The Guns of Bull Run: A Story of the Civil War's Eve, Joseph A. Altsheler [best book series to read txt] 📗

truth. When she come up the Wilderness Road from Virginia in the Revolution she was already a young woman. She's knowed Dan'l Boone and Simon Kenton an' all them gran' old fellers. A tremenjous interestin' old lady is my Aunt Suse, colonel."

"I've no doubt of it, Mr. Jarvis." said Colonel Kenton, "but I don't think I can wait a second longer for a cup of that coffee of yours. It smells so good that if you don't give it to me I'll have to take it from you."

Jarvis grinned cheerfully. Harry saw that his father had already made a skillful appeal to the mountaineer's pride.

"Ike, you lunkhead," he said to his nephew, "I told the colonel to set, but we did'nt give him anythin' to set on. Pull up them blocks o' wood fur him an' his son. Now you'll take breakfast with us, won't you, colonel? The bacon an' the corn cakes are ready, too."

"Of course we will," said the colonel, "and gladly, too. It makes me young again to eat this way in the fresh air of a cool morning."

Samuel Jarvis shone as a host. The breakfast was served on a smooth stump put on board for that purpose. The coffee was admirable, and the bacon and thin corn cakes were cooked beautifully. Good butter was spread over the corn cakes, and Harry and his father were surprised at the number they ate. Ike, addressed by his uncle variously and collectively as "lunkhead," "nephew," and "Ike," served. He rarely spoke, but always grinned. Harry found later that while he had little use for his vocal organs he invariably enjoyed life.

"Colonel," said Jarvis, at about the tenth corn cake, "be you fellers down here a-goin' to fight?"

"I suppose we are, Mr. Jarvis!"

"An' is your son thar goin' right into the middle of it?"

"I can't keep him from it, Mr. Jarvis, but he isn't going to stay here in Kentucky. Other plans have been made for him. When are you going back up the Kentucky, Mr. Jarvis?"

"This raft was bargained fur before it started. All I've got to do is to turn it over to its new owners today, go to the bank an' get the money. Then me an' this lunkhead, Ike, my nephew, both bein' of an inquirin' mind, want to do some sight-seein', but I reckon we'll start back in about two days in the boat that you see tied to the stern of the raft."

"Would you take a passenger in the boat? It's a large one."

Samuel Jarvis pursed his lips.

"Depends on who it is," he replied. "It takes a lot o' time, goin' up stream, to get back to our start, an' a cantankerous passenger in as narrow a place as a rowboat would make it mighty onpleasant for me an' this lunkhead, Ike, my nephew. Wouldn't it, Ike?"

Ike grinned and nodded.

"The passenger that I'm speaking of wouldn't be a passenger altogether," said Colonel Kenton. "He'd like to be one of the crew also, and I don't think he'd make trouble. Anyway, he's got a claim on you already. Having fished him out of the river, where he was unconscious, it's your duty to take care of him for a while. It's my son Harry, who wants to get across the mountains to Virginia, and we'll be greatly obliged to you if you'll take him."

Colonel Kenton had a most winning manner. He already liked Jarvis, and Jarvis liked him.

"I reckon your son is all right," said Jarvis, "an' if he gits cantankerous we kin just pitch him overboard into the Kentucky. But I can't undertake sich a contract without consultin' my junior partner, this lunkhead, my nephew, Ike Simmons. Ike, are you willin' to take Colonel Kenton's son back with us? Ef you're willin' say 'Yes,' ef you ain't willin' say 'No.'"

Ike said nothing, but grinned and nodded.

"The resolution is passed an' Harry Kenton is accepted," said Jarvis. "We start day after tomorrow mornin', early."

Breakfast was finished and Colonel Kenton rose and thanked them. He still said nothing about pay. But after he and Harry had entered the town, he said:

"You couldn't have better friends, Harry. Both the man and boy are as true as steel, and, as they have no intention of taking part in the war, they will just suit you as traveling companions."

They spent the larger part of that day in buying the boy's equipment, doing it as quietly as possible, as the colonel wished his son to depart without attracting any notice. In such times as those secrecy was much to be desired. A rifle, pistols, plenty of ammunition, an extra suit of clothes, a pair of blankets, and a good supply of money were all that he took. One small package which contained a hundred dollars in gold coins he put in an inside pocket of his waistcoat.

"You are to give that to Jarvis just after you start," said the colonel. "We cannot pay him directly for saving you, because he will not take it, but you can insist that this is for your passage."

They were all at the cove before dawn on the appointed morning. Colonel Kenton was to say Harry's good-bye for him to his friends. The whole departure had been arranged with so much skill that they alone knew of it. The boat was strong, shaped well, and had two pairs of oars. A heavy canvas sheet could be erected as a kind of awning or tent in the rear, in case of rain. They carried plenty of food, and Jarvis said that in addition they were more than likely to pick up a deer or two on the way. Both he and Ike carried long-barreled rifles.

The three stepped into the boat.

