 | Tales of the border |  |
THE SILVER MINE.
A TALE OF MISSOURI.
[For the facts detailed in this story, the author is indebted
to a very ingenious friend, now deceased. He has
done little else to it than to correct the phraseology so as
to render it suitable for publication.]
Some twelve or thirteen years ago, when the
good land on the northern frontier of Missouri
was beginning to be found out, and the village of
Palmyra had been recently located on the extreme
verge of the settlements of the white men, uncle
Moses, who had built his cabin hard by, went into
that promising village one day, in hopes of finding
a letter from his cousin David, then at Louisville,
and to whom he had written to come to Missouri.
Three hours' pleasant ride brought him to town.
He soon found Major Obadiah —, who had
been lately appointed postmaster, and who had
such an aversion to confinement, that he appropriated
his hat to all the purposes of a post-office
—an arrangement by which he complied with the
letters and papers committed to his keeping, and
the instructions directing him to be always found
in his office, and, at the same time, enjoyed such
locomotive freedom, as permitted him to go hunting
or fishing, at his pleasure. He was thus
ready at all times, wherever he might be, to answer
any call on his department, promptly.
The major, seating himself on the grass, emptied
his hat of its contents, and requested uncle
Moses to assist him in hunting for his letter:
“whenever you come to any that looks dirty and
greasy, like these,” said he, “just throw them in
that pile; they are all dead letters, and I intend
to send them off to head quarters, the very next
time the post rider comes, for I can't afford to tote
them any longer, encumbering up the office for
nothing.” Uncle Moses thought that they were at
head quarters already, but made no remark, and
quietly putting on his spectacles, gave his assistance
as required.
After a quarter of an hour's careful examination,
it was agreed by both, that there was no
letter in the office for uncle Moses.
“But stop,” said the postmaster, as uncle Moses
was preparing to mount his horse, “you are a
trading character, come let me sell you a lot of
goods at wholesale. Willy Wan, the owner, has
gone to St. Louis to lay in a fresh supply, and has
had almost sold out, and I hate to be cramped up
in a house all day, so I have packed up the whole
stock in these two bundles”—hauling them out of
his coat pockets.
Uncle Moses looked over them without ever
cracking a smile, for it was a grave business. He
wiped his spectacles, to examine the whole assortment.
“Here, examine them—calicoes, ribbons, laces,
&c. all as good as new—no mistake—I'll take ten
dollars in coon skins for the whole invoice, which
is less than cost, rather than tote them any longer.”
Uncle Moses was, in truth, a trading character.
He belonged to a numerous and respectable class
in our country, who are, by courtesy, called farmers;
but who, in fact, spend their whole lives in
buying and selling. He was raised in North
Carolina, and had regularly emigrated westwardly,
once in every three or four years, until he had
passed through Tennessee, Kentucky, and Illinois,
to the frontier of Missouri. Nothing ever made
him so happy as an offer to buy his farm. The
worthy man would snap his fingers, ask a little
more than was offered, and at last take what he
could get, pack up his moveables at an hour's
notice, and push out further back. He was a
famous hand at finding good land; and was sure
to get a mill-seat, a stone quarry, or a fine spring,
himself the happiest man in the world. He
worked hard and made good improvements; but
no sooner was his cabin built, his fences made,
and his family comfortably settled, than he was
sure to find that the neighbours were getting too
thick around him, the outlet for his cattle was circumscribed,
and there was a better country somewhere
else. He was not a discontented man—far
from it. There never was a better tempered old
soul than uncle Moses. But he liked money,
loved to be moving, and, above all things, gloried
in “a good trade.” He would buy any thing that
was offered cheap, and sell any thing for which he
could get the value. He never travelled without
exchanging his horse, nor visited a neighbour without
proposing a speculation.
Of course, the Major's offer of a lot of store
goods, for less than cost, struck him favourably,
and he offered three dozen racoon skins for the
whole. “Take them,” said the Major—“it is
too little—but if Wan does'nt like the trade, I'll
pay the balance myself.”
“Now,” said the postmaster, “let us go down
to the river, where Hunt, and the balance of the
boys, are fishing. We have been holding an
election here for the last two days, and as nobody
came in to vote to-day, we all concluded to go
fishing.”
