University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER VI.

THE BLACKWATER INVASION DETERMINED UPON.

The head-fountain of the Potomac rises high on
the eastern side of the dividing Allegany ridge, not
far below the cone of the mountain, and near the
boundary-stone planted by Lord Fairfax to mark
the farthest limit of that princely territory—embracing
all the country lying between the waters of the
Potomac and Rappahannock rivers—which he inherited
as a grant from the British crown. The Potomac
is formed, in its very beginnings, by the union of several
smaller springs with this head-spring, as they
descend the steeps of the mountain. The little rivulet,
pursuing its course along the base of the Backbone,
is gradually augmented by the springs that
flow down in every direction through the ravines
around, until it attains a breadth of some thirty feet
at the small falls, about five miles below its source.
Below the falls there are some eight or ten streams
making into it: the Big Laurel, Little Laurel, Sand
run, and Shields's run, on the Maryland side; the
Horseshoe, Buffalo run, the Dog's Hind-Leg, and
some others, on the Virginia shore. This accession

of little streams swells it into quite a sizeable mountain-river
by the time it reaches opposite to Winston.
It is here some sixty feet wide—a clear, fresh, wild
stream, reflecting every pebble that lies in its bed
—shaded by stately forests, and fringed with vines
and flowers. Of course, it is filled with trout; and
although it is a good deal fished by those who frequent
here in the summer, yet it still continues to
yield up its treasure in sufficient abundance for the
constant supply of the table at Winston.

For two days we made unceasing war throughout
this Potomac region, as far up as the falls. The
first day we brought in over two hundred fish, some
of them of fine size. The second day we took more,
having invaded some of the larger tributary streams
mentioned above. So it will be seen we had trout
in abundance.

When the third day came round, there was a general
desire expressed, when we assembled at the
breakfast-table, to foray in some new country. We
had invaded the Potomac in all reason—having in
these two days pretty well gone over the ground
hereabouts. The mind of desultory man is still as
studious of change, and pleased with novelty, under
our republican order of things, as it has been heretofore
under the older polities of the world. Indeed,
it is a characteristic of our American Saxon, exceeding
that of all others of the Saxon, or any other combination.
. . . But where to go?—that is the question.

Mexico has been taken—and where shall we
find a Cuba? Some proposed an incursion into the
Glades, over about Snow creek, said to be unfrequented
ground: one was for the Evergreen-glades,
another for the Oak-glades; some for the lower Potomac—but
there were rattlesnakes down the river,
it was said, and that was a damper. In this variety
of opinion, the indolent policy prevailed: and it
was determined to pass the day sub tegmine—rambling
over the hills, and in the enjoyment of an
easy, lounging time of it about the porches of the
inn.

Sitting on the long porch that fronts the river,
enjoying the cool breeze that seems always to fan
these hill-tops, some mention, among our other talk,
happened to be made of "The Canaan," or wilderness-country,
over on the head-waters of the Cheat.
It so happened that one of our party had been told,
many years ago, that this land of Canaan was as
perfect a wilderness as our continent contained, although
it was not many miles away from the Glades
on one side, and the long settled parts of Hardy and
Randolph counties on the other; a country where
the wild beasts of the forest yet roamed as unmolested
as they did when the Indians held possession
of our borders; a howling wilderness of some twenty
or thirty miles' compass, begirt on all sides by
civilization, yet unexplored. This statement was
brought to mind by the casual mention of the country

as we sat talking upon the porch; and it led to
much inquiry in regard to the wilderness. Our
landlord, as soon as the subject was broached, entered
largely into it, and dilated upon the wonders
of the Canaan in very glowing terms. It was only
a few years ago, he told us, that elk had been killed
upon its boundaries, not far from the settlements,
at a place called the Elk-lick. He said there were
deer in great herds—so wild, that they were almost
tame. "And, gentlemen," he continued, with great
animation, "if you can only reach the falls of the
Blackwater, you can take more trout in an hour
than you ever took before in all your lives."

"Ugh—uh!" exclaimed Triptolemus, with his
usual chuckle.

"You don't tell me so!" said Peter, with open
eyes and mouth.

"If you say so," resumed Mr. Towers, "we'll go
into the country—Andrew can take care of the
house—and we'll have such fishing as was never
heard of. But understand now, gentlemen, you've
got to do a little of the roughest and hardest sort
of walking and climbing. Then there's the laurel
you must go through. And you mustn't mind sleeping
on hemlock, and in the rain too—it's always
raining over on the Bone."

