Before the steam had been let off, or the paddles ceased to play, the impatient boy determined to spring on board, and trusting to his pole, which he fixed, as he thought, firmly on the platform, he attempted to swing himself into the vessel — a distance of at least twelve feet. So active and well practised were his young limbs, that it is probable he would have succeeded, had not the slippery log on which he had placed his pole permitted it to give way at the very moment its firmness was most essential to his safety, and the instant it sank from his hand the adventurous child fell headlong into the water.
Above two hundred persons saw the accident; and the boy’s greatest danger now arose from the variety and eagerness of the measures put in practice to save him. But it appeared that the little fellow never lost his presence of mind for a moment; for, without paying the slightest attention to the contradictory cries of “Hold fast to this rope” from one quarter, and “Catch by this tub” from another, the bold boy, who swam like an otter, deliberately turned from the dangerous projection of the gallery, and marking the moment when the open gangway approached, sprang upwards, seized its railing, and in an instant stood unharmed on board the boat.
That awful peculiarity of the Mississippi river, which causes it to bear away whatever sinks beneath its surface beyond the reach and power of the most skilful search that would recover it, is so well known to every inhabitant of the region, that the sight of a human being falling into its fatal wave creates a much stronger sensation than any similar accident would do elsewhere. Young Whitlaw, therefore, was instantly surrounded by a crowd of anxious and friendly faces.
“A pretty considerable escape you’ve had, my boy!” exclaimed one.
“Your fate is not drowning, at any rate, you young devil,” cried another.
“A famous swimmer you are, and that’s a fact, boy,” observed a third.
“And a bold heart as ever I see,” observed a fourth.
“Are you not wet to the skin, my poor fellow?” inquired a kind-hearted gentleman, shuddering sympathetically.
“And what does it signify if I be?” replied the boy with an accent which implied more scorn than gratitude. “But, I say,” he continued, fixing his eyes on a very handsome rifle which the compassionate gentleman held in his hand, “what will you sell that there rifle for?” The offended philanthropist turned away, muttering, “Impudent young varment!” or some such phrase, while a chorus of laughter from those around testified the general feeling of admiration excited by the dauntless spirits of the saucy boy.
There was one spectator, however, who, though by no means less observant than the rest, had hitherto only looked on in silence. He remarked that the boy followed the rifle with his eyes as the indignant bearer of it walked away; and wisely judging that it was Jonathan Jefferson’s innate love of barter which had dictated the question, and no idle ebullition of impertinence, as the mistaken laughers imagined, he determined to find out who it was, who at so early an age evinced such undaunted courage, a wit so ready at command, and a disposition for bargain-making which, even at a moment so agitating, did not forsake him.
The observant and judicious stranger continued to keep his eye fixed on the boy, but did not address him till the crowd which had witnessed his escape was dispersed, and then, laying a hand gently on his shoulder, he said— “What is your name, my fine fellow?”
“Jonathan Jefferson Whitlaw,” replied the boy civilly: for he looked up into the inquirer’s face as he addressed him, and a something, which if it be not instinct, it would be difficult to name, whispered to him that he was rich.
“Jonathan Jefferson?” replied the stranger; “a good name that, boy — an exceeding good name: I expect your father’s no fool. Who is your father, my lad? Where do you come from?”
“My father is a first-rate capital backwoodsman, and we keeps a store; and that’s Aunt Cli milking our own cow for the steward; and I sell all the skins I can snare, and I’ve got an axe of my own.”
“Can you read, my boy?”
“No,” — responded Jonathan Jefferson in an accent somewhat humbled.
“Will you work for me, and do all that I bid you, if I take you home with me and have you taught to read?”
The cautious child did not immediately reply — and at this moment the bell was rung which gave the signal for departure.
“Off with you, my lad,” cried the steward as he stepped on board with his jug of milk, “or we shall run away with you.”