“But what election is it?”
“Why, to elect delegates to form our state
constitution.”
“I have heard of it, but had forgot it. I am
entitled to a vote.”
“Certainly you are. Hunt and I are two of
the judges. He has taken the poll-books along
with him—come along, we will take your vote at
the river—just as good as if it was done in town—
I hate formalities, and this three days' election—
every body could as well do all their voting in
one.”
Down they went to the river; the judges and
clerks were called together, and recorded the first
vote that ever uncle Moses gave in Missouri, on
the bank of North river, a little below where
Massie's mill now stands. I like to be particular
about matters of importance.
The parties were soon distributed in quietness
along the shore, angling for the finny tribe, which
sported, unconscious of danger, in the limpid element.
Every tongue was silent, and all eyes
resting on the lines, when Sam Smoke made his
appearance, cracking his way through the bushes.
“Mose! come this way,” said he. Uncle Moses,
discovering something momentous in his air, met
him at a respectful distance. “Now, Moses,”
said the odd old genius, “I know, very well, you
have located that place myself long ago; but I
don't believe you know it. I will now let you into
a secret that you have been some time hunting for,
if you will not enter the land about Wolf Harbour
before I get my money from Kentucky. The
quarter section, including the big spring, is all I
want—the balance is not worth entering—and if I
can get that, I shall have all the elbow room I
want.”
“But what is the secret?” said uncle Moses,
anxiously.
“You have been hunting for a silver mine—
hav'n't you?”
“I have; do you know where it is?”
“No, I do not; but I have left an Indian in a
swing that I have just completed for the major's
amusement. He will swing himself until my return.
He has a piece of the ore, and will show
us the place where he found it, for a gallon of
whiskey. Now, say I shall have Wolf Harbour,
and you may have the silver mine.”
“Agreed,” said uncle Moses, “and for fear
somebody else should take a fancy to it, if you
will go home with me, I will loan you the money
to pay for it.”
“No, I am much obliged to you,” said Sam,
comes.”
Uncle Moses found the Indian, as was expected,
and took him home with him, where he found his
cousin David, just arrived from Kentucky. “Ah!
Davy, my boy, I am glad to see you. I have
found, or rather I am about to find, the silver
mine that I wrote to you about. See here! this
is as pure silver ore as ever was seen. This
yellow fellow knows where it is, and is to show it
to me in the morning.”
“That's very well,” said David, “but do you
know you will find this fellow here in the morning?”
“No doubt of it. I know too much of the
Indian not to know how to manage him. I will
give him a taste out of that keg, and let him understand
that there is more, and you could not
whip him away.”
Early the next morning, our miners had every
thing ready for the expedition. The best horse
was packed with the tools, and provisions enough
for several days. The Indian guide was directed
to lead the way. He hesitated for a moment, as if
deliberating upon the course, and then, having
fixed it in his mind, set off on a bee line towards
the hidden treasure. Uncle Moses and David led
the pack-horse, and plodded on foot at a half trot;
for that is the gait of an Indian, when he has a
travelling through the woods and thickets, the
miners were saluted with an “Ah! ho! ah!” from
the Indian, who had stopped on the side of a hill a
little in advance. “Plentee bel-le good chomac,”
said he, holding up a piece of the precious ore,
glistening in his hand. “By the wars, Davy,”
exclaimed uncle Moses, as he walked up and surveyed
the spot, “this is a pretty good prospect—
this looks well, to be sure—a right smart chance
of metal, I declare!”
The horse was soon unpacked, coats off, and
every thing ready for deeper research. Davy
took the pick and shovel, and commenced removing
the ground which seemed to cover the vein.
Uncle Moses sauntered about to examine the line
trees, and discover the number of the section;
and the guide, having fulfilled his part of the bargain,
was left in full possession of the jug, and in
a few minutes, was as happy as if he had millions
in store.
Uncle Moses returned in a short time, having
traced the lines of the tract, and found David as
wet with sweat, as if he had been in the river.
