University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER VIII.

THE MARCH INTO THE CANAAN.

Powell is in the lead followed by Conway, and
we all start with a shout upon our walk—jumping
the baby Potomac with a bound, and falling into a
line of single file—winding through the long grass
by a track made by the deer coming down into the
dale to drink. The Signor waved his frying-pan
aloft, and shouted out gayly the burden of some old
hurrah song. The Master doubled up his hand and
blew upon it for a buglet. Peter capered along

nimbly, in dancing measure, like a fairy on the
green—big wallet and all. Trip threw out his
game leg, sweeping it against the tall grass, as a
mower sweeps his scythe. And the Doctor took his
last lingering look of Rinaldo—waved his lily hand
and sighed adieu—

The horses snorted and plunged around us, with
their tails flung over their backs, and hovered
along our line, until we came to the belt of laurel
that girts the edge of the meadow, when they
wheeled, and left us to our fate—and we them to
theirs. In a few moments we were breaking our
way through the thick tangled branches of the
laurel, and in mud and water half up to our knees.
But we fought the way gallantly, and, gaining the
firm ground, began the ascent of the mountain by
a winding deer-track—the same we had followed
through the dale.

About half a mile up we halted by the little Elklick—a
deep and wood-embosomed gouge—as the
hunters called it—in the side of the mountain, filled
with black marsh-ooze, in which were little pools of
stagnant, saltish water. Here the boldest held his
breath for awhile, in expectation of getting a shot at
a deer. But whatever chance there might have been
for this, it was soon destroyed by the loud outcries
of Mr. Butcut, who was yet some distance down the

mountain. Presently that gentleman came up, with
his face about the color of a full-blown peony, the
perspiration rolling down from him, and blowing
hard like an over-driven horse. "Oh! I'll be—
if I can stand this," he gasped out vehemently.
"By the Apostle Paul! gentlemen"—(Peter is very
familiar with Shakspeare, and is the best amateur
actor of high tragedy in our country to-day; had
he gone on the stage early in life, he would have
undoubtedly acquired an unsurpassed name in our
theatrical annals)—"By the Apostle Paul! gentlemen,"
he exclaimed in a manner unconsciously
tragic, "this mountain has cast more terror into the
soul of Richard than he can well endure." And relapsing
immediately into the commonplace, he went
on. "And don't you all know well enough, gentlemen,
that I'm rather thick-winded at best, and here
you have fairly run away from me up this infernal,
all-fired hill, as you call it—hill indeed! Powell,
how far are we from the top?"

"Not more than a mile or so, I reckon, Mr.
Butcut."

"A mile or so! There it is—I knew it would
be this way. Fellows, let's turn back." This he
said bigly. It was received with a burst of derision.
"Let me make a proposition. If you turn back I'll
agree to pay all the expenses of the expedition,
from home and back."

"Fiddle-de-de!" said one.

"Devil take you and all expenses of all sorts!"
said another.

"Not for your whole estate, in fee simple!" said
a third.

"No money can buy us!" said Triptolemus.

"Hear me, gentlemen," said Mr. Butcut, entreatingly,
"of course I had no idea that the money
could influence you. I didn't mean that. I'll give
the money to any charity you may designate. And
Powell and Conway, I'll give you five dollars more
than you were to get."

"Not so!" said the artist, "you shall do no such
thing!"

"We don't want anything more than was agreed
upon!" said both Powell and Conway.

"Ugh, uh!" said Triptolemus. "You advised
me not to come, did you!"

"You'll get along better, Peter, after the first
blow or two!"

"The acquirit vires eundo, will apply to you
after awhile, But, don't entertain any despair!"

"I can't stand it, gentlemen, I tell you, and carry
this load on my back—I'm no horse!"

It will be perceived by the reader, that Mr. Butcut
made a very determined attempt to break up
the expedition, here at the Elk-lick, but all to no
avail. His mutinous designs were promptly crushed
in the bud. It being clear that nothing was to be

gained in this way, he was determined that he
would get rid of his burden.

"Well, gentlemen," he said, laughing, "I confess
that I've failed in my vigorous effort to turn you
back: that's no go, certainly:—of course I wasn't
in earnest. But really, seriously speaking, I'm no
horse, and can't carry all this load."

"What's a blanket and a great-coat to a stout
man like you, two feet and a half at least over the
shoulders?"