The boy’s eyes were still fixed on the face of the person who had addressed him, as he stepped towards the edge of the boat preparatory to springing on shore, but the important question was still left unanswered.
“I shall stop here again, perhaps, coming down,” said the stranger, nodding to him; “and I will come on shore and see you again, and then you shall answer me.”
When the labours of that eventful day were ended, and the family were assembled round the evening meal, young Whitlaw, after a silence of several minutes, said abruptly, “Father! — why can’t I read?”
The question seemed a puzzling one; for the person to whom it was addressed repeated the words twice over before he attempted to answer it.
“Why can’t you read, boy? — why can’t you read? Well, now, if that don’t beat all natur! When did ever a body hear such a question from a brat of a chicken, and he but ten years old this very month?”
As this speech seemed to be addressed, like most of Mr. Whitlaw’s speeches, to his sister Clio, it was his sister Clio who answered it.
“Well now, Bub, I’ll tell you a piece of my mind: you’ll find no good reason, if you look about, from Georgia to Maine, why this ‘ere smart chap of our’n shouldn’t be President — and so I say too, why don’t the boy be learnt to read?”
“The vixen’s mad, as sure as the moon’s in heaven!” exclaimed the master of the dwelling with much vehemence; yet something in his eye and his voice taught those whose interest it was to understand his humour, that he was neither displeased nor indifferent.
“What put that into your head, boy?” said he, turning short round towards his son, and rousing him from a reverie into which he seemed to have fallen, by raising the toe of his hobnailed shoe so as gently to touch the boy’s chin— “What put reading into your head?”
“That don’t much matter, I expect,” replied the young republican; “but I’ve got it into my head somehow, I can tell you that — and I guess that if I can’t be learned here, I’ll run, away to where I can.”
Clio again looked in her brother’s face with some anxiety, not feeling quite sure whether her darling might not this time get a kick in good earnest; but she saw there was nothing to fear.
“You’re a chip of the old block, I calculate, my fine one,” said the proud father, eyeing the boy from top to toe; “but I shall play another sort of game with you, from what my father was often playing with me — I’ll make a gentleman off-hand of thee, boy — so no need to run.”
“Father, I must begin reading to-morrow.”
“Well, now, Jonathan,” said the father, laughing, “my notion is that you had best wait a spell for it. Next month I shall go down to Natchez for goods; and if you’ll behave yourself, and not badger me about it, I’ll take you with me, and maybe leave you at some real right-down college for a few quarters.”
“My — !” exclaimed the neglected Portia, whose opinion was seldom asked on any subject, “you won’t leave him that far away, Jonathan, will you?”
“Your boy’ll never be in Congress, Porchy, if he can’t read,” said Clio kindly; “so don’t you put a spoke in his wheel, anyhow. But, Bub,” she continued, “why for should we all bide here, if he be to take his learning at Natchez? You and I know, don’t we, that you may open a store any day in a grander place than this? And I mind, when first we put foot at Mohana Creek, that you said, ‘That very creek shall make dollars enough in ten years to open store at Natchez:’ and isn’t it ten years? and arn’t the dollars made? and wouldn’t
it be an elegant sight to see us all set off in a steamer? and couldn’t you sell the good-will for silver?”
These pithy questions followed each other with such rapidity — for the eloquence of Clio seemed to warm as she proceded — that it was not very surprising that she received no answer to them. It was not, however, a knavish speech that slept in a foolish ear; for it suggested many thoughts which, working with those already awakened by young Jonathan’s wilfulness, produced the results that will hereafter be seen.
For the present, however, all further discussion of the subject was suspended; for the voice which had hitherto been absolute beneath that roof pronounced —
“Now let us all go to bed.”
And not another syllable was uttered by any of them that night.
CHAPTER III.
