Book: 54 40 or Fight

E >> Emerson Hough >> 54 40 or Fight




She was there somewhere, but I could not see her clearly now. It was not
her voice. I took her hand, yes; but it had now none of answering clasp.
The flush was on her cheek no more. Cool, pale, sweet, all white now,
armed cap-a-pie with indifference, she looked at me as formally as
though I were a remote acquaintance. Then she would have passed.

"Elisabeth," I began; "I am just back. I have not had time--I have had
no leave from you to come to see you--to ask you--to explain--"

"Explain?" she said evenly.

"But surely you can not believe that I--"

"I only believe what seems credible, Mr. Trist."

"But you promised--that very morning you agreed--Were you out of your
mind, that--"

"I was out of my mind that morning--but not that evening."

Now she was _grande demoiselle_, patrician, superior. Suddenly I became
conscious of the dullness of my own garb. I cast a quick glance over my
figure, to see whether it had not shrunken.

"But that is not it, Elisabeth--a girl may not allow a man so much as
you promised me, and then forget that promise in a day. It _was_ a
promise between us. _You_ agreed that I should come; I did come. You had
given your word. I say, was that the way to treat me, coming as I did?"

"I found it possible," said she. "But, if you please, I must go. I beg
your pardon, but my Aunt Betty is waiting with the carriage."

"Why, damn Aunt Betty!" I exclaimed. "You shall not go! See, look here!"

I pulled from my pocket the little ring which I had had with me that
night when I drove out to Elmhurst in my carriage, the one with the
single gem which I had obtained hurriedly that afternoon, having never
before that day had the right to do so. In another pocket I found the
plain gold one which should have gone with the gem ring that same
evening. My hand trembled as I held these out to her.

"I prove to you what I meant. Here! I had no time! Why, Elisabeth, I was
hurrying--I was mad!--I had a right to offer you these things. I have
still the right to ask you why you did not take them? Will you not take
them now?"

She put my hand away from her gently. "Keep them," she said, "for the
owner of that other wedding gift--the one which I received."

Now I broke out. "Good God! How can I be held to blame for the act of a
drunken friend? You know Jack Dandridge as well as I do myself. I
cautioned him--I was not responsible for his condition."

"It was not that decided me."

"You could not believe it was _I_ who sent you that accursed shoe which
belonged to another woman."

"He said it came from you. Where did _you_ get it, then?"

Now, as readily may be seen, I was obliged again to hesitate. There were
good reasons to keep my lips sealed. I flushed. The red of confusion
which came to my cheek was matched by that of indignation in her own. I
could not tell her, and she could not understand, that my work for Mr.
Calhoun with that other woman was work for America, and so as sacred and
as secret as my own love for her. Innocent, I still seemed guilty.

"So, then, you do not say? I do not ask you."

"I do not deny it."

"You do not care to tell me where you got it."

"No," said I; "I will not tell you where I got it."

"Why?"

"Because that would involve another woman."

"_Involve another woman?_ Do you think, then, that on this one day of
her life, a girl likes to think of her--her lover--as involved with any
other woman? Ah, you made me begin to think. I could not help the chill
that came on my heart. Marry you?--I could not! I never could, now."

"Yet you had decided--you had told me--it was agreed--"

"I had decided on facts as I thought they were. Other facts came before
you arrived. Sir, you do me a very great compliment."

"But you loved me once," I said banally.

"I do not consider it fair to mention that now."

"I never loved that other woman. I had never seen her more than once.
You do not know her."

"Ah, is that it? Perhaps I could tell you something of one Helena von
Ritz. Is it not so?"

"Yes, that was the property of Helena von Ritz," I told her, looking her
fairly in the eye.

"Kind of you, indeed, to involve me, as you say, with a lady of her
precedents!"

Now her color was up full, and her words came crisply. Had I had
adequate knowledge of women, I could have urged her on then, and brought
on a full-fledged quarrel. Strategically, that must have been a far
happier condition than mere indifference on her part. But I did not
know; and my accursed love of fairness blinded me.

"I hardly think any one is quite just to that lady," said I slowly.

"Except Mr. Nicholas Trist! A beautiful and accomplished lady, I doubt
not, in his mind."

"Yes, all of that, I doubt not."

"And quite kind with her little gifts."