"Good-bye, Harry," said the colonel, reaching down a strong hand that trembled.

"Good-bye, father," said Harry, returning the clasp with another strong hand that trembled also.

People in that region were not demonstrative. Family affection was strong, but they were reared on the old, stern Puritan plan, and the handshake and the brief words were all. Then Jarvis and his silent nephew bent to the oars and the boat shot up the deep channel of the Kentucky.

Harry looked back, and in the dusk saw his father still standing at the edge of the cove. He waved a hand and the colonel waved back. Then they disappeared around a curve of the hills, and the first light of dawn began to drift over the Kentucky.

Harry was silent for a long time. He was becoming used to sudden and hard traveling and danger, but the second parting with his father moved him deeply. Since he had been twelve or thirteen years of age, they had been not only father and son, but comrades, and, in the intimate association, he had acquired more of a man's mind than was usual in one of his years. He felt now, since he was going to the east and the colonel was remaining in the west, that the parting was likely to be long—perhaps forever.

It was no morbid feeling. It was the consciousness that a great and terrible war was at hand. Although but a youth, he had been in the forefront of things. He had been at Montgomery and Sumter, and he had seen the fire and zeal of the South. He had been at Frankfort, too, and he had seen how the gathering force of the massive North had refused to be moved. His father and his friends, with all their skill and force, strengthened by the power of kinship and sentiment, had been unable to take Kentucky out of the Union.

Harry was so thoroughly absorbed in these thoughts that he did not realize how very long he remained silent. He was sitting in the stern of the boat, with a face naturally joyous, heavily overcast. Jarvis and Ike were rowing and with innate delicacy they did not disturb him. They, too, said nothing. But they were powerful oarsmen, and they sent the heavy skiff shooting up the stream. The Kentucky, a deep river at any time, was high from the spring floods, and the current offered but little resistance. The man of mighty sinews and the boy of sinews almost as mighty, pulled a long and regular stroke, without any quickening of the breath.

The dawn deepened into the full morning. The silver of the river became blue, with a filmy gold mist spread over it by the rising sun. High banks crested with green enclosed them on either side, and beyond lay higher hills, their slopes and summits all living green. The singing of birds came from the bushes on the banks, and a sudden flash of flame told where a scarlet tanager had crossed.

The last house of Frankfort dropped behind them, and soon the boat was shooting along the deep channel cut by the Kentucky through the Bluegrass, then the richest and most beautiful region of the west, abounding in famous men and in the height of its glory. It had never looked more splendid. The grass was deeply luxuriant and young flowers bloomed at the water's edge. The fields were divided by neat stone fences and far off Harry saw men working on the slopes.

Jarvis and Ike were still silent. The man glanced at Harry and saw that he had not yet come from his absorption, but Samuel Jarvis was a joyous soul. He was forty years old, and he had lived forty happy years. The money for his lumber was in his pocket, he did not know ache or pain, and he was going back to his home in an inmost recess of the mountains, from which high point he could view the civil war passing around him and far below. He could restrain himself no longer, and lifting up his voice he sang.

But the song, like nearly all songs the mountaineers sing, had a melancholy note.

"'Nita, 'Nita, Juanita,
Be my own fair bride."

He sang, and the wailing note, confined between the high walls of the stream, took on a great increase in volume and power. Jarvis had one of those uncommon voices sometimes found among the unlearned, a deep, full tenor without a harsh note. When he sang he put his whole heart into the words, and the effect was often wonderful. Harry roused himself suddenly. He was hearing the same song that he had heard the night he went into the river locked fast in Skelly's arms.

"'Nita, 'Nita, Juanita."

rang the tenor note, rising and falling and dying away in wailing echoes, as the boat sped on. Then Harry resolutely turned his face to the future. The will has a powerful effect over the young, and when he made the effort to throw off sadness it fell easily from him. All at once he was embarked with good comrades upon a journey of tremendous interest. Jarvis noticed the change upon his face, but said nothing. He pulled with a long, slow stroke, suited to the solemn refrain of Juanita, which he continued to pour forth with his soul in every word.

They went on, deeper into the Bluegrass. The blue sky above them was now dappled with golden clouds, and the air grew warmer, but Jarvis and his nephew showed no signs of weariness. When Harry judged that the right time had come he asked to relieve Ike at the oar. Ike looked at Jarvis and Jarvis nodded to Ike. Then Ike nodded to Harry, which indicated consent.

But Harry, before taking the oar, drew a small package from his pocket and handed it to Jarvis.

"My father asked me to give you this," he said, "as a remembrance and also as some small recompense for the trouble that I will cause you on this trip."

Jarvis took it, and heard the heavy coins clink together.

"I know without openin' it that this is money," he said, "but bein' of an inquirin' turn o' mind I reckon I've got to look into it an' count it."

He did so deliberately, coin by coin, and his eyes opened a little at the size of the sum.

"It's too much," he said. "Besides you take your turn at the oars."

"It's partly as a souvenir,"