant of the big town--its novelty, its promise, its art, itsactivity--quickened their highest powers, put them to their best effort.And in all great enterprises they became the pathfinders, like theirfathers in the primeval forest.
This book has grown out of such enforced leisure as one may find in abusy life. Chapters begun in the publicity of a Pullman car have beenfinished in the cheerless solitude of a hotel chamber. Some havehad their beginning in a sleepless night and their end in a day ofbronchitis. A certain pious farmer in the north country when, likeAgricola, he was about to die, requested the doubtful glory of thisepitaph: 'He was a poor sinner, but he done his best' Save for the factthat I am an excellent sinner, in a literary sense, the words may standfor all the apology I have to make.
The characters were mostly men and women I have known and who leftwith me a love of my kind that even a wide experience with knavery andmisfortune has never dissipated. For my knowledge of Mr Greeley Iam chiefly indebted to David P. Rhoades, his publisher, to PhilipFitzpatrick, his pressman, to the files of the Tribune and to manybooks.
IRVING BACHELLER New York City, 7 April 1900
BOOK ONE
Chapter I
If all the people that ever went west that expedition was the mostremarkable.
A small boy in a big basket on the back of a jolly old man, who carrieda cane in one hand, a rifle in the other; a black dog serving as scout,skirmisher and rear guard--that was the size of it. They were thesurvivors of a ruined home in the north of Vermont, and were travellingfar into the valley of the St Lawrence, but with no particulardestination.
Midsummer had passed them in their journey; their clothes were coveredwith dust; their faces browning in the hot sun. It was a very small boythat sat inside the basket and clung to the rim, his tow head shaking asthe old man walked. He saw wonderful things, day after day, looking downat the green fields or peering into the gloomy reaches of the wood; andhe talked about them.
'Uncle Eb--is that where the swifts are?' he would ask often; and theold man would answer, 'No; they ain't real sassy this time o' year. Theylay 'round in the deep dingles every day.'
Then the small voice would sing idly or prattle with an imaginary beingthat had a habit of peeking over the edge of the basket or would shout agreeting to some bird or butterfly and ask finally: 'Tired, Uncle Eb?'
Sometimes the old gentleman would say 'not very', and keep on, lookingthoughtfully at the ground. Then, again, he would stop and mop his baldhead with a big red handkerchief and say, a little tremor of irritationin his voice: 'Tired! who wouldn't be tired with a big elephant like youon his back all day? I'd be 'shamed o' myself t' set there an' let anold man carry me from Dan to Beersheba. Git out now an' shake yer legs.'
I was the small boy and I remember it was always a great relief to getout of the basket, and having run ahead, to lie in the grass among thewild flowers, and jump up at him as he came along.
Uncle Eb had been working for my father five years before I was born. Hewas not a strong man and had never been able to carry the wide swath ofthe other help in the fields, but we all loved him for his kindness andhis knack of story-telling. He was a bachelor who came over the mountainfrom Pleasant Valley, a little bundle of clothes on his shoulder, andbringing a name that enriched the nomenclature of our neighbourhood. Itwas Eben Holden.
He had a cheerful temper and an imagination that was a very wildernessof oddities. Bears and panthers growled and were very terrible in thatstrange country. He had invented an animal more treacherous than anyin the woods, and he called it a swift. 'Sumthin' like a panther', hedescribed the look of it: a fearsome creature that lay in the edge ofthe woods at sundown and made a noise like a woman crying, to lure theunwary. It would light one's eye with fear to hear Uncle Eb lift hisvoice in the cry of the swift. Many a time in the twilight when the bayof a hound or some far cry came faintly through the wooded hills, Ihave seen him lift his hand and bid us hark. And when we had listeneda moment, our eyes wide with wonder, he would turn and say in a low,half-whispered tone: ''S a swift' I suppose we needed more the fear ofGod, but the young children of the pioneer needed also the fear of thewoods or they would have strayed to their death in them.
