John Randolph, of Roanoke, and other sketches
of character, including William Wirt together with tales of real life |
“OLD KENTUCK.”
A TRUE STORY. |
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 | John Randolph, of Roanoke, and other sketches
of character, including William Wirt |  |
“OLD KENTUCK.”
A TRUE STORY.
The hunters of Kentucky.”
—Western Song.
Some years since I left Pittsburg in a first-rate
steamer, on my way to New Orleans. I was bound
upon a rare trip of pleasure, and, full of health
and the excitement consequent upon it, was alive
to every scene around and every character about
me. And the characters upon our western waters,
fifteen years ago, had more character in them; just
as the scenes around one had more of nature in
them than now, inasmuch as art had not displayed
as much of her power there as she has since; a
power which, with enlightened laws and republican
institutions, is destined, as I believe, to make the
West the model land of the world.
One day, I think it was the day after we left
Pittsburg, we saw a white man, with a black boy
beside him, evidently designing to take passage, as
handkerchief on the end of a stick. Impatient
that the steamboat, by her movements, indicated
no notice, on the part of her officers, of the signal
aforesaid, the white man took the stick, which
proved to be a ramrod, from the hand of the negro,
and, leaning on a rifle which he held in his hand,
waved it, with a good deal of emphasis in his manner,
while we could hear his stentorian voice (it
was indeed stentorian, to reach us at that distance),
exclaiming: “Hello!”
“Hello!” replied a voice from the upper deck
of our steamer, the Fort Adams.
“It's Samson,” exclaimed the captain, who was
standing on the guards beside a crowd of us;
“round to.”
No sooner said than done. As the boat approached
the parties, Samson exclaimed: “Why,
you are blind as a horse-blanket—blind as your
boat. I don't stand so low that you can't see me,
do I? I! I stand six feet four inches in my stocking
feet, and I waved this handkerchief as many
feet over my head besides.”
“Who do you think is looking out for you from
the wheelhouse?” replied the pilot. “You're big
enough to look out for yourself, and you're big
enough to be a snag, old fellow—but I'd rather see
you on the shore than in the river. But I am
keeping a sharp lookout ahead, here—we hit a
you like to hire out to Uncle Sam for a light-house?
A little more liquor, and your face would
go without any other light.”
“Ha, Rogers, is that you, you thief you? That's
a Joe Miller—you stole it from old Falstaff in the
play, about that chap whose nose lit him up the
hill at night. I hope you don't extend your
thieveries to other matters.”
“It's no thievery, Kentuck,” replied Rogers—
“it's only like a parson's text, which anybody has
the right to apply—well applied, I drawed the
inference, old boy.”
“Yes,” replied old Kentuck, as he was called,
“you'll have a bee line drawed upon you some of
these days, in consequence of that tongue of yours
—everybody that knows you, knows that yours
is no slander—but never mind, you'll meet with
a stranger, some of these short days, and that will
be like a snag to your boat.” By this time our
yawl had received old Kentuck, and I saw the
black boy deposit the traveller's trunk in it, while
that individual deposited a piece of silver in his
hand, which glittered like the ivory the darkey exhibited
on the occasion.
“Take care of yourself, Pomp, and mind what
I told you.”
“Yes, Master Samson, you 'pend 'pon me;
there's no mistake in this nigger.”
“That's a tall man,” I said to the captain, as
Old Kentuck sprang upon the deck, rifle in hand.
“Tall,” rejoined the captain; “well, he's tall
in a good many ways; he's what we call a “case.”
He's a pilot going down to New Orleans, to bring
the Emperor up, as he wrote me. I've been expecting
to find him somewhere along shore here.”
Soon the Kentuckian was up stairs, shaking the
captain by the hand in the most cordial manner.
Old Kentuck was certainly a character. He
wore a pair of pants, with enormous stripes in
them; a most preposterous pattern! his vest was
of rich silk, of a gorgeous fashion, while around
his neck he had a cross-barred neckcloth of black
and red, tied in a curious kind of knot, in which
he seemed to pride himself. A loose frock-coat,
brown, and with a brown velvet collar thrown
back, covered his body, while his head was adorned
with a huge foxskin cap, with the tale of Reynard
fantastically curled above it. But the face of the
stranger was certainly attractive. Across the
“broad Atlantic of his countenance,” as some one
said of Charles James Fox, there played a continued
sunshine of cheerfulness and good-nature;
at the same time that his clear blue eye and the
occasional compression of his well-defined lips,
showed a nature that might be waked up to desperate
deeds.
“Samson, does that Pomp belong to you?”
“Yes, sir-ee—why?”
“I want a hand.”
“Well, you can take him, and give me what's
right—ha! ha! Capting, do you know Pomp's
father, old Dave?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the old rascal has turned Mormon; he
sees sights and has visions, and talks about
another book of Mormon. He's great on fore-knowledge.