YOUNG as Jonathan Jefferson was at this time, he understood his father’s ways and humours, and how to manage them too, better than many highly-educated youths of twice his age, who, having passed all their vacations under the paternal room, have only arrived at the conclusion that their father was — their father, without troubling themselves to attribute to him any other characteristics whatever. Far different was the case with young Whitlaw. If he wanted some cents with which to chaffer for some coveted article on board the next steam-boat, he watched his moment for asking for them as carefully and as skillfully as a hawk for the instant of seizing her prey. Jonathan Jefferson already loved a quid, yet he would suffer days and days to elapse without ever asking the parental hand to share the luxury with him; but Jonathan Jefferson was seldom or never without a store of prime chewing tobacco in the pocket of his jacket, given to him cheerfully and willingly by his careful father.
It was this principle of “watching his time” which sent the ambitious youth so silently and obediently to bed, in the manner recorded in the last chapter. His young mind was, however, stiffly decided upon leaving Mohana Creek one way or another before the winter set in, as Napoleon’s was upon marrying an Austrian Archduchess. As he laid his head on his bag of Turkey feathers, he determined not to go to sleep till he had thought a great deal about the stranger, and about Natchez, and about being a great man. But here the universal law of nature conquered the force of incipient character; and no sooner had he decided what to think of, than Jonathan Jefferson dropped asleep.
With the earliest light, however, he was beyond the reach of any human eye, seated at the foot of a maple-tree, where the prickly pear was not. The spot had no other advantage, except indeed that it was so shut in by brambles, that even Aunt Cli had never discovered the retreat, though it was one to which he constantly resorted when it was his wish and will to be alone. Another book might have chosen one of the many nooks within his reach which the wild vine embellished with its graceful and fragrant festoons; but little Jonathan Jefferson had “no such stuff in his thoughts;” he wanted a place where he could sit easy, count his levys and picciunes without being looked at, and be very sure that nobody could find him out till he chose to let them.
Here then he sat down to meditate on the new hopes that had broken in upon them.
Had not the boy spent so many brilliant half-hours on board the steamboats, his native shed and the dark world around it would not thus early have appeared so contemptible in his aspiring eyes; but as it was, he never left the silk curtains, gilt mouldings, gay sofas, and handsome mirrors of the cabin behind him, without wishing that he might live among them for ever, and never, never more behold the dirty dismal “get-along” style of living to which he seemed destined.
The words of the well-dressed, rich-looking stranger resounded in his ears —
“Will you work for me, if I take you home with me, and have you taught to read?”
“Work for him?” soliloquised the boy, he can’t give me harder work than father; and when I’m learning to read, I can’t be working, anyhow. — Go home with him? Why, his home must be as fine as a steam-boat, to look at his beautiful hat and white shirt, and shiny boots. I’d run away and go home with him, if ’twasn’t for leaving Aunt Cli, and having no one, maybe, to give me all the nice bits at a sly time, and to praise me up everlasting for all I do.”
The idea of his aunt led his thoughts into another direction.
“There’s no need for me to run away to anybody, if father would give me all his money, as he ought to do. They fancy I know nothing about it; as if, because I was abed, and mother snoring t’other side, I must be asleep too. But I can lie still and peep a spell; and I’ve seen father and aunt haul out as many dollars upon the table as would buy me a house as fine as a cabin, and leave a lot to count over when I went to bed besides. — If I could but get at them dollars—”
Such had his thoughts been spoken, would have been the language of the urchin as he sat scarifying the soft moss beside him with a twig that had dropped on it from the maple-tree. And then his mind wandered back again from his father, Aunt Cli, and their hoarded treasure, to the stranger, of whose offers and promises he had spoken to no one.
“And they need know nothing about it,” was the well-weighed judgement to which he came at last. “We’ll see what father means about Natchez; but if I tell him about the gentleman first, maybe he’ll do nothing at all.”
Once arrived at this conclusion, and steadfastly determined to abide by it, young Jonathan started to his feet, slipped as cautiously as an Indian through the bushes that enclosed his retreat, and walked home to eat his breakfast, and tell his father that he had set a first-rate snare which he was sure would trap a ‘possum afore night.