"If you think it's nothing, suppose you just feel
it." Here he unstrapped his wallet, and handed it
round for inspection. It was, in fact, a great deal
heavier than any of us had imagined, large as it
looked. So it was determined that he must be
lightened of his load. Accordingly the wallet was
unrolled—and no wonder it was so heavy; for
instead of containing merely a single blanket and
a great-coat, the blanket was found to be a large
new double one, and in addition to this, there was
an old, thick-wadded coverlet of a bed, commonly
called a Yankee-blanket, that had been used as a
saddle-blanket, until it had grown doubly heavy
from the grease and perspiration it had accumulated
in a long horseback service. Peter, very provident
of his creature comforts, with the intention of being
extra luxurious when in camp at night, had very
quietly, and unknown to the party, secured this
treasure to his own use. It was really, therefore,

no such great wonder that the first half-mile of the
Backbone had been too much for him. Such a
mountain is a pretty stiff encounter for a man of no
superfluous flesh, and the soundest lungs—and so
the lightest of us found it; but a thick-set, stout-built,
two hundred pounder of a gentleman, yet in
the soft condition, and with not the best breathing
apparatus in the world—a butcut like But, will
attest the quality of his metal, whenever he attempts
to match himself against the Bone of the
Alleganies, and that, too, even though he has not
a heavy-wadded blanket additional in his wallet.

The reader will understand now, that the only
thing really the matter with Mr. Botecote, was that
he had overloaded himself, as was intimated when we
were down in the dale of the Potomac. So, hanging
the discountenanced encumbrance upon a limb of
the nearest tree, he took heart again, and once more
grew animated with all the hope of the Blackwater.

"Come, move on, men," he exclaimed, as he
strapped on his shoulder his now diminished burden.
"This is something like. I can stand it now
with any of you. Move on, Powell."

And the expedition moved again. It was hard
work in good earnest. But we went on up the
rugged steep, scrambling our way as best we could,
now through the thick underwood, now in among
great masses of rock, and over fallen trees so decomposed
that they would not bear your weight,

until we reached what seemed to be the top of the
mountain. Here those who were foremost called a
halt, and sat down to rest upon a mossy log that
imbedded you for about a foot. The others came
straggling in—Triptolemus falling in, with his arms
spread out before him, and his lame leg out in the
air behind, as though it didn't belong to him, and
crying out as he pitched in, "I say, fellows, is this
Fairfax's stone? Ugh—uh! Here I am!"

"Fairfax's stone!" said Peter, getting it out as
his breath would allow. "Fairfax wouldn't have
climbed this hill for all the six millions and a half
acres of his inheritance. I take it he was a man of
too much sense. Heavens—but I'm nearly gone!
How far are we from the horses, Powell?"

"About two miles, I take it. Its about two miles,
Conaway, up to here? Yes—so I thought."

"Come, move on, men. There must be no mutinous
conversation indulged in. Peter's for a revolt
again, I see," said the Signor.

Peter was now rested, and he resented the imputation
with many valorous words.

"No, gentlemen, no such trifle as this wilderness
shall prevent me from fishing in the Blackwater!
It isn't more than two or three miles off, Powell, is
it? And down hill, you say, from here?"

"We are over the worst of it now, Mr. Butcut,"
said Powell.

"Move on men—move on men," said Peter,

"but don't go too fast—I'm afraid Mr. Todd can't
keep up with us."

"Ugh—uh! Never mind me, I can get along
with any of you." And here Trip pitched over a
rock and disappeared (his game leg last) into a
thicket, laughing out his ugh—uh! and presently
he came into line again, as if nothing had occurred
more than he looked for.

The wilderness was growing wilder. We had,
some time since, lost all trace of anything like even
a deer-path. Still, pleasantly, and in fine spirits,
we pursued our way. Now we had to climb some
steep hill-side, clinging to the undergrowth to pull
ourselves up, and now we would come up against
a barrier of fallen trees—some of them six feet high
as they lay along the ground, and coated with moss
half a foot thick—some so decomposed that they
recreated themselves in the young hemlocks and
firs that grew up out of them—some more recently
fallen, with great mounds of earth and stone heaved
up with their roots; these mounds sometimes covered
over by other trees thrown across them, and
thus affording shelter to the wild animals from the
snows and storms of winter. Over all these we
would climb and roll ourselves across; and sometimes,
such obstruction did they present to our
course, we would be obliged to make a detour
round for the length of a quarter of a mile may be,
and find ourselves only advanced a hundred paces

on the straight line of our route. It was thus we
went along—up-hill and down—now along the
side of a rib of the mountain—now over its cone,
and now along it—down through deep ravines and
up out of them, and scarcely able at any time to
see further ahead than some twenty yards, so thick
were the leaves about us; and not often able to
catch a glimpse of the sun, so dense was the mass
of foliage umbrellaed out everywhere above us.
Still there was a great wild delight in it all; and
by this time we had become somewhat inured to
the work; we were beginning to improve in condition,
and we felt our sinews and muscles coming
into better play every step we took.

