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MIKE FINK, THE KEEL-BOATMAN. |
 | MIKE FINK, THE KEEL-BOATMAN. The hive of "The bee-hunter" |  |
MIKE FINK, THE KEEL-BOATMAN.
Occasionally, may be seen on the Ohio and Mississippi
rivers singularly hearty-looking men, who would
puzzle a stranger, as to their history and age. Their
bodies always exhibit a powerful development of muscle
and bone; their cheeks are prominent, and you would
pronounce them men enjoying perfect health in middle
life, were it not for their heads, which, if not entirely
bald, will be but sparsely covered with steel-gray hair.
Another peculiarity about this people is, that they
have a singular knowledge of all the places on the river;
every bar and bend is spoken of with precision and
familiarity; every town is recollected before it was half
as large as the present, or, “when it was no town at all.”
Innumerable places are marked out by them, where once
was an Indian fight, or a rendezvous of robbers.
The manner, the language, and the dress of these
sense—the manner modest, yet full of self-reliance—the
language strong and forcible, from superiority of mind,
rather than from education—the dress studied for comfort,
rather than fashion—on the whole, you become attached
to them and court their society. The good humor—the
frankness—the practical sense—the reminiscences—the
powerful frame—all indicate a character,
at the present day anomalous; and such, indeed, is the
case, for your acquaintance will be one of the few remaining
people, now spoken of as the “Last of the keel-boatmen.”
Thirty years ago the navigation of the Western waters
was confined to this class of men; the obstacles
presented to the pursuit of commerce in those swift-running
and wayward waters had to be overcome by
physical force alone; the navigator's arm grew strong
as he guided his rude craft past the “snag” and
“sawyer,” or kept it off the no less dreaded “bar.”
Besides all this, the deep forests that covered the
river banks concealed the wily Indian, who gloated over
the shedding of blood. The qualities of the frontier
warrior, therefore, associated themselves with those of
the boatman, while these men would, when at home,
drop both these characters in that of cultivator of the
soil.
It is no wonder, then, that they were brave,
hardy, and open-handed men: their whole lives were a
hyperbolical in thought and in deed, if compared
with any other class of men. Their bravery and chivalrous
deeds were performed without a herald to proclaim
them to the world—they were the mere incidents
of a border life, considered too common to attract attention,
or outlive the time of a passing wonder. Death
has nearly destroyed the men, and obscurity is fast obliterating
the record of their deeds; but a few examples
still exist, as if to justify the truth of these wonderful
exploits, now almost wholly confined to tradition.
Among the flat-boatmen there were none who gained
more notoriety than Mike Fink. His name is still remembered
along the whole of the Ohio, as a man who
excelled his fellows in every thing,—particularly in his
rifle-shot, which was acknowledged to be unsurpassed.
Probably no man ever lived, who could complete with
Mike in the latter accomplishment. Strong as Hercules,
free from all nervous excitement, possessed of perfect
health, and familiar with his weapon from childhood;
he raised the rifle to his eye, and, having once
taken sight, it was as firmly fixed as if buried in a
rock.
The rifle was Mike's pride, and he rejoiced on all occasions
where he could bring it into use, whether it was
turned against the beast of prey or the more savage Indian:
and in his day, the last named was the common
foe with whom Mike and his associates had to contend.
On the occasion when we would particularly introduce
Mike to the reader, he had bound himself for a
while to the pursuits of trade, until a voyage from the
head-waters of the Ohio, and down the Mississippi,
could be completed. Heretofore he had kept himself
exclusively to the Ohio, but a liberal reward, and some
curiosity, prompted him to extend his business character
beyond his ordinary habits and inclinations.
In the accomplishment of this object, he lolled
carelessly over the big “sweep” that guided the “flat”
on which he officiated;—the current of the river bore the
boat swiftly along, and made his labor light. Wild and
uncultivated as Mike appeared, he loved nature, and had
a soul that sometimes felt, while admiring it, an exalted
enthusiasm.