“Stop, David,” said uncle Moses, “you will kill
yourself if you go on at this rate—give me the
shovel, and rest awhile—you have blistered your
hands already.” This was literally true, and is
usually the case with the first essay in mining;
continually imagining himself almost in sight of
boundless wealth, delves on harder and harder,
and exhausts his strength, while his hopes yet remain
fresh. Uncle Moses proceeded more systematically,
and, in about two hours, uncovered
the bright vein. What a glorious sight met their
eyes! How were their hearts gladdened by the
brilliant success of their enterprise! They paused,
and silently contemplated the shining mass, which
lay in a perpendicular stratum, several inches in
thickness, and extended along the whole length of
the opening. Again they resumed their labours,
traced the vein into the side of the hill, and
satisfied themselves, that, according to uncle Moses'
estimate—and he was not slow at a calculation—there
was, at least, fifty thousand dollars'
worth of pure silver then within their grasp.
“That is enough to make us both rich,” said
David.
“Why, it is better than nothing,” replied the
old speculator, gravely, and with all the importance
of one who felt the inward dignity of a nabob;
“yes, it is better than making corn, or trading in
store goods—fifty thousand dollars is a clever little
sum. But it is nothing to what is coming—nothing
to the balance that lies in the bowels of the
earth.”
Having rested a little from their labour, the
cold luncheon, which Davy pronounced to be the
sweetest morsel he ever ate in his life. “I don't
doubt it,” replied uncle Moses; “this is one of
the real enjoyments of this world. And now,
David, since I have made your fortune, I hope
you may so manage it as never to lose your relish
for the substantials, by indulging too much in the
luxuries of life.”
“Never fear that,” said David; “I have been
raised to industry—I intend to go to the legislature.
It takes less head than any thing else that
I know of, and I never heard of a member losing
his appetite for meat or liquor. But who have we
here?”
“If it aint that old Hibbard and his hungry
gang of tall boys,” exclaimed uncle Moses; “he
has been hunting for this very mine for several
months. They have been watching us—they have
a canoe at the river, and will try to be at St. Louis
first to enter the land. You are a light rider,
Davy, and there is my horse—I gave a hundred
and fifty dollars for him—better stuff was never
wrapped in a surcingle—fix the saddle, mount him,
and put off.”
Davy was soon ready. Uncle Moses slipped a
roll of bank notes in his hand, and the junior partner
in the silver mine wrapped them carefully in
a handkerchief, which he bound round his body—
carelessness, to deceive those who were looking on.
“There is the money,” whispered uncle Moses,
“and two hundred dollars over, to buy horses if
needful. Ride slowly off, as if you were going
home, and when out of sight take a dead aim for
St. Louis. Don't lose any time looking for roads
—a road is of no account, no how, when a man is
in a hurry. Don't spare horse flesh. We can
afford to use up a few nags in securing a silver
mine. If any body asks your business, you know
what to say—it's nothing to nobody. Buy the
land before you sleep. I'll camp here till you
return, and keep these wolves off.”
David obeyed orders, and was soon on a high
prairie of parallel ridges extending southward.
He involuntarily stopped and gazed with wonder
and delight on the first specimen which his optics
had ever beheld, on so large a scale, of Nature's
meadows. He was naturally of a sanguine temperament
and lively imagination, and enjoyed the
scene with a higher relish, from its sudden and
unexpected appearance. “It beats all,” thought
he; “I'd give a thousand dollars, (an hour before
he would have said a dollar,) to know who cleared
up all this land. The day has been, when thousands
of acres of tobacco have been raised on these
old fields—but who raised it? When I get the
silver mine I'll find it out. Yes, I'll hire a half a
them in pigs of cast silver.” The importance of
his journey, however, soon compelled him to collect
his scattered wits, and exert them in determining
his course. His geographical knowledge
of this country was very limited, as he had passed
up the Mississippi in a keel boat, and knew nothing
of the interior. But he was aware that his course
ought to be nearly south, and that, as the country
was thinly settled, he would in all probability have
to pass most of the distance without a road or trace
of any kind.