This was only applying additional stimulus to the
desire that had already taken possession of us, and
at all risks we determined to go on the morrow, provided

we could secure the aid of two well-known
hunters of this region to lead us on our way. Accordingly,
we despatched a messenger to the house
of Joe Powell, who lived on the borders of the Winston
property, with a request that he would get John
Conway, another hunter, living some miles farther
off, and come down in the evening to see us. These
men came over during the day, and it was all arranged
before they left us, that we would set off in
the morning early for the Blackwater.

Everything being put in train for the expedition,
we gathered together on the long porch toward
nightfall, and passed the time in much further discourse
upon the Canaan—commenting variously
on the information we had gathered from Powell
and Conway, who had been out as far as the smaller
falls of the Blackwater, hunting deer in the winter-season,
but had never been at the great falls of the
stream—the existence of which they only inferred
from the roar of water that filled the forest, when
they were out there.

In order that the reader may the better enter into
the spirit of our wilderness adventure, we will take
the liberty of introducing him more familiarly to
our party.

In a large arm-chair, spread out to the extent of
his bulk, with his feet resting upon a bench, and
leaning back against the railing of the porch, sat a
gentleman—stout, ample, and muscular—with a

handsome face, rosy with bloom, and a pleasant
twinkle of the eye, that told of the mirthful character
of his mind. Just now, though, his countenance
was grave and thoughtful. Rattlesnakes seemed to
have taken entire possession of him, ever since we
had determined upon our march into the wilderness;
and presently he put the following question
to Mr. Towers, with great emphasis:—

"Do you think, Mr. Towers, that my big fishingboots—that
very big pair, with the red tops, hanging
up against the wall—will save me against the
bite of a rattler?"

"Oh, bless you, Mr. Butcut, there are none in
these hills. If there were, I can assure you, sir—
may I be hang-danged if I would live here a single
day—not even to own Winston! A rattlesnake,
sir, has never been seen higher up this way than
some two miles below yonder, at the foot of that
mountain—and then only one—and he had to clear
out. It don't suit 'em up here. Seven miles off
yonder, on the side of that mountain, there is a den
of them—where there are a plenty—so thick, you
can smell 'em. But they stay down in that region,
and never come up this way."

"That's what Powell says; for I took him one
side, and asked him particularly about them. I
think I would go into a fit if I should happen to
tread on one of the blasted reptiles!"

"Make yourself easy about them. I pledge you

my honest word, there a'n't any up here. The country's
too cool, or something or other, for them. The
devil take me—but I believe if I was to see one of
them, I would jump clean out of my skin! I'm
monstrously afraid of 'em—and I confess it. I don't
mind a wild-cat—he'll run from you: nor a bear,
unless it's a she-bear, with cubs—and then look
out, I tell you! But rattlesnakes and copper-heads
my nerves, somehow, won't stand. If I might take
the liberty—you seem to have a little dislike to
them yourself."

"If you would put on a pair of thick cloth pantaloons,
and draw on a big pair of boots outside—
such as mine yonder, Towers—I should suppose
you would be safe from a bite."

"I should hate to trust them any way; rather not
be struck at by them at all. Why, they have fangs
an inch long!"

"What would you do, if one was to bite you?"

"Just lie down and die—give it up at once."

"Not so," broke in the artist; "no necessity for
dying at all. Take out your knife, and cut out the
flesh round where you're struck—suck the wound
—then burn some gunpowder into it—and you're
safe enough."

"Drink a pint or so of raw whiskey or brandy
right off," observed the doctor, "and there's no
danger."

"Not so much from the snake, may be."

"If I am not mistaken, I read an account, a year
or so ago, of an experiment made before the French
physicians, by which it was ascertained that a flask
of olive-oil was a certain cure of the bite. Two
country-people came in, received the bite of a viper,
swallowed a flask of oil each, and experienced no
other harm than a little drowsiness for a few days."

"Swallow a good deal of sweet milk," said a countryman
sitting by. "I've known that to cure a
man."

"Eau-de-luce," replied the doctor, "rubbed on
outwardly, and taken internally to prevent coagulation
of the blood, would be good."