The beautiful Ohio was his favorite stream. From
where it runs no stronger than a gentle rivulet, to where
it mixes with the muddy Mississippi, Mike was as
familiar with its meanderings, as a child could be with
those of a flower-garden. He could not help noticing
with sorrow the desecrating hand of improvement as he
passed along, and half soliloquizing, and half addressing
his companions, he broke forth:
“I knew these parts afore a squatter's axe had
blazed a tree; 'twasn't then pulling a — sweep to
get a living; but pulling the trigger, did the business.
Those were times to see;—a man might call himself
lucky then.
“What's the use of improvements?
“When did cutting down trees make deer more
plenty?
“Who ever found wild buffalo, or a brave Indian,
in a city? Where's the fun, the frolicking, the fighting?
Gone! Gone!
“The rifle won't make a man a living now—he
must turn mule and work. If forests continue this way
to be used up, I may yet be smothered in a settlement.
Boys, this 'ere life won't do. I'll stick to the broadhorn
'cordin' to contract; but once done with it, I'm off
for a frolic. If the Choctas or Cherokees on the Massissip
don't give us a brush as we pass along, I shall
grow as poor as a starved wolf in a pitfall.
“I must, to live peaceably, point my rifle at something
more dangerous than varmint. Six months and
no fight, would spile me worse than a 'tack of rheumatism.”
Mike ceased speaking. The then beautiful village
of Louisville appeared in sight; the labor of landing the
boat occupied his attention—the bustle and confusion
that followed such an incident ensued; and Mike was his
own master by law, until his employers ceased trafficking,
and again required his services.
At the time we write of, a great many renegade Indians
lived about the settlements, which is still the case
in the extreme southwest. These Indians are generally
the most degraded of their tribe—outcasts, who, for
with their people; they live by hunting or stealing, and
spend, in the towns, their precarious gains in intoxication.
Among the throng that crowded on the flat-boat on
his arrival, were a number of these unfortunate beings;
they were influenced by no other motive than that
of loitering round in idle speculation at what was
going on.
Mike was attracted towards them at sight; and as
he was idle, and consequently in the situation that is
deemed most favorable to mischief, it struck him that it
was a good opportunity to have a little sport at the Indians'
expense.
Without ceremony, he gave a terrific war-whoop;
and then mixing the language of the aborigines and his
own together, he went on savage fashion, and bragged of
his triumphs and victories on the war-path, with all the
seeming earnestness of a real “brave.” Nor were taunting
words spared to exasperate the poor creatures, who,
while perfectly helpless, listened to the tales of their own
greatness, and their own shame, until wound up to the
highest pitch of impotent exasperation. Mike's companions
joined in; thoughtless boys caught the spirit of
the affair; and the Indians were goaded until they, in
turn, made battle with their tongues.
Then commenced a system of running against them,
pulling off their blankets, joined with a thousand other
ashore, amid the hooting and jeering of a thoughtless
crowd which considered them as poor devils, destitute
of both feeling and humanity.
Among this band of outcasts was a Cherokee, who
bore the name of Proud Joe; what his real cognomen
was, no one knew, for he was taciturn, haughty—and, in
spite of his poverty and his manner of life, won the name
we have mentioned. His face was expressive of talent,
but it was furrowed by the most terrible habits of
drunkenness. That he was a superior Indian was admitted:
and it was also understood that he was banished
from his mountain home, his tribe being then numerous
and powerful, for some great crime. He was always
looked up to by his companions, and managed, however
intoxicated he might be, to sustain a singularly proud
bearing, which did not even depart from him while prostrate
on the ground.
Joe was careless of his person and habits—in this
respect he was behind his fellows; but one ornament of
his, was attended to with a care which would have done
honor to him if still surrounded by his people, and amid
his native woods. Joe still wore, with Indian dignity,
his scalplock; he ornamented it with taste, and cherished
it, as report said, until some Indian messenger of vengeance
should tear it from his head, as expiatory of his
numerous crimes. Mike had noticed this peculiarity;
and, reaching out his hand, plucked from the revered
scalplock a hawk's feather.