“Aren’t he a smart boy, Porchy?” said Clio, who wanted to attach her brother again, without directly addressing him. “Ten years old last Wednesday was a week, and hunting and snaring, and swimming and fending, as if he was twenty! Now won’t it be a burning shame if he bean’t taught to read?”
“Wait a spell, gal,” said her brother somewhat sternly, “and you shall see what metal I’m made of, if you don’t altogether know already. But don’t bother me, or my dander will be up, I tell you, and I’ll be as wrathy as an affronted alligator; and then you’ll wish you’d stayed longer a-draining the drippings from Suc-cherry, maybe.”
Clio did know something of his metal, and secretly determined never to allude again to the literary deficiencies of her nephew till the subject was started by the imperious backwoodsman himself. This truly wise resolution, so well deserving the attention of my female readers, was founded especially upon two points in his character with which she was well acquainted: namely, that Jonathan Whitlaw never abandoned a notion he had once taken into his head, till he had tried, and found it wanting either in feasibility or profit; and that he never promised to be in a passion without keeping his word.
It is probable that Jonathan the younger had come to something like the same conclusions; for that day passed away, and the morrow, and the day after it, without one word being uttered by either of them about Natchez, or the art of reading. The sickly, silly, lazy languid Portia, never troubled herself to ask for information on any subject than was proffered to her; and being on the whole pretty effectually guarded from the imperious temper of her republican husband by the ready good-nature and adroitness of his sister, she continued to “get along” as peaceably as ague, fever, and dyspepsia would let her. Poor Porchy, therefore, was not likely to break through the very diplomatic silence preserved by the other members of the household; and thus the subject which wholly occupied the minds of three out of four of the party appeared to be utterly forgotten by all.
Meanwhile other boats passed by both up and down the river, and Jonathan Jefferson’s visits were continued, though in somewhat a less animated manner; for now his father generally accompanied him, and the boy felt or fancied that he was watched by him as he proceeded in his customary pursuit of forage and adventure. On one occasion, indeed, he was utterly discomfited; for Jonathan senior having entered into conversation with a passenger going down the river, he in turn imagined that he had a domestic spy nea
r him, and, turning sharply round, commanded Jonathan junior to clear off, and assist his aunt in measuring the wood for the engine-men.
To a command uttered in such a tone, the boy well knew that prompt obedience must be given, and accordingly he did obey; but in his secret soul he determined to give up whatever hopes of wealth and dignity the vision of “a store at Natchez” had generated in his fancy, and watching patiently for the return of the stranger, to elude his father’s vigilance, put himself under the rich man’s protection, and turn his back on tyranny and Mohana Creek for ever.
The precocious lad had quite enough energy of character and decision of purpose to have executed this mental threat; and it was fortunate for the subsequent prosperity of the family that Mr. Jonathan Whitlaw had decided upon his plans before his son and heir found the opportunity of carrying into execution his own.
The day following his dismissal from the steam-boat, young Jonathan was startled by the unusual sound of a horse’s feet advancing by the narrow path which the reputation of the store had of late years cleared through the forest. Only twice before had such a phenomenon appeared at Mohana Creek, and most eager was the haste and curiosity with which the whole came forth to greet it.
Clio and the boy both instantly perceived that the guest whose approach was made in so unwonted a manner, was executed by Whitlaw; but their curiosity was excited only to be baffled: no sooner had the man alighted, and fastened his beast to a tree, than that voice whose breath was the law of the Creek pronounced its mandates thus: —
“Cli! be smart — hand me the whisky demi-john and two cups — and then clear yourself off to your suds. Porchy! Be looking up the hogs, and drive ’em home. And you, Sir Peeper,” he added, turning to the boy, who had ensconced himself very snugly behind the meal tub, “you take yourself to the bush, or the devil, or where you will, — only take care I don’t find your ears within reach of my fist.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 3