A big bass viol, taller than himself, had long been the solace of hisSundays. After he had shaved--a ceremony so solemn that it seemed a riteof his religion--that sacred viol was uncovered. He carried it sometimesto the back piazza and sometimes to the barn, where the horses shook andtrembled at the roaring thunder of the strings. When he began playingwe children had to get well out of the way, and keep our distance. Iremember now the look of him, then--his thin face, his soft black eyes,his long nose, the suit of broadcloth, the stock and standing collarand, above all, the solemnity in his manner when that big devil of athing was leaning on his breast.
As to his playing I have never heard a more fearful sound in any time ofpeace or one less creditable to a Christian. Weekdays he was addicted tothe milder sin of the flute and, after chores, if there were no one totalk with him, he would sit long and pour his soul into that magic barof boxwood.
Uncle Eb had another great accomplishment. He was what they call in thenorth country 'a natural cooner'. After nightfall, when the corn wasripening, he spoke in a whisper and had his ear cocked for coons. But heloved all kinds of good fun.
So this man had a boy in his heart and a boy in his basket that eveningwe left the old house. My father and mother and older brother had beendrowned in the lake, where they had gone for a day of pleasure. I hadthen a small understanding of my loss, hat I have learned since thatthe farm was not worth the mortgage and that everything had to be sold.Uncle Eb and I--a little lad, a very little lad of six--were all thatwas left of what had been in that home. Some were for sending me to thecounty house; but they decided, finally, to turn me over to a dissoluteuncle, with some allowance for my keep. Therein Uncle Eb was tobe reckoned with. He had set his heart on keeping me, but he was afarm-hand without any home or visible property and not, therefore, inthe mind of the authorities, a proper guardian. He had me with him inthe old house, and the very night he heard they were coming after me inthe morning, we started on our journey. I remember he was a long timetying packages of bread and butter and tea and boiled eggs to the rimof the basket, so that they hung on the outside. Then he put a woollenshawl and an oilcloth blanket on the bottom, pulled the straps over hisshoulders and buckled them, standing before the looking-glass, and, hangput on my cap and coat, stood me on the table, and stooped so that Icould climb into the basket--a pack basket, that he had used in hunting,the t
op a little smaller than the bottom. Once in, I could standcomfortably or sit facing sideways, my back and knees wedged from portto starboard. With me in my place he blew out the lantern and groped hisway to the road, his cane in one hand, his rifle in the other. Fred, ourold dog--a black shepherd, with tawny points--came after us. UncleEb scolded him and tried to send him back, but I pleaded for the poorcreature and that settled it, he was one of our party.
'Dunno how we'll feed him,' said Uncle Eb. 'Our own mouths are bigenough t' take all we can carry, but I hain' no heart t' leave 'im all'lone there.'
I was old for my age, they tell me, and had a serious look and a wiseway of talking, for a boy so young; but I had no notion of what laybefore or behind us.
'Now, boy, take a good look at the old house,' I remember he whisperedto me at the gate that night ''Tain't likely ye'll ever see it ag'in.Keep quiet now,' he added, letting down the bars at the foot of thelane. 'We're goin' west an' we mustn't let the grass grow under us. Gott'be purty spry I can tell ye.'
It was quite dark and he felt his way carefully down the cow-paths intothe broad pasture. With every step I kept a sharp lookout for swifts,and the moon shone after a while, making my work easier.
I had to hold my head down, presently, when the tall brush began to whipthe basket and I heard the big boots of Uncle Eb ripping the briars.Then we came into the blackness of the thick timber and I could hear himfeeling his way over the dead leaves with his cane. I got down, shortly,and walked beside him, holding on to the rifle with one hand. Westumbled, often, and were long in the trail before we could see themoonlight through the tree columns. In the clearing I climbed to myseat again and by and by we came to the road where my companion sat downresting his load on a boulder.
'Pretty hot, Uncle Eb, pretty hot,' he said to himself, fanning his browwith that old felt hat he wore everywhere. 'We've come three mile ermore without a stop an' I guess we'd better rest a jiffy.'