"Elisabeth, I can not well explain all that to you. I can not, on my
honor."

"Do not!" she cried, putting out her hand as though in alarm. "Do not
invoke your honor!" She looked at me again. I have never seen a look
like hers. She had been calm, cold, and again indignant, all in a
moment's time. That expression which now showed on her face was one yet
worse for me.

Still I would not accept my dismissal, but went on stubbornly: "But may
I not see your father and have my chance again? I _can not_ let it go
this way. It is the ruin of my life."

But now she was advancing, dropping down a step at a time, and her face
was turned straight ahead. The pink of her gown was matched by the pink
of her cheeks. I saw the little working of the white throat wherein some
sobs seemed stifling. And so she went away and left me.




CHAPTER XXIII

SUCCESS IN SILK

As things are, I think women are generally better creatures
than men.--_S.T. Coleridge_.


It was a part of my duties, when in Washington, to assist my chief in
his personal and official correspondence, which necessarily was very
heavy. This work we customarily began about nine of the morning. On the
following day I was on hand earlier than usual. I was done with
Washington now, done with everything, eager only to be off on the far
trails once more. But I almost forgot my own griefs when I saw my chief.
When I found him, already astir in his office, his face was strangely
wan and thin, his hands bloodless. Over him hung an air of utter
weariness; yet, shame to my own despair, energy showed in all his
actions. Resolution was written on his face. He greeted me with a smile
which strangely lighted his grim face.

"We have good news of some kind this morning, sir?" I inquired.

In answer, he motioned me to a document which lay open upon his table.
It was familiar enough to me. I glanced at the bottom. There were _two_
signatures!

"Texas agrees!" I exclaimed. "_The Dona Lucrezia has won Van Zandt's
signature!_"

I looked at him. His own eyes were swimming wet! This, then, was that
man of whom it is only remembered that he was a pro-slavery champion.

"It will be a great country," said he at last. "This once done, I shall
feel that, after all, I have not lived wholly in vain."

"But the difficulties! Suppose Van Zandt proves traitorous to us?"

"He dare not. Texas may know that he bargained with England, but he dare
not traffic with Mexico and let _that_ be known. He would not live a
day."

"But perhaps the Dona Lucrezia herself might some time prove fickle."

"_She_ dare not! She never will. She will enjoy in secret her revenge on
perfidious Albion, which is to say, perfidious Pakenham. Her nature is
absolutely different from that of the Baroness von Ritz. The Dona
Lucrezia dreams of the torch of love, not the torch of principle!"

"The public might not approve, Mr. Calhoun; but at least there _were_
advantages in this sort of aids!"

"We are obliged to find such help as we can. The public is not always
able to tell which was plot and which counterplot in the accomplishment
of some intricate things. The result excuses all. It was written that
Texas should come to this country. Now for Oregon! It grows, this idea
of democracy!"

"At least, sir, you will have done your part. Only now--"

"Only what, then?"

"We are certain to encounter opposition. The Senate may not ratify this
Texas treaty."

"The Senate will _not_ ratify," said he. "I am perfectly well advised of
how the vote will be when this treaty comes before it for ratification.
We will be beaten, two to one!"

"Then, does that not end it?"

"End it? No! There are always other ways. If the people of this country
wish Texas to belong to our flag, she will so belong. It is as good as
done to-day. Never look at the obstacles; look at the goal! It was this
intrigue of Van Zandt's which stood in our way. By playing one intrigue
against another, we have won thus far. We must go on winning!"

He paced up and down the room, one hand smiting the other. "Let England
whistle now!" he exclaimed exultantly. "We shall annex Texas, in full
view, indeed, of all possible consequences. There can be no
consequences, for England has no excuse left for war over Texas. I only
wish the situation were as clear for Oregon."

"There'll be bad news for our friend Senor Yturrio when he gets back to
his own legation!" I ventured.

"Let him then face that day when Mexico shall see fit to look to us for
aid and counsel. We will build a mighty country _here_, on _this_
continent!"

"Mr. Pakenham is accredited to have certain influence in our Senate."

"Yes. We have his influence exactly weighed. Yet I rejoice in at least
one thing--one of his best allies is not here."

"You mean Senor Yturrio?"

"I mean the Baroness von Ritz. And now comes on that next nominating
convention, at Baltimore."