After awhile, thus pursuing our steady advance,
we came to a small rivulet, trickling its way down
a shallow ravine, and evidently making its course
to the west. This was a little rill that sent forth its
mite, high up in these loftiest regions, to form the
waters of the Cheat river; the Cheat falling into
the Monongahela—the Monongahela into the Ohio
—the Ohio into the Mississippi—and so to the
great Atlantic reservoir. It was clear, now, that
we were on the other side of the Backbone.

"This water, gentlemen," said Powell, "is making
for the Blackwater. We are across the Bone."

"How far now, Powell, before we reach the
falls?" asked Peter.

"Well, I reckon about four miles—may be."

"Four miles! It can't be. It's no such thing.
Why, Mr. Powell, didn't you say distinctly, that it
was but four miles altogether from the place we
left the horses."

"Oh, no—I didn't say that! I told you, we
could bring the horses along to within about
four miles of the falls—over to another glade,
which we will come to before long."

"I'm deceived, gentlemen. We have all been
deceived by these men. Conway is this the case
that Powell says?"

"Powell knows the country better than I do.
He's nearly right, I guess. I should suppose now,
we are about four miles away."

"Gentlemen, hold on—stop," said Peter, "I've
a proposition to make."

"You had better not be left behind," said the
Signor, "you might get lost out here. Keep up
with the line."

On we went, increasing our pace a little, for the
day was hying westward; and if we intended to
reach the Blackwater by nightfall, there was no
time to waste.

"This is intolerable!" said Peter. "It's all nonsense—not
a particle of sense it. I say—hold on,
I've a proposition to make."

"I don't think we are treating him right," said
the Doctor, a little tired himself. "It isn't fair—he

might be suffering. We ought to halt, and hear
what he has to say."

As Peter's voice was strong—altogether unimpaired,
there was a rather general impression that
there was a good deal of good walking in him yet.
But we halted and threw ourselves down upon the
moss.

"What's the proposition? Let's have it while
we are resting—for there's no time to lose."

"Well, gentlemen, its strikes me we ought to
encamp."

This was met with a general dissent.

"It's my opinion we are lost," continued Peter,
"decidedly lost. These men have deceived us.
They start out by telling us that its only four miles
from where we left our horses to the Blackwater.
Well, we left them at one o'clock, and it's now five
by my watch. We've been four hours in coming
here—and I'm nearly dead at that! Now they
tell us they've got yet more than four miles to go!
I don't believe they know themselves where we are.
I believe we are lost, and that we are walking
about here for nothing. Powell, tell me, didn't
you say just now that this little rivulet was one of
the sources of the Blackwater?"

"Yes—and I think so still, Mr. Butcut."

"Only think so! There it is, gentlemen. He
don't know where he is. I don't believe we are
near the Blackwater."

"Nor I either," said Triptolemus, who grew uneasy
at the idea of being lost—remembering the
story of the lost man, and the bones that were found
out here. "If I could have seen Fairfax's stone, I
might have had some confidence. How can this
little stream make the Blackwater, when it's as
white and clear as any water we have seen?"

"Yes, Murad's got it! How can it be, Powell?"

"Well, gentlemen, it's no use talking. I am in
the right direction. Don't you say so, Conaway?"

"Yes, I do."

"Well, that's all," continued Powell, a little miffed
for the moment, "that I can do for you. There a'n't
any finger boards out here to point out the way.
All I can do for you is, to take a general direction
right, and I know I must hit the Blackwater somewhere—a
mile or two higher up, or lower down."

"But we've been four hours getting here, and
have come but four miles, you think; and have four
more to go, you say!"

"Well, no man need expect to see the falls of the
Blackwater without some sharp walking. A mile
or a mile and a half an hour, in a straight line—
which would make two or three, twisting about as
we have to go—is about as much as we can make
out here. I could have brought you a straighter
course—down through the big laurel, you know,
Conaway—but if ever you once got into that, we
know you would be glad enough to be out again!

—and so we have been trying to head the laurel as
much as possible."

"Right, men—you are right," said the Signor.

"I am not so entirely certain," responded Adolphus,
"but we must abide our fate now."

"Right—all right."