He followed the direction of one of the ridges
of the prairie, and travelled rapidly, until his progress
was suddenly arrested by a deep stream,
about a hundred yards in width, margined on each
side with a heavy growth of tall timber. “This
must be Salt River,” said he. It was too deep to
ford, and the only alternative was to swim—a feat
he would sooner have attempted at some place
where assistance might be had in case of accident.
But knowing that the defeat of his enterprise, and
certain loss of his expected wealth, awaited him if
he did not cross, he screwed up his resolution, and
determined to pass or drown in the attempt. His
money was placed in his hat, and he plunged in;
his horse was of powerful muscle, and bore him
safely to the opposite shore.
The sun was gilding the west as he emerged
matchless verdure of the season, which extended
further than his vision could reach. The evening
was calm and pleasant; a soft breeze only moving
to fan the sweet perfume of the various flowers
which spotted the plain. Not a cloud was to be
seen. The lark, whistling on the rosin-weed, or
a solitary hawk, circling through the air, now
poised aloft, and now darting, with the swiftness of
an arrow, on the half concealed sparrow below,
were the only moving objects on which to rest the
eye of the traveller. The scene was solitary as
it was grand, and naturally led our weary adventurer
into a contemplative mood. He thought of
the many instances he had known of the misapplication
of the gifts of fortune, and determined, in
his own mind, as he was now heir, apparently, to
a princely estate, that he would use it in such
a manner as to afford the most solid advantages to
himself and his country. He resolved to found
schools for the education of all classes, to make
roads, and to build bridges—especially one over
Salt River. He had a mortal antipathy to the
aristocracy of wealth, and vowed that he would
level the rich down to an equality with the poor;
or, if that should be impracticable, he would level
the poor up to the standing of the rich. His fondness
for the fair sex induced him to wish to confer
it was impracticable, under the present organization
of society, to confer supreme bliss on more
than one, he determined to make one happy
woman, at least, without delay.
At length, night began to drop her curtain
around him, and to stud the skies with her twinkling
lamps. The dew rested on the tall grass,
and, as the tops of the latter were sometimes
higher than his horse's back, his own clothes soon
dripped large drops of water. Still he pushed on,
until the weary animal, by often stopping to nip
the green herbage, admonished him that food and
rest are necessary to brute creatures, however
non-essential they may be to the proprietors of
silver mines. But it was not until drowsiness
had so overpowered him that he was several
times on the point of losing his balance, that he
determined to rest for the night. He then dismounted,
tied his horse's feet together with the
reins of the bridle, supped on some cold venison
and corn bread, that uncle Moses had put into his
saddlebags, and crawling into a matted hazel
thicket, nestled among the leaves, and slept soundly
until morning.
With the first blush of the dawn, David was
again on his way, somewhat refreshed. But the
wolves having robbed his saddlebags of the remaining
provisions, he had nothing wherewith
gait, however, fully determined to compensate his
appetite hereafter, in the most ample manner, for
the privation it was now suffering. “Poor devils,
that have neither house nor land,” said he, “may
travel upon empty stomachs, and camp out in the
bushes at night, but that will not be my case. I
intend to have old bacon all the year round; and
let them eat venison who can get nothing better.”
About the middle of the afternoon, he stopped
at the first cabin he had seen, and enquired of a
homespun lady, who appeared at the door, if he
could get something for himself and horse to eat.
After asking him a dozen questions about “where
he was from—where he was going—how the
election had gone—whether he thought the convention
would make this a free or slave state—
where he staid last night—and if he war'nt mighty
tired?”—she at last told him “to light.” She
soon had every thing ready, and invited him to
“set up” and help himself, remarking “that it
was not very good fare, no how, but if she had
known of his coming, she would have had something
better.”
From this place, he found a road leading to St.
Charles, where he expected to cross the Missouri.
Sleepy and weary, every rod seemed now a mile,
and he had not gone far from the cabin, when he
distance to St. Charles; “thirty miles,” was the
reply.
After proceeding half a mile further, he fell
in with another, who told him it was “fifteen
miles”—a boy, to whom he put the same question,
replied that “it was a good little bit”—and a
farmer, a little further on, informed him that the
exact distance was “twenty-one miles from the
big oak at the foot of his lane.”