The Indian glared horribly on Mike he consummated
the insult, snatched the feather from his hand,
then shaking his clenched fist in the air, as if calling on
Heaven for revenge, retreated with his friends.
Mike saw that he had roused the soul of the savage,
and he marvelled wonderfully that so much resentment
should be exhibited; and as an earnest to Proud Joe
that the wrong he had done him should not rest unrevenged,
he swore that he would cut the scalplock off
close to his head, the first convenient opportunity, and
then he thought no more about it.
The morning following the arrival of the boat at
Louisville was occupied in making preparations to pursue
the voyage down the river. Nearly every thing
was completed, and Mike had taken his favorite place
at the sweep, when, looking up the river bank, he beheld
at some distance Joe and his companions, and perceived,
from their gestioulations, that they were making him the
subject of conversation.
Mike thought instantly of several ways in which he
could show them altogether, a fair fight, and then whip
them with ease; he also reflected with what extreme
satisfaction he would enter into the spirit of the arrangement,
and other matters to him equally pleasing—when
all the Indians disappeared, save Joe himself, who
stood at times viewing Mike in moody silence, and then
staring round at passing objects.
From the peculiarity of Joe's position to Mike, who
were relieved boldly against the sky, and in one of his
movements, he brought his profile face to view. The
prominent scalp-lock and its adornments seemed to be
more striking than ever, and again roused the pugnacity
of Mike Fink; in an instant he raised his rifle, always
loaded and at command, brought it to his eye, and, before
he could be prevented, drew sight upon Proud Joe,
and fired. The ball whistled loud and shrill, and Joe,
springing his whole length into the air, fell upon the
ground.
The cold-blooded murder was noticed by fifty persons
at least, and there arose from the crowd a universal
cry of horror and indignation at the bloody deed.
Mike, himself, seemed to be much astonished, and in an
instant reloaded his rifle, and as a number of white persons
rushed towards the boat, Mike threw aside his coat,
and, taking his powder-horn between his teeth, leaped,
rifle in hand, into the Ohio, and commenced swimming
for the opposite shore.
Some bold spirits determined that Mike should not
so easily escape, and jumping into the only skiff at command,
pulled swiftly after him. Mike watched their
movements until they came within a hundred yards of
him, then turning in the water, he supported himself by
his feet alone, and raised his deadly rifle to his eye.
Its muzzle, if it spoke hostilely, was as certain to send
a messenger of death through one or more of his pursuers,
dropped their oars, and silently returned to the shore.
Mike waved his hand towards the little village of Louisville,
and again pursued his way.
The time consumed by the firing of Mike's rifle, the
pursuit, and the abandonment of it, required less time
than we have taken to give the details; and in that time,
to the astonishment of the gaping crowd around Joe,
they saw him rising with a bewildered air; a moment
more—he recovered his senses and stood up—at his
feet lay his scalp-lock!
The ball had cut it clear from his head; the cord
around the root, in which were placed feathers and other
ornaments, still held it together; the concussion had
merely stunned its owner; farther—he had escaped all
bodily harm! A cry of exultation rose at the last evidence
of the skill of Mike Fink—the exhibition of a
shot that established his claim, indisputably, to the eminence
he ever afterwards held—that of the unrivalled
marksman of all the flatboatmen of the western waters.
Proud Joe had received many insults. He looked
upon himself as a degraded, worthless being—and the
ignominy heaped upon him he never, except by reply,
resented; but this last insult was like seizing the lion
by the mane, or a Roman senator by the beard—it
roused the slumbering demon within, and made him
again thirst to resent his wrongs, with an intensity of
emotion that can only be felt by an Indian. His eye
swelled and heaved until it seemed that he must suffocate.
No one noticed this emotion. All were intent upon
the exploit that had so singularly deprived Joe of his
war-lock; and, smothering his wrath, he retreated to
his associates with a consuming fire at his vitals. He
was a different being from what he had been an hour before;
and with that desperate resolution on which a
man stakes his all, he swore, by the Great Spirit of his
forefathers, that he would be revenged.