"Well, now," said the countryman who spoke
before, "for my part, I'm more afraid of a copperhead
than I am of a rattlesnake; for he never gives
you any warning. He's a night snake, too—he'll
bite at night, and the other won't."

"How much olive-oil have you in the house?"
inquired Peter.

"I don't believe there's any," replied Towers;
"but I've got a plenty of castor-oil," if that would
do."

"Have you any fish-oil?" asked Triptolemus.

"I think we had better drive a cow along," said
Andante.

"What would you milk her in?"

"In the frying-pan."

"I am free to say, gentlemen," observed Mr. Butcut,

"that I have more confidence in the brandy
than anything else; and, as that is more at hand,
we'll each take a flask with us, in case of accidents."

This proposition was readily assented to—and
with it the subject of the rattlesnakes was about to
be dismissed; but in the meantime the artist had
taken out his pencil, and drawn a caricature of Butcut
pursued by a rattler—his hair on end—eyes

wide—nostril distended—fishing-rod, with a big
trout on the end of it, dropped—and the rattler,
with about twenty rattles on his tail, and his crest
raised ready to strike, in hot pursuit! The caricature
was well enough. The castellan was both astonished
and delighted. "Isn't it like him?" he
exclaimed, and broke out into what an old-countryman
of my acquaintance used to call an imbrumpt
laugh, and took the drawing off to show it to his
wife. Returning, he looked upon the Signor with
more of deference than he had been disposed to
show him before. His countenance had something
of mingled wonder and delight as he fixed his eyes
on him—some such expression as a man of the middle
ages might be supposed to wear on his face as
he gazed upon some imposing magician or sorcerer
that had just performed a wonderful feat of art.

The rattlesnake terror had now altogether vanished.
The caricature had killed it effectually; and
the conversation took another turn.

"Towers, what wild animals are there over in the
wilderness?"

"Plenty of them—bears, wolves, panthers, deer
in crowds—some few elk, I reckon—and otters,
and badgers—all the animals that ever were there."

"Do they ever attack you?"

"Not unless they are particularly hungry, which
can't be at this time of the year. Your fire at night
will keep them away from you, any how; though I
have heard it said the panther has been known to
walk between a party sleeping and the fire at their
feet."

"That, I suspect, was a dream of some one who
had gone to sleep with the wild beasts running in
his brains."

"You have nothing to fear from the animals.

The only thing you have to fear is losing yourselves.
But Powell and Conway are good woodsmen;
and, besides, they have been partly in the
country. There is a story about, which I've heard
ever since I've been living up here, that a good
many years ago a stranger went into the Canaan,
and was never heard of afterward. Years after,
the skeleton of a man was found by some of the
hunters that had ventured furthest into the country."

"That's very pleasant information for us, Mr.
Towers. Do you think there is any chance of our
leaving our bones out there?"

"Every man runs his chance."

"The devil he does! Why, this Canaan is not
altogether more than some twenty or thirty miles
of country in length, and, I suppose, not wider.
How could a man well get lost in that compass?"

"Oh, very easily. Why, in those mountains a
man could walk about for a week, from sunrise till
sunset, particularly if he got into a big laurel-brake,
and never at any time be five miles from where he
started, unless he blazed his way."

Mr. Botecote mused somewhat seriously for a
while upon this information, but finally came to the
conclusion that the lost man and the skeleton was
a fable, and that it was nonsense to talk about his
being lost in any five miles of country. This
seemed to be the conclusion of the rest of us.
There is some such legend always told by the borderers

upon every wild country. But, again, such
things are rather probable. Men have been lost
before in countries far less wild than the Canaan
turned out to be. However, we entertained no
apprehensions of encountering anything worse than
some endurable fatigue and hardship; and the conversation
passed off into general pleasantry and
merriment, in which the castellan of Winston came
in for a pretty good share of rather free raillery,
aimed at those more prominent peculiarities, which
the reader will by this time recognise as belonging
to him.

Murad the Unlucky, who had not said a word for
an hour, but sat with his lame appurtenance thrown
over the back of a chair, apparently drinking in the
conversation like mothers' milk, now broke speech
to the following effect:—

"Well, Mr. Powers, I've just been thinking what
a mighty talker you are; you talk about like a
horse I have at home runs. He beats everything
in the whole country—but you can't rely on him;
he won't keep the track."

"Why, you don't think so, indeed! Devil take
my lights, I thought I was slow!"

