MONSIEUR VIOLET (FISCLE PART-IV), FREDERICK MARRYAT [easy novels to read .txt] 📗

And Hospitable Farmer; To-Night He Will Be A

Murderer, In a Week He Will Have Joined the Free Bands, And Will Then

Revenge Himself Upon Society At Large, For The Injustice He Has Received

From A Small Portion Of The Community."

 

 

 

Till Then I Had Never Given Credit To My Friend For Any Great Share Of

Penetration, But He Prophesied truly. Late In the Night The Father

Announced his Intention Of Returning To His Farm, And Entered the

General Sleeping-Room Of The Hotel To Light A Cigar. A Glance Informed

Him Of All That He Wished to Know. Forty Individuals Were Ranged

Sleeping In their Blankets, Alongside Of The Walls, Which, As I Have

Observed, Were Formed of Pine Logs, With A Space Of Four Or Six Inches

Between Each: Parallel With The Wall, Next To The Yard, Lay The

Murderer Fielding.

 

 

 

The Father Left The Room, To Saddle His Horse. An Hour Afterwards The

Report Of A Rifle Was Heard, Succeeded by Screams And Cries Of "Murder!

Help! Murder!" Every One In the Sleeping-Room Was Up In a Moment, Lights

Were Procured, And The Judge Was Seen Upon His Knees With His Hands Upon

His Hinder Quarters; His Neighbour Fielding Was Dead, And The Same Ball

Which Had Passed through His Back And Chest Had Blazed the Bark Off The

Nether Parts Of This Pillar Of Texan Justice.

 

 

 

When The First Surprise Was Over, Pursuit Of The Assassin Was Resolved

Upon, And Then It Was Discovered that, In his Revenge, The Father Had

Not Lost Sight Of Prudence. All The Horses Were Loose; The Stable And

The Court-House, As Well As The Bar And Spirit-Store Of The Tavern, Were

In Flames. While The Bostonians Endeavoured to Steal What They Could,

And The Landlord Was Beating His Negroes, The Only Parties Upon Whom He

Could Vent His Fury, Our Companions Succeeded in recovering Their

Horses, And At Break Of Day, Without Any Loss But The Gold Watch Of The

Doctor, Which Had Probably Been Stolen From Him During His Sleep, We

Started for The Last Day'S Journey Which We Had To Make In texas.

 

 

 

As We Rode Away, Nothing Remained of Texan Boston Except Three Patches

Of White Ashes, And A Few Half-Burnt Logs, Nor Do I Know If That

Important City Has Ever Been Rebuilt.

Chapter XXXIII

We Were Now About Twenty Miles From The Red river, And Yet This Short

Distance Proved to Be The Most Difficult Travelling We Had Experienced

For A Long While. We Had To Cross Swamps, Lagoons, And Canebrakes, In

Which Our Horses Were Bogged continually; So That At Noon, And After A

Ride Of Six Hours, We Had Only Gained twelve Miles. We Halted upon A Dry

Knoll, And There, For The First Time Since The Morning, We Entered into

Conversation; For, Till Then, We Had Been Too Busy Scrutinizing The

Ground Before Our Horses' Feet. I Had A Great Deal To Say Both To

Gabriel And To Roche; We Were To Part The Next Morning,--They To Return

To The Comanches And The Shoshones, I To Go On To The Mormons, And

Perhaps To Europe.

 

 

 

I Could Not Laugh At The Doctor'S _Bon Mots_, For My Heart Was Full;

Till Then, I Had Never Felt How Long Intercourse, And Sharing The Same

Privations And Dangers, Will Attach Men To Each Other; And The

Perspective Of A Long Separation Rendered me Gloomier And Gloomier, As

The Time We Still Had To Pass Together Became Shorter.

 

 

 

Our Five American Companions Had Altered their First Intention Of

Travelling With Me Through The Arkansas. They Had Heard On The Way, That

Some New Thriving Cities Had Lately Sprung Up On The American Side Of

The Red river; The Doctor Was Already Speculating Upon The Fevers And

Agues Of The Ensuing Summer; The Parson Was Continually Dreaming Of A

Neat Little Church And A Buxom Wife, And The Three Lawyers, Of Rich Fees

From The Wealthy Cotton Planters. The Next Day, Therefore, I Was To Be

Alone, Among A People Less Hospitable Than The Indians, And Among Whom I

Had To Perform A Journey Of A Thousand Miles On Horseback, Constantly On

The Outskirts Of Civilization, And Consequently Exposed to All The

Dangers Of Border Travelling.