An hour after the disappearance of Joe, both he and
Mike Fink were forgotten. The flatboat, which the
latter had deserted, was got under way, and dashing
through the rapids in the river opposite Louisville,
wended on its course. As is customary when night sets
in, the boat was securely fastened in some little bend or
bay in the shore, where it remained until early morn.
Long before the sun had fairly risen, the boat was
again pushed into the stream, and it passed through a
valley presenting the greatest possible beauty and freshness
of landscape that the mind can conceive.
It was spring, and a thousand tints of green developed
themselves in the half-formed foliage and bursting
buds. The beautiful mallard skimmed across the water,
ignorant of the danger of the white man's approach;
the splendid spoon-bill decked the shallow places near
the shore, while myriads of singing birds filled the air
with their unwritten songs.
In the far reaches down the river, there occasionally
might be seen a bear stepping along the ground as if
dainty of its feet; and, snuffing the intruder on his wild
home, he would retreat into the woods.
To enliven all this, and give the picture the look
of humanity, there was also seen, struggling with the
floating mists, a column of blue smoke, which came from
a fire built on a projecting point of land, around which
the current swept rapidly, hurrying past every thing
that floated on the river. The eye of the boatmen saw
the advantage which the situation of the place rendered
to those on shore, to annoy and attack; and as wandering
Indians, even in those days, did not hesitate to rob, there
was much speculation as to what reception the boat
would receive from the builders of the fire.
The rifles were all loaded, to be prepared for any
kind of reception, and the loss of Mike Fink was lamented,
as the prospect of a fight presented itself, where
he could use with effect his terrible rifle. The boat in
the mean time swept round the point; but instead of an
enemy, there lay, in a profound sleep, Mike Fink, with
his feet toasting at the fire, his pillow was a huge bear
that had been shot on the day previous, while, scattered
in profusion around him, were several deer and wild
turkeys.
Mike had not been idle. After selecting a place
most eligible for noticing the passing boat, he had spent
his time in hunting,—and was surrounded by trophies
of the time and the man, and would have thrown Landseer
into a delirium of joy, could he have witnessed it.
The boat, owing to the swiftness of the current, passed
Mike's resting-place, although it was pulled strongly to
the shore. As Mike's companions came opposite to
him, they raised a shout, half exultation at meeting
him, and half to alarm him with the idea that Joe's
friends were upon him. Mike, at the sound, sprang to
his feet, rifle in hand, and as he looked around, he
raised it to his eyes, and by the time that he discovered
the boat, he was ready to fire.
“Down with your shooting-iron, you wild critter,”
shouted one of the boatmen.
Mike dropped the piece, and gave a loud halloo, which
echoed among the solitudes like a piece of artillery.
The meeting between Mike and his fellows was characteristic.
They joked, and jibed him with their rough
wit, and he parried it off with a most creditable ingenuity.
Mike soon learned the extent of his rifle-shot—
but he seemed perfectly indifferent to the fact that
Proud Joe was not dead.
The only sentiment he uttered, was regret that he
did not fire at the vagabond's head, for if he hadn't hit
it, why, he said that he would have made the first bad
shot in twenty years. The dead game was carried on
board of the boat, the adventure was forgotten, and
every thing resumed the monotony of floating in a flat-boat
down the Ohio.
A month or more elapsed, and Mike had progressed
several hundred miles down the Mississippi; his journey
had been remarkably free from incident; morning, noon,
and night, presented the same banks, the same muddy
water, and he sighed to see some broken land, some high
hills, and he railed and swore, that he should have been
such a fool as to desert his favorite Ohio for a river that
produced nothing but alligators; and was never, at best,
half finished.
Occasionally, the plentifulness of game put him in
spirits, but it did not last long; he wanted more lasting
excitement, and declared himself as perfectly miserable
and helpless, as a wild-cat without teeth or claws.
In the vicinity of Natchez rise a few abrupt hills,
which tower above the surrounding lowlands of the Mississippi
like monuments; they are not high, but from
their loneliness and rarity, they create sensations of
pleasure and awe.