The other day, Dave comes to me
with the most awful face you ever saw a nigger
carry, and said he wished to speak to me apart.
Apart I went with him, and after glancing around
fearfully and with an ominous look, he said:
`Master, I'se got something of highest consekence
to tell you.' `What's that, Dave?' `Why, master,
you don't believe in the book of Mormon and
visions, but my duty to you is nevertheless my
duty.'—`That's good, Dave,' I replied; `there's
Christianity in that! `Master, there's Mormon in
it, and the truth is, I've had a dream now for the
third night in secession—and being, as you always
have been, a good master to me, and kind, I
thought I ought to tell you that, according to them
three dreams, dreamed three nights in secession,
I shall die next Sunday night, and see Joe Smith
to a certainty.' `Well, Dave,' says I, `I am very
much obliged to you—seeing that your end's so
near, it's a gratification for me to know that I have
as you are near your end; and being, Dave, as, you
know, you cost me six hundred dollars, and I can 't
afford to lose you, as it is a-going to please the
Lord to take you on Sunday, I shall, the Lord
willing, put you in my pocket in the shape of
seven hundred dollars next Saturday. Old Bowler
will give that for you, for he told me so—and
though he is a hard master, you can escape him, at
least for one day, especially as he belongs to
church, and never flogs on Sunday, and you'll have
your clearance that night.”
“Whew,” ejaculated the captain, “ha! ha! ha!”
“Yes—I come it, didn't I? Dave called on me
the next morning early—he had been watching to
see me come out, thinking that I might slip over
the back way to Bowler's, and told me that he had
had seven dreams that very night, assuring him
that he should live a very long time, and that it
was very wrong anyway to believe in dreams.
Pomp said his daddy was a fool; the old man
overheard it and licked him for it—so Pomp was
the fool after all. What's the news, captain—anything
up stream?”
“Nothing,” replied the captain.
“Any boats up?”
“No—did you see the Shelby.”
“Yes, she's just below here in the bend, getting
her shaft mended.”
“I'll pass her, then,” said the captain; and he
proceeded below.
Soon the accelerated speed of our boat showed
that the captain had ordered a press of steam, and
we were dashing gallantly through the beautiful
Ohio, while the heavy waves on either side of us
ran rippling to the shore.
In the bend, sure enough, we soon discovered the
Shelby, on board of which boat it was evident our
appearance created some commotion. It appears
that she had just finished the repair of her shaft,
and was about leaving the shore as we drew in
sight.
“Ha, ha,” said Old Kentuck, leaning on his
rifle, which was as long as he was tall, “she looks
like trying if she can beat you.”
“Don't know,” said the captain quickly.
“They've made big bets on her up at Pittsburg,
and I can't stand everything. I say, Samson, I
am opposed to racing, but I can't stand everything.”
“Sometimes I won't stand anything,” replied
Samson.
“Is the Shelby a fast boat?” I asked of the
Kentuckian; “I hope we shan't have racing.”
“Racing! why, don't you like excitement,
stranger—what's life without excitement?” replied
old Kentuck; “a mud-puddle to Niagara. I tell
you, stranger, in dull times, and when a man don't
choose—I go and sleep over the boiler, by way of
excitement.”
“Do you? That's a tall rifle,” I said.
“Tall—it's just as tall as I am. You've hearn
tell of Capting Scott, who was such a tall shot
that the coon came down as soon as he saw him
and give in—haven t you?”
“I have,” replied I, laughing.
“Well, this is the rifle that did it—Capting
Scott wouldn't have been anything without the
rifle, would he? I don't say I ever had a talk with
a coon, but I do say that this rifle can talk to
them, and that I can bring one down from just as
big a distance as he can.”
I took the Kentuckian's rifle in my hand, and
after feeling the weight of it, handed it back to
him.
“Love me, love my dog!” said he—“ha! ha!
I had a hearty laugh to myself the other day.
Them Frenchmen, you don't think they are civilized,
stranger, do you?”
“Civilized—why, they think themselves the
most civilized nation in the world.”
“Well, they're mistaken, that's all—it's confounded
easy for a man or men to get mistaken in
themselves. I was reading the other day how some
Frenchmen tried to blow Napoleon up with what
they called an “infernal machine.”—Bah, it's the
in mind of the Irishman now who went to spear a
fish with a scythe, and cut his own head off. Ha,
but let them put me anywhere in a fifth or tenth
story, just where I can see his majesty's nose as
he goes by in his carriage, I don't care if fifty
horses are going it at a leap, and he behind them
—it ain't as fast as a bird on the wing is it, or
worse than a squirrel on the top of a tree? Well,
just let him show his nose, and I'd put a bullet
between the peepers of the Lord's anointed certainly.”
“Yes, I expect you could.”