 

 

 

When We Resumed our March Through The Swampy Cane-Brake, Gabriel, Roche,

And I Kept A Little Behind Our Companions.

 

 

 

"Think Twice, Whilst It Is Yet Time," Said Gabriel To Me, "And Believe

Me, It Is Better To Rule Over Your Devoted and Attached tribe Of

Shoshones Than To Indulge In dreams Of Establishing a Western Empire;

And, Even If You Will Absolutely Make The Attempt, Why Should We Seek

The Help Of White Men? What Can We Expect From Them And Their Assistance

But Exorbitant Claims And Undue Interference? With A Few Months' Regular

Organization, The Comanches, Apaches, And Shoshones Can Be Made Equal To

Any Soldiers Of The Civilized world, And Among Them You Will Have No

Traitors."

 

 

 

I Felt The Truth Of What He Said, And For A Quarter Of An Hour I

Remained silent. "Gabriel," Replied i At Last, "I Have Now Gone Too Far

To Recede, And The Plans Which I Have Devised are Not For My Own

Advantage, But For The General Welfare Of The Shoshones And Of All The

Friendly Tribes. I Hope To Live To See Them A Great Nation, And, At All

Events, It Is Worth A Trial."

 

 

 

My Friend Shook His Head Mournfully; He Was Not Convinced, But He Knew

The Bent Of My Temper, And Was Well Aware That All He Could Say Would

Now Be Useless.

 

 

 

The Natural Buoyancy Of Our Spirits Would Not, However, Allow Us To Be

Grave Long; And When The Loud Shouts Of The Doctor Announced that He Had

Caught A Sight Of The River, We Spurred our Horses, And Soon Rejoined

Our Company. We Had By This Time Issued from The Swampy Canebrakes, And

Were Entering a Lane Between Two Rich Cotton-Fields, And At The End Of

Which Flowed the Red river; Not The Beautiful, Clear, And Transparent

Stream Running Upon A Rocky And Sandy Bed, As In the Country Inhabited

By The Comanches And Pawnee Picts, And There Termed the Colorado Of The

West; But A Red and Muddy, Yet Rapid Stream. We Agreed that We Should

Not Ferry The River That Evening, But Seek A Farm, And Have A Feast

Before Parting Company. We Learned from A Negro, That We Were In a Place

Called lost Prairie, And That Ten Minutes' Ride Down The Bank Of The

Stream Would Carry Us To Captain Finn'S Plantation. We Received this

News With Wild Glee, For Finn Was A Celebrated character, One Whose Life

Was So Full Of Strange Adventures In the Wilderness, That It Would Fill

Volumes With Hair-Breadth Encounters And Events Of Thrilling Interest.

 

 

 

Captain Finn Received us With A Cordial Welcome, For Unbounded

Hospitality Is The Invariable Characteristic Of The Older Cotton

Planters. A Great Traveller Himself, He Knew The Necessities Of A

Travelling Life, And, Before Conducting Us To The Mansion, He Guided us

To The Stables, Where Eight Intelligent Slaves, Taking Our Horses,

Rubbed them Down Before Our Eyes, And Gave Them A Plentiful Supply Of

Fodder And A Bed of Fresh Straw.

 

 

 

"That Will Do Till They Are Cool," Said Our Kind Host; "To-Night They

Will Have Their Grain And Water; Let Us Now Go To The Old Woman And See

What She Can Give Us For Supper."

 

 

 

A Circumstance Worthy Of Remark Is, That, In the Western States, A

Husband Always Calls His Wife The Old Woman, And She Calls Him The Old

Man, No Matter How Young The Couple May Be. I Have Often Heard Men Of

Twenty-Five Sending Their Slaves Upon Some Errand "To The Old Woman,"

Who Was Not Probably More Than Eighteen Years Old. A Boy Of Ten Years

Calls His Parents In the Same Way. "How Far To Little Rock?" I Once

Asked of A Little Urchin; "I Don'T Know," Answered he, "But The Old Ones

Will Tell You." A Few Yards Farther I Met The "Old Ones;" They Were

Both Young People, Not Much More Than Twenty.