Under the shadow of one of these bluffs, Mike and
his associates made the customary preparations for passing
the night. Mike's enthusiasm knew no bounds at
the sight of land again; he said it was as pleasant as
“cold water to a fresh wound;” and, as his spirits rose,
he went on making the region round about, according to
his notions, an agreeable residence.
“The Choctaws live in these diggins,” said Mike,
“and a cursed time they must have of it. Now if I
lived in these parts I'd declare war on 'em just to have
such business I'd be as musty as an old swamp moccason
snake. I would build a cabin on that ar hill yonder, and
could; from its location, with my rifle, repulse a whole
tribe, if they dar'd to come after me.
“What a beautiful time I'd have of it! I never was
particular about what's called a fair fight; I just ask
half a chance, and the odds against me,—and if I then
don't keep clear of snags and sawyers, let me spring
a leak and go to the bottom. It's natur that the big fish
should eat the little ones. I've seen trout swallow a
perch, and a cat would come along and swallow the
trout, and perhaps, on the Mississippi, the alligators use
up the cat, and so on to the end of the row.
“Well, I will walk tall into varmint and Indian; it's
a way I've got, and it comes as natural as grinning to a
hyena. I'm a regular tornado—tough as a hickory—
and long-winded as a nor'-wester. I can strike a blow
like a falling tree—and every lick makes a gap in the
crowd that lets in an acre of sunshine. Whew, boys!”
shouted Mike, twirling his rifle like a walking-stick
around his head, at the ideas suggested in his mind.
“Whew, boys! if the Choctaw divils in them ar woods
thar would give us a brush, just as I feel now, I'd call
them gentlemen. I must fight something, or I'll catch
the dry rot—burnt brandy won't save me.”
Such were some of the expressions which Mike gave
utterance to, and in which his companions heartily
Mike,—for his bodily prowess, as well as his rifle, were
acknowledged to be unsurpassed. These displays of
animal spirits generally ended in boxing and wrestling-matches,
in which falls were received, and blows struck
without being noticed, that would have destroyed common
men.
Occasionally, angry words and blows were exchanged,
but, like the summer storm, the cloud that emitted the
lightning also purified the air; and when the commotion
ceased, the combatants immediately made friends, and
became more attached to each other than before the
cause that interrupted the good feelings occurred.
Such were the conversation and amusements of the
evening when the boat was moored under the bluffs we
have alluded to.
As night wore on, one by one, the hardy boatmen
fell asleep, some in its confined interior, and others, protected
by a light covering in the open air.
The moon arose in beautiful majesty; her silver
light, behind the highlands, gave them a power and
theatrical effect as it ascended; and as its silver rays
grew perpendicular, they kissed gently the summit of
the hills, and poured down their full light upon the
boat, with almost noonday brilliancy. The silence with
which the beautiful changes of darkness and light were
produced, made it mysterious. It seemed as if some
creative power was at work, bringing form and life out
of darkness.
But in the midst of the witchery of this quiet scene,
there sounded forth the terrible rifle, and the more
terrible war-whoop of the Indian. One of the boatmen,
asleep on deck, gave a stifled groan, turned upon
his face, and with a quivering motion, ceased to live.
Not so with his companions—they in an instant, as
men accustomed to danger and sudden attacks, sprang
ready-armed to their feet; but before they could discover
their foes, seven sleek and horribly painted savages,
leaped from the hill into the boat. The firing of
the rifle was useless, and each man singled out a foe, and
met him with the drawn knife.
The struggle was quick and fearful; and deadly
blows were given, amid screams and imprecations that
rent the air. Yet the voice of Mike Fink could be
heard in encouraging shouts above the clamor.
“Give it to them, boys!” he cried, “cut their hearts
out! choke the dogs! Here's h-ll a-fire and the river
rising!” Then clenching with the most powerful of the
assailants, he rolled with him upon the deck of the boat.
Powerful as Mike was, the Indian seemed nearly a
match for him. The two twisted and writhed like serpents,—now
one seeming to have the advantage, and
then the other.