"What will it do?" I hesitated.

"God knows. For me, I have no party. I am alone! I have but few friends
in all the world"--he smiled now--"you, my boy, as I said, and Doctor
Ward and a few women, all of whom hate each other."

I remained silent at this shot, which came home to me; but he smiled,
still grimly, shaking his head. "Rustle of silk, my boy, rustle of
silk--it is over all our maps. But we shall make these maps! Time shall
bear me witness."

"Then I may start soon for Oregon?" I demanded.

"You shall start to-morrow," he answered.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE WHOA-HAW TRAIL

There are no pleasures where women are not.
--Marie de Romba.


How shall I tell of those stirring times in such way that readers who
live in later and different days may catch in full their flavor? How
shall I write now so that at a later time men may read of the way
America was taken, may see what America then was and now is, and what
yet, please God! it may be? How shall be set down that keen zest of a
nation's youth, full of ambition and daring, full of contempt for
obstacles, full of a vast and splendid hope? How shall be made plain
also that other and stronger thing which so many of those days have
mentioned to me, half in reticence--that feeling that, after all, this
fever of the blood, this imperious insistence upon new lands, had under
it something more than human selfishness?

I say I wish that some tongue or brush or pen might tell the story of
our people at that time. Once I saw it in part told in color and line,
in a painting done by a master hand, almost one fit to record the
spirit of that day, although it wrought in this instance with another
and yet earlier time. In this old canvas, depicting an early Teutonic
tribal wandering, appeared some scores of human figures, men and women
half savage in their look, clad in skins, with fillets of hide for head
covering; men whose beards were strong and large, whose limbs, wrapped
loose in hides, were strong and large; women, strong and large, who bore
burdens on their backs. Yet in the faces of all these there shone, not
savagery alone, but intelligence and resolution. With them were flocks
and herds and beasts of burden and carts of rude build; and beside these
traveled children. There were young and old men and women, and some were
gaunt and weary, but most were bold and strong. There were weapons for
all, and rude implements, as well, of industry. In the faces of all
there was visible the spirit of their yellow-bearded leader, who made
the center of the picture's foreground.

I saw the soul of that canvas--a splendid resolution--a look forward, a
purpose, an aim to be attained at no counting of cost. I say, as I gazed
at that canvas, I saw in it the columns of my own people moving westward
across the Land, fierce-eyed, fearless, doubting nothing, fearing
nothing. That was the genius of America when I myself was young. I
believe it still to be the spirit of a triumphant democracy, knowing
its own, taking its own, holding its own. They travel yet, the dauntless
figures of that earlier day. Let them not despair. No imaginary line
will ever hold them back, no mandate of any monarch ever can restrain
them.

In our own caravans, now pressing on for the general movement west of
the Missouri, there was material for a hundred canvases like yonder one,
and yet more vast. The world of our great western country was then still
before us. A stern and warlike people was resolved to hold it and
increase it. Of these west-bound I now was one. I felt the joy of that
thought. I was going West!

At this time, the new railroad from Baltimore extended no farther
westward than Cumberland, yet it served to carry one well toward the
Ohio River at Pittsburg; whence, down the Ohio and up the Missouri to
Leavenworth, my journey was to be made by steamboats. In this prosaic
travel, the days passed monotonously; but at length I found myself upon
that frontier which then marked the western edge of our accepted domain,
and the eastern extremity of the Oregon Trail.

If I can not bring to the mind of one living to-day the full picture of
those days when this country was not yet all ours, and can not restore
to the comprehension of those who never were concerned with that life
the picture of that great highway, greatest path of all the world,
which led across our unsettled countries, that ancient trail at least
may be a memory. It is not even yet wiped from the surface of the earth.
It still remains in part, marked now no longer by the rotting
head-boards of its graves, by the bones of the perished ones which once
traveled it; but now by its ribands cut through the turf, and lined by
nodding prairie flowers.

The old trail to Oregon was laid out by no government, arranged by no
engineer, planned by no surveyor, supported by no appropriation. It
sprang, a road already created, from the earth itself, covering two
thousand miles of our country. Why? Because there was need for that
country to be covered by such a trail at such a time. Because we needed
Oregon. Because a stalwart and clear-eyed democracy needs America and
will have it. That was the trail over which our people outran their
leaders. If our leaders trifle again, once again we shall outrun them.