 

 

 

In Mrs. Finn We Found A Stout And Plump Farmer'S Wife, But She Was A

Lady In her Manners. Born In the Wilderness, The Daughter Of One Bold

Pioneer And Married to Another, She Had Never Seen Anything But Woods,

Canebrakes, Cotton, And Negroes, And Yet, In her Kindness And

Hospitality, She Displayed a Refinement Of Feeling and Good Breeding.

She Was Daughter Of The Celebrated daniel Boone, A Name Which Has

Acquired a Reputation Even In europe. She Immediately Ransacked her

Pantry, Her Hen-Roost, And Garden, And When We Returned from The

Cotton-Mill, To Which Our Host, In his Farmer'S Pride, Had Conducted us,

We Found, Upon An Immense Table, A Meal Which Would Have Satisfied fifty

Of Those Voracious Bostonians Whom We Had Met With The Day Before At The

_Table D'Hote_.

 

 

 

Well Do I Recollect Her, As She Stood Before Us On That Glorious

Evening, Her Features Beaming With Pleasure, As She Witnessed the

Rapidity With Which We Emptied our Plates. How Happy She Would Look When

We Praised her Chickens, Her Honey, And Her Coffee; And Then She Would

Carve And Cut, Fill Again Our Cups, And Press Upon Us All The Delicacies

Of The Far West Borders, Delicacies Unknown In the Old Countries; Such

As Fried beaver-Tail, Smoked tongue Of The Buffalo-Calf, And (The

_Gourmand'S_ Dish _Par Excellence_) The Louisiana Gombo. Her Coffee,

Too, Was Superb, As She Was One Of The Few Upon The Continent Of America

Who Knew How To Prepare It.

 

 

 

After Our Supper, The Captain Conducted us Under The Piazza Attached to

The Building, Where We Found Eight Hammocks Suspended, As White As Snow.

There Our Host Disinterred from A Large Bucket Of Ice Several Bottles Of

Madeira, Which We Sipped with Great Delight: The More So As, For Our

Cane Pipes And Cheap Cavendish, Finn Substituted a Box Of Genuine

Havanna Cazadores. After Our Fatigues And Starvation, It Was More Than

Comfortable--It Was Delightful. The Doctor Vowed he Would Become A

Planter, The Parson Asked if There Were Any Widows In the Neighbourhood,

And The Lawyers Inquired if The Planters Of The Vicinity Were Any Way

Litigious. By The Bye, I Have Observed that Captain Finn Was A

Celebrated character. As We Warmed with The _Madere Frappe A Glace_, We

Pressed him To Relate Some Of His Wild Adventures, With Which Request He

Readily Complied; For He Loved to Rehearse His Former Exploits, And It

Was Not Always That He Could Narrate Them To So Numerous An Assembly. As

The Style He Employed could Only Be Understood By Individuals Who Have

Rambled upon The Borders Of The Far West, I Will Relate The Little I

Remember In my Own Way, Though I Am Conscious That The Narrative Must

Lose Much When Told By Any One But Finn Himself.

 

 

 

When Quite An Infant, He Had Been Taken By The Indians And Carried into

The Fastnesses Of The West Virginian Forests: There He Had Been Brought

Up Till He Was Sixteen Years Old, When, During an Indian War, He Was

Recaptured by A Party Of White Men. Who Were His Parents, He Could Never

Discover, And A Kind Quaker Took Him Into His House, Gave Him His Name,

And Treated him As His Own Child, Sending Him First To School, And Then

To The Philadelphia College. The Young Man, However, Was Little Fit For

The Restrictions Of A University; He Would Often Escape And Wander For

Days In the Forests, Until Hunger Would Bring Him Home Again. At Last,

He Returned to His Adopted father, Who Was Now Satisfied that His

Thoughts Were In the Wilderness, And That, In the Bustle Of A Large City

And Restraint Of Civilized life, He Would Not Live, But Linger On Till

He Drooped and Died.

 

 

 

This Discovery Was A Sad Blow To The Kind Old Man, Who Had Fondly

Anticipated that The Youngster Would Be A Kind And Grateful Companion To

Him, When Age Should Make Him Feel The Want Of Friendship; But He Was A

Just Man, And Reflecting That Perhaps A Short Year Of Rambling Would

Cure Him,