In all this confusion there might occasionally be
seen glancing in the moonlight the blade of a knife; but
at whom the thrusts were made, or who wielded it, could
not be discovered.
The general fight lasted less time than we have taken
to describe it. The white men gained the advantage;
two of the Indians lay dead upon the boat, and the living,
escaping from their antagonists, leaped ashore, and
before the rifle could be brought to bear, they were out
of its reach.
While Mike was yet struggling with his adversary,
one of his companions cut the boat loose from the shore,
and, with powerful exertion, managed to get its bows so
far into the current, that it swung round and floated;
but before this was accomplished, and before any one
interfered with Mike, he was on his feet, covered with
blood, and blowing like a porpoise: by the time that he
could get his breath, he commenced talking.
“Ain't been so busy in a long time,” said he, turning
over his victim with his foot; “that fellow fou't
beautiful; if he's a specimen of the Choctaws that live
in these parts, they are screamers; the infernal sarpents!
the d—d possums!”
Talking in this way, he with others, took a general
survey of the killed and wounded. Mike himself was
a good deal cut up with the Indian's knife; but he called
his wounds—blackberry scratches. One of Mike's associates
was severely hurt; the rest escaped comparatively
harmless. The sacrifice was made at the first fire; for
beside the dead Indians, there lay one of the boat's
crew, cold and dead, his body perforated with four different
balls. That he was the chief object of attack
ever having had a single fight with the Indians.
The soul of Mike was affected, and, taking the hand
of his deceased comrade between his own, he raised his
bloody knife towards the bright moon, and swore that
he would desolate “the nation” of the Indians who
made war upon them that night; and turning to his stiffened
victim, which still retained the expression of implacable
hatred and defiance, he gave it a smile of grim
satisfaction, and then joined in the general conversation
which the occurrences of the night would naturally suggest.
The master of the “broad horn” was a business
man, and had often been down the Mississippi. This
was the first attack he had received, or knew to have
been made from the shores inhabited by the Choctaws,
except by the white man; and he suggested the keeping
the dead Indians until daylight, that they might have an
opportunity to examine their dress and features, and see
with certainty, who were to blame for the occurrences of
the night.
The dead boatman was removed with care to a respectful
distance; and the living, except the person at
the sweep of the boat, were soon buried in profound
slumber.
Not until after the rude breakfast was partaken of,
and the funeral rites of the dead boatman were solemnly
performed, did Mike and his companions disturb the
corses of the red men.
Mike went about his business with alacrity. He
stripped the bloody blanket from the Indian he had
killed, as if it enveloped something requiring no respect.
He examined carefully the moccasons on the Indian's
feet, pronouncing them at one time Chickasas—at another
time, Shawnese. He stared at the livid face, but
could not recognize the style of paint.
That the Indians were not strictly national in their
adornments, was certain, for they were examined by
practised eyes, that could have told the nation of the
dead, if such had been the case, as readily as a sailor
distinguishes a ship by its flag. Mike was evidently
puzzled; and as he was about giving up his task as
hopeless, the dead body he was examining was turned
upon its side. Mike's eyes distended, as some of his
companions observed, “like a choked cat's,” and became
riveted.
He drew himself up in a half serious, and half comic
expression, and pointing at the back of the dead Indian's
head, there was exhibited a dead warrior in his
paint, destitute of his scalp-lock—the small stump which
was only left, being stiffened with red paint. Those
who could read Indian symbols learned a volume of
deadly resolve in what they saw. The body of Proud
Joe, was stiff and cold before them.
The last and best shot of Mike Fink had cost a brave
man his life. The boatman so lately interred was evidently
taken in the moonlight by Proud Joe and his
one and all, that he might with certainty be sacrificed.
Nearly a thousand miles of swamp had been threaded,
large and swift running rivers had been crossed,
hostile tribes passed through by Joe and his friends,
that they might revenge the fearful insult of destroying,
without the life, the sacred scalp-lock.
| MIKE FINK, THE KEEL-BOATMAN. The hive of "The bee-hunter" | |