University of Virginia Library

THE RAFTMAN'S OATH.

By D. Strock, Jr.

“Well, I'll never drink another drop of liquor
while on the water.”

These words, uttered by a youth of not more than
twenty-three, yet apparently dissolute and weather-beaten,

seemed to accord ill with the place and the
circumstances under which they were uttered. He
was in a tavern, surrounded by companions hardened
as himself, and within hearing of the ringing of
glasses, which the landlord was circulating merrily.
Any one who has been in a tavern among the hills
of Vermont, must have been struck with the fact that
such an establishment occupies a far more important
position among the inhabitants of the Green state, than
taverns do in our large cities. There, after their daily
toil, the workmen collect to discuss matters of business,
or general news. There, politicians meet to calculate
chances; and a motley group of travellers, farmers,
sportsmen, “western men,” “Bosting men,”
of both sexes, all classes, and every shade of character
below mediocrity, gather there to sing, carouse, and
get drunk. At such times, too, like vigilant soldiers
in a hard campaign, they criticise the movements of
their great enemies, the temperance men, and con
over with doleful voice and features, the names of
those unfortunate victims who, up to the latest accounts
from “town,” have been “caught.”

When all these circumstances are kept in view, it
will not appear strange that the man who, in a Vermont
bar-room, could muster sufficient nerve to utter
the sentence with which our sketch opens, would
soon find himself in a most ridiculous situation. Men
stared at him; beings, who scarcely retained even the
form of women, leered at him through their half shut
eyes; the landlord stopped short in the act of filling
a glass, and, holding the decanter horizontally in his

hand, peeped through his spectacles towards the
quarter from whence the voice proceeded. In less
than five minutes one half of the company were
around the young man, jesting, mocking, and laughing.

“I say,” he repeated slowly, “I'll never again
drink liquor while on the water.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted a miserable being near
him. “Tom's turned a temperance man! ha! ha!
ha! Stick to it, Tom!”

“You ain't going to sign the paper, are you, Tom?”
whined a loafer, who sat in the window-sill, with his
knees as high as his head, and his hands in his
pockets.

“I don't believe a word of it,” said a third. “The
first wind would keel him over high and dry, unless
he carries ballast. He'll drown like a land rat in the
first storm. Else he'll be thrown in a galloping decline.
Won't he landlord?”

“No doubt of it.”

There was some laughing.

“You may laugh as much as you please,” said the
young man; “but I'll do as I have said. I have just
been told that Jack Hall was drowned last night before
his raft was three miles from the place where he
started.”

“Jack Hall drowned!” shrieked a young woman,
clothed in rags, and with fiery, bloated eyes. “Oh!
poor Jack is not dead!” On receiving repeated assurance,
she rushed with wild cries from the tavern,
followed by two or three others, men and women.

“There,” said the first speaker, “is some more of

rum's doings. Poor Lucy! Once she was a nice
girl—she loved her cousin, too. When I think of it,
I almost resolve never to taste liquor again. I wish
I could keep such a resolution.”

“Some chance for a temperance lecture, I see,” said
the landlord.

“I am not going to lecture,” Tom replied. “But
I'll tell you what it is, landlord, some of us here have
not yet forgotten what Jack was before he fell into
your clutches. A finer young man never climbed the
Green mountains. I went to school with him, poor
fellow, and we struggled hard with each other for the
head of the class. But there was no quarrelling. He
saved my sister, too, once, when our boat struck a
snag in the Onion river. I begged him not to go last
night, for I saw he was drunk, and something seemed
to tell me, that he would not return safe. Perhaps you
can tell us, landlord, who sold him the liquor.”

There was a bitterness in Tom's expression which
roused the minute quantity of shame which still hovered
about the rumseller's character. It was perceptible
in his countenance as he said—

“Well, I'm sorry Jack was drowned, for he was a
good customer. But every man is free in this country;
and if he would get drunk, who's to blame?
Pretty times we'd have if we wouldn't sell liquor except
to the temperance folks.”

“If every man is free, I'll be free too,” replied Tom;
“and remember, landlord, you finger no more coin of
mine. For I perceive now, that if any of us would

meet with sudden death, you would care no more for
it than you do for poor Jack's death.”

“That's a fact,” said a woman, who sat on a crazy
box, with her back against the wall. “When Washy
died, poor soul, with the rheumatiz, who should come
next day for his bill, but Mr. Landlord. It made my
heart ache, though I said nothing. Washy was a
good husband, but he would drink. I wish I could
swear off.”

“Hold your tongue, old woman,” said the landlord,
angrily. “You are never done crying about that
drunken loafer.”

“I suppose it's a free country, landlord,” said Tom,
in a tone of bitter irony.

“Yes, it is a free country; and now I'll speak,”
said a man who had hitherto been silent. He rose to
his full height, and strode towards Tom. “Young
man,” he said, in a tone of deep earnestness, “stick
to your resolution.

“I will stick to it,” replied Tom.

Pledge me your hand.”