"I withdraw what I said, men," observed Peter,
it just occurring to him that if the guides should
take it into their heads to leave us, we would be in
rather a bad way. "I was very much heated just
now, and a good deal blown—that's the truth; and
the mind, you know, Powell, will take the hue and
tone of the feelings. This little rest has put it all
right, though."

"Handsomely done, and philosophically accounted
for."

"Move on, Powell—it's all right!"

The Signor waved his frying-pan encouragingly,
and the Master blew away upon his hand-bugle.
With restored spirit, the expedition once more
dashed along through the forest. Up started three
or four deer from the bushes, and, showing the underside
white of their tails as they threw them over
their backs, with a leap and a bound they were lost
in the forest. Murad ran after them a little way
out of the line, and pitching down presently over
some rough ground, his lame leg up in the air, he
laughed out his "Ugh—uh!" and gave up the
chase, saying, as he fell into line again—

"They are monstrous swift. How the fury they
get over the rough ground so fast, I can't see!"

"They were born so," replied old Conway.

"It's a gift to them," said Powell. "Every animal
has his gift. It's their protection. The bear
climbs, and the deer runs."

The hunters discoursing their lore of the forest,
we came down to the edge of some swampy ground,
and found ourselves in front of a wide stretch of
laurel, tangled and thick everywhere around. To
cross it—as it was clear it could not be avoided in
any way—the hunters looked about for the best
place to go in. At length, finding a spot that bid
the fairest, they made their way into the brake, and
desperately after them we all followed, as best we
could. Such pulling and tugging—such twisting,
plunging, breaking, crashing, and tearing—

or seen. Here was one held fast by his wallet, and
twisting about like an eel to get himself loose; there
another who had got upon a huge fallen tree—thus
avoiding the laurel by walking along its surface as
far as it reached through the swamp; but it was so
decomposed, that presently he sank into it up to his
arms—and he was stuck. Here another who had
reached a stream, walking in it as far as in its windings
it kept a course that corresponded with our
direction. There one grown entirely desperate, and

endeavoring to break his way through by main
strength. The hunters took it more knowingly, and
would search about for the thinnest places—sometimes
going back upon their tracks when they would
get into a very thick part of the brake, and trying
it another way.

To tell how at last we all did get out, overtaxes
any powers of description that I possess. Peter succeeded
eventually, and threw himself down on the
ground entirely exhausted, murmuring something
about the other side of Jordan, and the laurel being
a hard road to travel. The Prior came ashore
with his big knife open in his hand, having at length,
—like Wit in Moore's song—"cut his bright way
through." How Triptolemus got through has never

yet been fairly ascertained; but it is believed by
the whole expedition that he fell through the most
of the way—for whenever we had any glimpse of
him, his head was down and his feet up. Somehow
or other the passage was successfully accomplished;
and, after resting sufficiently, we took up the line
of march, with a unanimous request of the guides
that they would avoid all the laurel that it was
possible, by any skill of their woodcraft, to get
round.

"And this is the beautiful rhododendron, Adolphus,
that you and I have been trying so hard to
grow," said the Master.

"I'll pull it all up as soon as I get home," replied
Galen spitefully—"if, indeed, I shall ever see that
blessed spot again."

"No—I'll now have a thicket of it at the Priory,
if it is only that I may be able to demonstrate, when
I grow old, the miracles I shall recount of this expedition."

"A good idea," said the artist. "I'll make a
grand national painting of it, and call it `The Passage
of the Laurel."

"And hang it up by Leutze's `Passage of the
Delaware.' "

"Couldn't you put Fairfax's stone somewhere in
the picture?" inquired Trip.

"Oh, certainly," returned the Signor, "and draw
you, Trip, pitching into it!"

"Have Butcut stuck up to his shoulders in a decomposed
hemlock, and a bear after him!"

"A rattlesnake, too!"

"A panther or so!"

"And some owls about!"

"I'll try and do the subject justice, gentlemen,"
replied the Signor. "No historical feature shall be
left out."

Thus commenting on the passage of the laurel,
we moved on; and after a while, descending a long
hillside, we came to the head of a glade, through
which a stream of some size ran—its waters of a
light-chocolate hue. We were very much jaded by
this time; and so we threw ourselves down upon the
soft, beautiful grass, knee-high everywhere around,
and for half an hour enjoyed such grateful rest as
seldom comes to the sons and daughters of men
who stay in civilized regions; it recompensed even
the laurel, so exquisite was the rest, and so gorgeous
the bower where we took it!

Such thoughts filled the teeming brain of the Prior,
as he lay half sleeping in the beautiful glade.—But
we can not follow him in his dreams of wild bliss;
for we must go into another chapter, and bivouac
for the night.