My legs ached too, and I was getting very sleepy. I remember the joltof the basket as he rose, and hearing him say, 'Well, Uncle Eb, I guesswe'd better be goin'.'
The elbow that held my head, lying on the rim of the basket, was alreadynumb; but the prickling could no longer rouse me, and half-dead withweariness, I fell asleep. Uncle Eb has told me since, that I tumbled outof the basket once, and that he had a time of it getting me in again,but I remember nothing more of that day's history.
When I woke in the morning, I could hear the crackling of fire, and feltvery warm and cosy wrapped in the big shawl. I got a cheery greetingfrom Uncle Eb, who was feeding the fire with a big heap of sticks thathe had piled together. Old Fred was licking my hands with his roughtongue, and I suppose that is what waked me. Tea was steeping in thelittle pot that hung over the fire, and our breakfast of boiled eggs andbread and butter lay on a paper beside it. I remember well the sceneof our little camp that morning. We had come to a strange country, andthere was no road in sight. A wooded hill lay back of us, and, justbefore, ran a noisy little brook, winding between smooth banks, througha long pasture into a dense wood. Behind a wall on the opposite shore agreat field of rustling corn filled a broad valley and stood higher thana man's head.
While I went to wash my face in the clear water Uncle Eb was huskingsome ears of corn that he took out of his pocket, and had them roastingover the fire in a moment. We ate heartily, giving Fred two big slicesof bread and butter, packing up with enough remaining for another day.Breakfast over we doused the fire and Uncle Eb put on his basket He madeafter a squirrel, presently, with old Fred, and brought him down out ofa tree by hurling stones at him and then the faithful follower of ourcamp got a bit of meat for his breakfast. We climbed the wall, as heate, and buried ourselves in the deep corn. The fragrant, silky tasselsbrushed my face and the corn hissed at our intrusion, crossing its greensabers in our path. Far in the field my companion heaped a little of thesoft earth for a pillow, spread the oil cloth between rows and, as welay down, drew the big shawl over us. Uncle Eb was tired after the toilof that night and went asleep almost as soon as he was down. Before Idropped off Fred came and licked my face and stepped over me, his tailwagging for leave, and curled upon the shawl at my feet. I could see nosky in that gloomy green aisle of corn. This going to bed in the morningseemed a foolish business to me that day and I lay a long time lookingup at the rustling canopy overhead. I remember listening to the wavesthat came whispering out of the further field, nearer and nearer, untilthey swept over us with a roaring swash of leaves, like that of waterflooding among rocks, as I have heard it often. A twinge of homesicknesscame to me and the snoring of Uncle Eb gave me no comfort. I remembercovering my head and crying softly as I thought of those who had goneaway and whom I was to meet in a far country, called Heaven, whither wewere going. I forgot my sorrow, finally, in sleep. When I awoke it hadgrown dusk under the corn. I felt for Uncle Eb and he was gone. Then Icalled to him.
'Hush, boy! lie low,' he whispered, bending over me, a sharp look in hiseye.' 'Fraid they're after us.'
He sat kneeling beside me, holding Fred by the collar and listening. Icould hear voices, the rustle of the corn and the tramp of feet nearby. It was thundering in the distance--that heavy, shaking thunder thatseems to take hold of the earth, and there were sounds in the cornlike the drawing of sabers and the rush of many feet. The noisy thunderclouds came nearer and the voices that had made us tremble were nolonger heard. Uncle Eb began to fasten the oil blanket to the stalks ofcorn for a shelter. The rain came roaring over us. The sound of it waslike that of a host of cavalry coming at a gallop. We lay bracing thestalks, the blanket tied above us and were quite dry for a time. Therain rattled in the sounding sheaves and then came flooding down thesteep gutters. Above us beam and rafter creaked, swaying, and showingglimpses of the dark sky. The rain passed--we could hear the lastbattalion leaving the field--and then the tumult ended as suddenly asit began. The corn trembled a few moments and hushed to a faint whisper.Then we could hear only the drip of raindrops leaking through the greenroof. It was dark under the corn.