Tom gave his hand.

“Swear that you will stick to it.”

“I do swear.”

“That you will never break it.”

“I never will,” said Tom, in a husky voice.

The landlord muttered something about fools.

“Landlord,” said the man, turning suddenly, “I
have a few words for your ear.”

“I don't want to hear them,” growled the landlord.

“But you shall hear them,” replied the other.

`For ten years I have been a drunkard, a low, debased,
degraded drunkard. Once I was a scholar
and a gentleman and could count my wealth by thousands.
Look at me to-day! all my fortune is before
you. Many times I have attempted to reform, and
each time failed, because I could not stay from such
places as you keep. To-day I struggled to abstain
from drink, even in the face of temptation, and I succeeded.
It is owing to this young man, and to your
unfeeling conduct. I could reveal a tale about one
who loved me, that would fill every one here with
horror; but I will not. But when you think of Jack
Hall, remember, that by sneering at his death, you
lost at least two customers to your traffic of iniquity.”

Tom and his new friend left the tavern together.

Two days after this scene, Tom, with his companion,
and three other men, was descending the Connecticut
on a raft. True to his resolution, he had
drunk nothing but water before starting. This circumstance
without a precedent in Tom's previous
career, excited no little astonishment and speculation
among his fellow raftmen. Some thought he had
“sworn off;” others, that he had been “caught” by
the temperance men. There was much whispering
about colds, consumption, fool-hardiness, and the virtues
of alcohol. The head raftman intimated, with a
sneer, that when they reached the rapids, Tom would
have to be tied, to prevent his falling overboard. To
all this the young man answered nothing; but, plying
his task industriously, he beguiled the hours by conversation
with his friend, whose name was Wilson.

Gradually night drew on. The air was chill and
boisterous, and the heavy raft rocked like a cradle, as
the waves dashed against its sides, or broke under it.
All the men, except Tom and Wilson, buttoned great
coats tightly around them: they worked without coat
or jacket. As night advanced, and the moon sank in
the west, the joyous song and conversation, which had
hitherto relieved the dreary prospect, ceased, and each
man gave his whole attention to the management of
the raft. About ten o'clock the head raftman sat
down—a circumstance which appeared to Tom most
ominous. In a few moments afterwards a loud roaring
of water was heard.

“Captain,” said Tom, “are we approaching the
rapids?”

There was no answer—Tom repeated his question
with the same result. Much alarmed he leaped forward
and laid his hand upon the raftman's shoulder.
A ferocious growl was the reply, and the drunken
man fell heavily upon the raft. A glance showed
Tom that the steersman was in the same situation.
The noise grew louder; and now, the young man
became conscious of their perilous condition. The
raft was driving headlong before the tide, the rapids
were close at hand, and two of the men already
useless.

“For heaven's sake, Wilson,” he exclaimed, “lay
hold of the helm, and steer to shore.”

Wilson jammed the helm completely round, so that
the heavy pile lay with its side against the tide. One
of the men was still able to row. Tom called to him

to work for his life; and dragging the captain to the
middle of the raft, he rowed with vigorous arm, to
reach the shore. But the helm, through bad management,
had been damaged; so that instead of approaching
the land, the raft, drifted rapidly towards a pile
of rocks. Tom shuddered, as he saw, through the
darkness, the white foam boiling over the hidden reef.
The next moment the spray dashed over him

“Turn from shore,” he shouted.

Wilson jammed the helm with a force that made
the heavy logs start. It broke short in his hand.
There was not a moment to be lost. Seizing one end
of his pole, Tom planted the other against the rocky
ledge, and pushed with all his might from shore. His
two companions did the same; and by their united
efforts, the huge mass was swung round towards the
current. But as it passed rapidly down the stream,
a jutting rock struck the end on which Tom and the
captain were, and severed it from the main part. The
waves rushed through every part, tearing the logs
apart, and hurrying them down the tide. A wild
shriek arose from Wilson and his companions; but
with the promptitude, learned only amid dangers like
this, Tom sprang from the ruined mass, and lighted
upon the raft as it swept by. There was no time for
congratulation. Their frail bark sprung round and
round, and, meeting with a second reef, was shattered
and driven against the shore. Fortunately it here
became jammed between some rocks, and remained
immovable. Seizing the drunken steersman, the three
men clambered to the land, and took refuge under

some trees. Though cold, wet, and hungry, they
soon fell asleep overpowered by weariness.

The sun had risen before they awoke. In each
face, thankfulness for their escape was mingled with
sorrow. None inquired for the head steersman; for
he had been seen sweeping down the waves which
had broken the raft. They spent the day at a neighbouring
village; and, in the afternoon, set out for their
homes. Tom and Wilson travelled together; and
their sad story revived in the minds of many the
words which the young man had spoken when he
heard about the death of Jack Hall. At Tom's house,
they renewed the oath which they had sworn before
setting out, and added to it another—to abstain for
ever from all intoxicating drinks. It is needless to
remark that both of them have kept it to the present
time.