It was dark, when he concluded, for the last
time, that he must certainly be within a short
distance of the river; and, at length, meeting a
negro on the brink of a hill, was assured that it
was “not no distance at all.” He was soon in the
village of St. Charles, and had no difficulty in finding
the ferryman, who refused, positively, to carry
him across the river that night. David had too
much at stake to be thus delayed. He stormed—
threatened to cut off the ears of the boatman—
swore he would kick the mud-walled house from
over the head of the unaccommodating Frenchman—and,
finally, talked about regulating the
whole town.
“Monsieur Kentuck,” said the ferryman, “vat
make you so dem hangry? are you in von great
big horry?”
“I am on business of importance—more depends
on it than your paltry gumbo town is worth—so,
fuss.”
“Very much horry, eh?” replied the Frenchman—a
dark, swarthy fellow, with straight, black
hair, and an eye which began to flash with an
amiable expression, resembling that of an enraged
wild-cat. “'Spose den you vait for your horry
over—mean time, you cut off ma hear for keep
yoursef warm!”
Davy, finding he was on the wrong scent, changed
his tone, said he had no wish to affront any gentleman,
and enquired, in a soothing tone, if money
could procure him a passage.
“Ah, Monsieur, now you talk like von gentiman—'spose
you pay me five dollar, may be you
cross de Missouri—'spose you no pay me dat, you
may go sleep on dis side, sacre!”
Davy accepted the terms: the ferry boat, consisting
of two canoes covered with a platform, was
hauled up, the horse carefully placed in the middle,
and the savage river, which roared and bubbled
around them, was soon passed. The ferryman
pointed out the road, and in a few hours our impatient
Kentuckian was at the door of the receiver
of public monies in St. Louis, shouting manfully,
“Who keeps house?” Colonel S., the receiver,
from an upper window, told him that he could not
enter the land, nor the land office, that night; it
much chagrined, was obliged to sneak off to a
hotel. In the morning he hied by times to the
land office, and found, to his mortification, that
the whole section was covered by a New Madrid
claim! Excited now to desperation, he declared
that he would work the silver mine, any how, in
spite of big guns and little men—he did'nt vally
the government a cent—not he—it was no account,
no how—then he jumped up, struck his heels together,
and said he was a horse, a steam-boat, an
earthquake—and that he and uncle Mose, with a
hundred Kentuckians, could take Gibraltar!
Hanging his hat on one side of his head, he
strutted out of the office, endeavouring to control
his rage, and half inclined to gratify it, by whipping
the first man he should meet. Finally, however,
he concluded to send an express to uncle
Moses, and set out for Kentucky himself, to raise
volunteers enough to set the land officers at defiance,
nullify the government, and work the silver
mine, vi et armis. Meeting with Mons. Donja, an
old acquaintance who was a silversmith, he exultingly
produced a specimen of the precious ore, and
asked his opinion of it.
“Vat you call dis?” said the dealer in bright
metals.
“Pure silver ore—the real stuff.”
“You mistake, sair; dat is no silvare, but be
ver good brimstone!”
“Brimstone, the devil!” shouted the enraged
adventurer.
“Ah, oui,” replied the mechanic, with a shrug,
“very good brimstone for diable; suppose you go
in my shop, you shall be satisfy.”
Davy went, and was soon convinced, by being
almost suffocated with the fumes of sulphur.
This was the climax of disappointment; but
David was blessed with a sanguine temperament,
and, although easily irritated, had the faculty of
as easily abandoning a favourite scheme, in favour
of some new project; and, after giving a long
whistle, he strolled back to the hotel with an air
of so much unconcern, that no one would have
dreamed that any sinister event had befallen him.
“It all comes of trusting too much to uncle Mose,”
thought he; “the old man used to be as true on
the scent of money as an old 'coon dog on a pest
trail—but he is barking up the wrong tree this
time.”
He now ordered his horse. “Sorry to inform
you,” replied the landlord, “very sorry, sir—but,
your horse is dead.”
“Dead!”
“Dead as a house log.”
“Misfortunes never come single,” said David;
he walked off, singing, from Hudibras or some
other celebrated poet,
But he that's poor must tote his saddle.”
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