“And no mistake.—No, sir, because Frenchmen
teach dancing, you call them civilized. Why,
stranger, I've been among various folks, and the
Indians dance more than the French do. Firearms
is the invention of civilization, ain't it?”
“Yes, I understand so.”
“Well, the rifle is the best kind of firearms—
it's the highest point of civilization, I maintain.—
Ha! there she comes—this boat can't stand it with
the Shelby.” By this time all was excitement on
board the Fort Adams. The Shelby was a larger
and faster boat, and she was pressing us hard. I
could hear the barkeeper calling out to the steward
for more ice—and, as I glanced towards the bar, I
discovered a crowd of persons in excited talk,
drinking; among them was the captain.
“Come, let's go on the hurricane deck,” said
Kentuck, “and see how matters look.”
As we entered the cabin to go forward and
ascend to the hurricane deck that way, a number
of ladies rushed from their cabin towards us, exclaiming—
“Gentlemen, they are racing; they'll blow us
all up, gentlemen.”
“Ladies, don't be frightened,” said old Kentuck,
in a manner of exceeding courtesy, at the same
time taking off his fox-skin.
“Oh! sir,” exclaimed a beautiful, delicate looking
lady to him in an agony of terror, “don't let
them race; I had a brother and sister lost on the
Mozelle.”
“Don't be frightened, my good lady, don't be
frightened,” rejoined the Kentuckian; and, shaking
her hand, he proceeded to the hurricane deck.
The Shelby was “barking” after us like a bloodhound
from the slip. There was quite an expanse
of water in this place, but, as I learned from the
Kentuckian, who was an old pilot, and acquainted
with every foot of the river, the channel here was
very devious and dangerous. The captain came to
the Kentuckian's side with a flushed cheek, and
asked,
“What do you think of it, Samson?”
“If I had the strength of my namesake,” replied
the Kentuckian, “I'd swim out and chuck that
she is too fast for us, and I always knew it. I told
you Bob Albert, the pilot there, has been on a bust
for this week past; they sent their yawl ashore
when they saw me this morning, wanting to learn
something about another pilot. Beattie's sick; and
I saw then Albert was tight; he swore you should
not beat them if they blew everything up. I tell
you, capting, it's my opinion they'll be into us; the
channel is too narrow here for them to pass us;
and they're got such a head of steam on, and they
are so much bigger than we are, that if they come
agin us, we are gone.”
“Kentuck,” called out Rogers from the wheelhouse,
“just step here a moment. You know the
channel better than I do. I wonder what those
rascals mean?”
The meaning seemed to be to my eye a resolve
to run us down; the smoke ascended black and
sulphury from her chimneys, with occasional
flashes of volcanic fire, that showed he had all the
steam on possible. He gained on us evidently,
while the excited crowd on her hurricane deck and
guards repeatedly hurrawed, as, by the orders of
the mate, they stepped to the centre of the boat,
to keep her righted.
The noise they made and their evident approach,
with the fearful trembling of our boat, for we had
all steam on, too, so alarmed the ladies that, following
have been safest perhaps in the cabin, they hurried
on to the hurricane deck, and the one that I
have before spoken of rushed to Samson, who was
at the wheel, and begged him not to race any
more.
“Kentuck,” said Rogers, “they'll be into us—
it's my opinion they mean to run us down—they
must be all drunk there.”
“Pretty much so,” replied the Kentuckian;
“Bob Albert was in for it early this morning;
he's the only pilot on board; that is, Beattie is
down with a fever mighty low—Bob hates your
capting here, and when he's tight he's perfectly
crazy.”
“We shall all be lost—we shall all be lost,” exclaimed
the young lady, “O! Mr. Old Kentucky
save us.”
“Old Kentucky will do that, my dear young
lady, if he has to shoot the rascal at the wheel;
they're bent on running us down—self-preservation
is the first law of nature—if two men are
grappling for the same plank at sea, which will
hold but one, each has the right to push the other
off if he can—that's law I'm told, though I never
thought it was exactly fair, especially if the weaker
man had got the plank first—however, if these
fellows run into us it will be a clear case of murder,
and they are hardly six lengths off. Hang it,
yourself talk. Halloo, there, what are you after?
Look out! Here, Rogers, you take the wheel a
moment, and hand me my rifle—you see it's necessity.”
“Don't kill him,” exclaimed Rogers, nevertheless
complying with his request.
“Kill him! no, but I'll just break that right arm
of his between the wrist and elbow, the first time
he shows it fairly.”
So saying, the Kentuckian deliberately lifted his
rifle to his shoulder. We all felt our danger too
much to interfere or even to say a word. In a
moment more the sharp report of the rifle was
heard, all eyes were fixed upon the pilot of the
Shelby. In an instant his arm fell lifeless to his
side, and the Shelby, uncontrolled, rushed on to a
shallow bar just beside her, and in another moment
was fast aground.
| John Randolph, of Roanoke, and other sketches
of character, including William Wirt | |