"Don't you think you stretch it a little, Conners?"
said Murad, expressing himself a little
plainer.

"Every word true, Mr. Todd; blast my eyes!
and more too; I haven't told you anything."

"What! all that about the rattlesnakes, and the
bears, and the panthers, and elk, and such crowds
of deer, and especially that about finding the bones
of the lost man! Ugh! uh!" Here Murad mused
a moment, and went on. "Towels, are you any
relation to the Conners down our way?"

It must be observed that Murad, among his other
unlucky traits, had an unlucky way of confounding
the names of all persons he encountered—a vice
of his intellectual composition that nothing could
eradicate; and so upon this occasion, Towers's name
was mixed up in his mind with Powell's and Conway's—the
two hunters—so inextricably, that he
had none of them straight.

"To the Conners, did you say, Mr. Todd? The
Conners! Devil take me, if I ever heard of any
such people!"

"Why, as you are of the same name, I thought
you might be some kin."

"May the devil!—blamenation!—if ever I saw
—Conners—my name isn't Conners!

"There you are, Trip—at it again," said Peter,
who seemed to take Murad under his especial supervision.
"I'll swear, gentlemen, he hasn't
called any single man, woman, child, or horse—
anything by a right name, since we left home.
Why, Triptolemus, Towers's name isn't Towels, or
Powels, or Conners, or anything of the sort. It's

Towers, Towers, Towers—T-o-w, Tow—e-r-s, ers
—Towers!"

"Well, what's the odds?" said Murad. "It don't
make any such mighty difference. But you're
some kin, a'n't you, Powels?"

"Well, I dare say I am, if I only knew distinctly
which of my relations you mean. But what makes
you think so?"

"Why, you talk so fast, and so much, that you
remind me of one Connel, a lawyer down our way
—a great pleader—who can out talk any man I
ever heard, until I had the pleasure of making your
acquaintance; has a great gift of what they call
the gab. You're a Virginian anyhow, a'n't you,
Towels?"

"I don't know what he is now, but his ancestors
came out of Babbleon," said the artist.

"Suffered under the old Babbleonish captivity,"
chimed in Galen.

"From which the race haven't yet been entirely
redeemed," put in the Master.

"Well, that's pretty well; but, may the devil
take me, if I don't think some of Mr. Todd's ancestors
must have come out of the tower of Babel!"

"Right," said Peter—"right, governor. It's
the only way of accounting for his confusion of
names. And by the way, Trip, if you would bear
the tower of Babel in mind, it might help you to
get Towers's name right."

"It wont do," said the artist. His mind is essentially
a transposing one. He'd have it the bower
of Table!"

"I give it up, then," said Peter, and he threw
himself back in his arm-chair, with an air of resignation.

"Well, but, gentlemen," said the doctor, in his
very pleasant, gentlemanly manner—(Galen was
very deliberate when about anything like a witticism,
and having studied one out to suit himself,
some time back, he was determined that it should
not be lost, notwithstanding the conversation that
made it appropriate had gotten away from him)—
"Well, but, gentlemen," said he blandly, and with
a certain tickling sensation of pleasure upon his
countenance, "this is letting Mr. Towers escape us.
When we were running him about Babbleon just
now, and fixing upon him a Babbleonish extraction,
it occurred to me there must have been also some
of the old Greek blood in him."

"How do you make that out, doctor?" said
Towers, smiling.

"Why, by tracing your descent, Towers, in part,
from the very famous old lawgiver of Sparta, Lycurgus."

"How is that? Who was this Lycurgus?" said
the castellan, evidently very much flattered at the
idea of being descended from any man with a name
that he didn't understand.

"He was an old Greek, Towers—a Lacedemonian,"
said the Prior, taking up the doctor's idea—
"an old fellow named Curgus, one of the Curguses
of Sparta—a very remarkable family of people.
But in the course of his life this old gentleman had
told so many stories, about one thing or another,
that by way of distinguishing him from the other
Curguses, the people of his parts used generally to
call him Curgus, the story-teller or romancer. The
length of this designation, however, being contrary
to the genius of the Spartans, who were a people
of few words; they shortened it by calling him
Lie-Curgus, which after a while came to be his received
name."

"There were a great many other distinguished
Greeks who acquired their names in the same way,"
observed the artist, "there are the Liesanders."