There were at this date but four places of human residence in all the
two thousand miles of this trail, yet recent as had been the first hoofs
and wheels to mark it, it was even then a distinct and unmistakable
path. The earth has never had nor again can have its like. If it was a
path of destiny, if it was a road of hope and confidence, so was it a
road of misery and suffering and sacrifice; for thus has the democracy
always gained its difficult and lasting victories. I think that it was
there, somewhere, on the old road to Oregon, sometime in the silent
watches of the prairie or the mountain night, that there was fought out
the battle of the Old World and the New, the battle between oppressors
and those who declared they no longer would be oppressed.

Providentially for us, an ignorance equal to that of our leaders existed
in Great Britain. For us who waited on the banks of the Missouri, all
this ignorance was matter of indifference. Our men got their beliefs
from no leaders, political or editorial, at home or abroad. They waited
only for the grass to come.

Now at last the grass did begin to grow upon the eastern edge of the
great Plains; and so I saw begin that vast and splendid movement across
our continent which in comparison dwarfs all the great people movements
of the earth. Xenophon's March of the Ten Thousand pales beside this of
ten thousand thousands. The movements of the Goths and Huns, the
Vandals, the Cimri--in a way, they had a like significance with this,
but in results those migrations did far less in the history of the
world; did less to prove the purpose of the world.

I watched the forming of our caravan, and I saw again that canvas which
I have mentioned, that picture of the savages who traveled a thousand
years before Christ was born. Our picture was the vaster, the more
splendid, the more enduring. Here were savages born of gentle folk in
part, who never yet had known repulse. They marched with flocks and
herds and implements of husbandry. In their faces shone a light not less
fierce than that which animated the dwellers of the old Teutonic
forests, but a light clearer and more intelligent. Here was the
determined spirit of progress, here was the agreed insistence upon an
_equal opportunity!_ Ah! it was a great and splendid canvas which might
have been painted there on our Plains--the caravans west-bound with the
greening grass of spring--that hegira of Americans whose unheard command
was but the voice of democracy itself.

We carried with us all the elements of society, as has the Anglo-Saxon
ever. Did any man offend against the unwritten creed of fair play, did
he shirk duty when that meant danger to the common good, then he was
brought before a council of our leaders, men of wisdom and fairness,
chosen by the vote of all; and so he was judged and he was punished. At
that time there was not west of the Missouri River any one who could
administer an oath, who could execute a legal document, or perpetuate
any legal testimony; yet with us the law marched _pari passu_ across the
land. We had leaders chosen because they were fit to lead, and leaders
who felt full sense of responsibility to those who chose them. We had
with us great wealth in flocks and herds--five thousand head of cattle
went West with our caravan, hundreds of horses; yet each knew his own
and asked not that of his neighbor. With us there were women and little
children and the gray-haired elders bent with years. Along our road we
left graves here and there, for death went with us. In our train also
were many births, life coming to renew the cycle. At times, too, there
were rejoicings of the newly wed in our train. Our young couples found
society awheel valid as that abiding under permanent roof.

At the head of our column, we bore the flag of our Republic. On our
flanks were skirmishers, like those guarding the flanks of an army. It
_was_ an army--an army of our people. With us marched women. With us
marched home. _That_ was the difference between our cavalcade and that
slower and more selfish one, made up of men alone, which that same year
was faring westward along the upper reaches of the Canadian Plains. That
was why we won. It was because women and plows were with us.

Our great column, made up of more than one hundred wagons, was divided
into platoons of four, each platoon leading for a day, then falling
behind to take the bitter dust of those in advance. At noon we parted
our wagons in platoons, and at night we drew them invariably into a
great barricade, circular in form, the leading wagon marking out the
circle, the others dropping in behind, the tongue of each against the
tail-gate of the wagon ahead, and the last wagon closing up the gap. Our
circle completed, the animals were unyoked and the tongues were chained
fast to the wagons next ahead; so that each night we had a sturdy
barricade, incapable of being stampeded by savages, whom more than once
we fought and defeated. Each night we set out a guard, our men taking
turns, and the night watches in turn rotating, so that each man got his
share of the entire night during the progress of his journey. Each morn
we rose to the notes of a bugle, and each day we marched in order, under
command, under a certain schedule. Loosely connected, independent,
individual, none the less already we were establishing a government. We
took the American Republic with us across the Plains!