"And Lysemachus—a condensation you perceive,
of Lies he makes us."

"The Greek genius is characterized, from the
earliest ages, by an aptitude for invention."

"What monstrous fabrications some of those are
which Homer relates!"

"Don't talk about them," said Triptolemus, "my
back stings me every time I think of them. The
whippings that I've had on account of them, are
really horrible to think of."

"What were you whipped for, Mr. Todd?"

"Ignorance of Homer, Mr. Towels; undoubted

ignorance, sir—clear—clear as day—not the least
mistake about it. But my ignorance of that
difficult language, Mr. Connel was owing to my
aversion to stories. Had Homer told the truth
about the siege of Troy, I should have mastered
him. You see, Towels, my feelings somehow or
other were born on the Trojan side; and as soon as
I began Homer I knew it was all a Greek lie: you
may say, therefore, that I fell at Homer. But don't
distress yourself at this little passage in my biography;
I can assure you I haven't the same strong
feelings in regard to your interesting account of the
Canaan, although I must say I don't exactly believe
all you tell us."

"May the devil roast my lights and livers, gentlemen,
if I don't begin to believe you really think
I have been stretching it a little about the Blackwater.
Now do you know I haven't told you half
I could tell you. The man's bones were found out
there—I saw 'em myself—and for the deer, they
are just in thousands; and as for bears, why one of
'em had Andrew by the throat—I mean, devil take
my lights—up a tree down here for an hour, one
day, not two miles from this house—yes, on Winston—and
he shot him too—didn't you Andrew?
And if you find a rattlesnake out there, why, I'll
just give you leave to eat me, lights and all. As
for the elk, I'll bring you a man, living not far from
here, who will swear to you that he saw one himself,

that was shot, not more than three years ago.
Now I'll tell you what, gentlemen, I'll take an even
bet with any of you, that you get lost notwithstanding
you've got Powell and Conway with you—two
as good woodmen as ever went into the woods."

"I don't care if we do," said the artist, "I'll fish
in the Blackwater in spite of my bones."

"If all the wild beasts of the wilderness howl
around my path, I'll stand by the Signor's bones,"
said the Prior.

"If I could only feel certain about the rattlesnakes,"
said Peter, "it would take off the only
weight on my mind. But between my boots and
the brandy, I will defy them."

"The idea of driving a cow in for the milk cure is
abandoned, I suppose."

"Put up a plenty of provisions, Towers. I can
stand anything better than starvation."

"Yes, gentlemen, and if you don't come back on
the day you say, I'll get up a party and go in after
you."

"Right—right; but I thought you were to go
along, Mr. Powway."

"There you are again, Trip, its intolerable—
absolutely ridiculous. Will you never learn to call
him Towers! You have no idea how it disturbs
the flow of the conversation."

"I think, gentlemen," said Galen, delicately suggesting
it, "that if Triptolemus would commit some

verses to memory that had the word towers in
them, he might possibly control this bias he labors
under."

"A good idea—try it, Trip."

"Ugh—uh!" said Murad, with his peculiar ejaculation.
"There you're too much for me again, I
don't think I ever knew any in my life."

"Well, then, gentlemen, we'll give him some."

"Begin—some one."

"I will, willingly," said Peter.

"Day didn't," said the artist, "it set on Norham's
`castled steep'—that won't do. Try it again."

"I have a glimmering of a line that ends with
hostile towers—but I can't make it out exactly."

"The gentle Surrey," said Galen, and then stopped
short.

"What of Surrey?"

"I thought it was something about towers—but
it isn't—it's `loved his lyre.' "

"That's it—that will do," said Trip, "that will
remind me of him—if you can find nothing better."

"There's a verse, gentlemen," said the Prior,
"that has something about towers bedight—but I
can't come at it. It ends with temples and towers
bedight. Do any of you remember it?"

"Towers bedight!—Towers be d—d!—Lets
go to supper," said the artist. And to supper we

went—Towers bedight or Towers be-what you
please, leading the way, and altogether delighted
at the prominent figure he cut in the evening's
conversation.

The supper had a subduing effect upon the vivacity
of our spirits; and so, with a due regard to the
Blackwater invasion on the morrow, we retired
early to bed. The bright clear moon looked in auspicious
through the curtains of our windows—and
to the gentle lullaby of the Allegany night-breeze
we fell fast asleep.