This manner of travel offered much monotony, yet it had its little
pleasures. For my own part, my early experience in Western matters
placed me in charge of our band of hunters, whose duty it was to ride at
the flanks of our caravan each day and to kill sufficient buffalo for
meat. This work of the chase gave us more to do than was left for those
who plodded along or rode bent over upon the wagon seats; yet even for
these there was some relaxation. At night we met in little social
circles around the camp-fires. Young folk made love; old folk made
plans here as they had at home. A church marched with us as well as the
law and courts; and, what was more, the schools went also; for by the
faint flicker of the firelight many parents taught their children each
day as they moved westward to their new homes. History shows these
children were well taught. There were persons of education and culture
with us.

Music we had, and of a night time, even while the coyotes were calling
and the wind whispering in the short grasses of the Plains, violin and
flute would sometimes blend their voices, and I have thus heard songs
which I would not exchange in memory for others which I have heard in
surroundings far more ambitious. Sometimes dances were held on the
greensward of our camps. Regularly the Sabbath day was observed by at
least the most part of our pilgrims. Upon all our party there seemed to
sit an air of content and certitude. Of all our wagons, I presume one
was of greatest value. It was filled with earth to the brim, and in it
were fruit trees planted, and shrubs; and its owner carried seeds of
garden plants. Without doubt, it was our mission and our intent to take
with us such civilization as we had left behind.

So we marched, mingled, and, as some might have said, motley in our
personnel--sons of some of the best families in the South, men from the
Carolinas and Virginia, Georgia and Louisiana, men from Pennsylvania and
Ohio; Roundhead and Cavalier, Easterner and Westerner, Germans, Yankees,
Scotch-Irish--all Americans. We marched, I say, under a form of
government; yet each took his original marching orders from his own
soul. We marched across an America not yet won. Below us lay the Spanish
civilization--Mexico, possibly soon to be led by Britain, as some
thought. North of us was Canada, now fully alarmed and surely led by
Britain. West of us, all around us, lay the Indian tribes. Behind, never
again to be seen by most of us who marched, lay the homes of an earlier
generation. But we marched, each obeying the orders of his own soul.
Some day the song of this may be sung; some day, perhaps, its canvas may
be painted.




CHAPTER XXV

OREGON

The spell and the light of each path we pursue--
If woman be there, there is happiness too.
--Moore.


Twenty miles a day, week in and week out, we edged westward up the
Platte, in heat and dust part of the time, often plagued at night by
clouds of mosquitoes. Our men endured the penalties of the journey
without comment. I do not recall that I ever heard even the weakest
woman complain. Thus at last we reached the South Pass of the Rockies,
not yet half done our journey, and entered upon that portion of the
trail west of the Rockies, which had still two mountain ranges to cross,
and which was even more apt to be infested by the hostile Indians. Even
when we reached the ragged trading post, Fort Hall, we had still more
than six hundred miles to go.

By this time our forces had wasted as though under assault of arms. Far
back on the trail, many had been forced to leave prized belongings,
relies, heirlooms, implements, machinery, all conveniences. The finest
of mahogany blistered in the sun, abandoned and unheeded. Our trail
might have been followed by discarded implements of agriculture, and by
whitened bones as well. Our footsore teams, gaunt and weakened, began to
faint and fall. Horses and oxen died in the harness or under the yoke,
and were perforce abandoned where they fell. Each pound of superfluous
weight was cast away as our motive power thus lessened. Wagons were
abandoned, goods were packed on horses, oxen and cows. We put cows into
the yoke now, and used women instead of men on the drivers' seats, and
boys who started riding finished afoot. Our herds were sadly lessened by
theft of the Indians, by death, by strayings which our guards had not
time to follow up. If a wagon lagged it was sawed shorter to lessen its
weight Sometimes the hind wheels were abandoned, and the reduced
personal belongings were packed on the cart thus made, which
nevertheless traveled on, painfully, slowly, yet always going ahead. In
the deserts beyond Fort Hall, wagons disintegrated by the heat. Wheels
would fall apart, couplings break under the straining teams. Still more
here was the trail lined with boxes, vehicles, furniture, all the
flotsam and jetsam of the long, long Oregon Trail.

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