"A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, 'Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry.'"
"Eric," cries Aunt Markham, with strong symptoms of hysterics, "come here this instant and tell me if we are all to be drowned!"
Eric is undutiful enough to disregard this appeal. He walks instead up to the man who has warned us, and who, with supreme indifference to the rain, is sitting on his horse watching our proceedings with great interest.
"If you are sure there is no possibility of our crossing Laurel," he says, "can you tell me any house within a moderate distance where we can spend the night?"
"Eric!" cries Aunt Markham again.
The prospect of spending the night in any one of the houses which are found commonly through the country is nearly as appalling as the idea of being drowned.
But Eric knows what is best for us, and goes on inflexibly:
"I must find some shelter for these ladies," he says. "Where is the nearest house?"
"About a mile back," the other answers. "You can get accommodation there, I expect. It's the house of a friend of mine. There's no other that I know of nearer than five or six miles."
"John, turn the carriage as soon as you put in the horses," says our commanding officer. "Charley, ride forward and see that Harrison does the same with the wagon."
So it is settled. John turns the carriage—a dangerous matter this, on the narrow rthen we crowd in and shield ourselves as well as we can from the driving rain that comes in our faces in sheets of spray. So we start back. But our progress is slow. Streams that were rivulets an hour before are leaping torrents now, with currents so strong and swift that it is as much as our horses can do to pull us through. Once the danger seems so imminent that we may be swept into the river, Aunt Markham utters a scream.
Sylvia only clasps my hand tightly, and when we reach the bank in safety, she says, "What must Laurel be!"
All our fancy for adventurous camping-out is dissipated by the blinding, soaking rain. We feel that any shelter will be welcome, no matter how rough it may be. And the shelter to which we presently come is very rough. Yet the house has plainly seen better days. It is a two-story frame building—once, no doubt, a well-kept farm-house—situated a little back from the r Two or three men are seated in the piazza. One comes forward, and when Eric says, "Can you take us in for the night?" answers, with a doubtful glance at our number, "Well, I reckin so."
We do not wait for the slow assent to spring out and take refuge in the piazza. Then we utter a long sigh of relief. After all, it is pleasant to have a roof over one's head! Our host leads us into a large, barn-like room, with several smaller ones opening from it. "I'll kindle some fire in a minute for you to dry yourselves," he says.
We certainly stand in need of drying. Mermaids could scarcely be more wet. Wherever we stand or sit, a pool of water soon settles. We take off our water-proofs and shawls and stretch them on chairs, laughing the while at our plight. Aunt Markham plainly thinks this mirth very ill-timed. She looks round with a shudder as she sits, majestic and dripping, in the middle of the room—but she says nothing. Words are too weak to express her feelings.
Presently a fire is roaring up the great chimney, and, by the time the gentlemen come to inquire how we have fared, we are restored to our normal condition of dryness and warmth. Nevertheless, flasks are produced and potations insisted upon. "It is the only way to keep from taking cold," says Eric, imperatively.
"Your wishes are gratified, Miss Sylvia," says Ralph Lanier, with rather an air of reproach. "You were desiring adventures—here they are."
"Do you consider me the Jonah who has brought all this ill-luck?" she asks, laughing. "In that case I ought to be thrown overboard—ought I not? The river is convenient for any thing of that kind."
The violence of the rain abates before very long, and we go out on the piazza to look around. The prospect is cheerless in the extreme. The house has a dispirited air of decay, and rose-trees have grown to a tangled thicket in front. At the end of the piazza two young men are talking to our host. Charley says that they are from South Carolina, 42and are on a walking-tour through the mountains.
"They came from the Springs to-day," he adds, "and crossed Laurel in a canoe. We met them, if you remember, just before our breakdown."
As the rain abates, our spirits sink. Let it abate ever so much, we have still the certainty of an aimless afternoon and comfortless night before us. No hope of crossing Laurel before the next day, no possible chance of returning to Alexander's. Suddenly, however, a cry is raised that somewhat cheers us: "The stage is coming!"
"By Jove!" says Mr. Lanier, "I felt sure that fellow was deceiving us about Laurel."
"That fellow" has also arrived by this time, and, in a very damp condition, is seated near. It is a chance whether or not he hears this grateful speech. Fortunately, the attention of everyone is fastened on the stage, which comes into sight—empty! We salute the driver with a cry.
"Are you going over Laurel?"
Driver. "Mean to try." Then he nods to the man who warned us: "How are you, George?"
George shakes his head.
"You can't cross," he says.
"I'll take the mail to the banks anyway," responds the other, driving on.
"If you find that you can cross, please come back for us," cries Sylvia, eagerly.
"He's not likely to cross," say the men at the other end of the piazza.
Mr. Lanier shrugs his shoulders impatiently. "There's no relying on a word these people say," he remarks. "But the bridge should have been rebuilt long ago. It is infamous for travelers to be delayed in this manner. What a place this is for ladies to spend the night!"
"Don't trouble yourself about us," replies Sylvia, nonchalantly. "We do not mind a little hardship; but I am afraid you have made a grave mistake. Had you not better turn round even yet and go to the White Sulphur and Saratoga?"
The young man colors.
"I was not thinking of myself," he says. "Of course it does not matter to me—at least not very much."
"Has anybody brought a pack of cards along?" asks Charley, sauntering up. "Let us have a game of euchre."
"Up we spring, and rush to the edge of the piazza."
In the midst of this, and just as Sylvia is playing an exciting "lone hand," there is another cry: "Here comes a man who has crossed Laurel!"
Up we spring, and rush to the edge of the 43piazza. A man driving two horses in a jersey wagon is stopped by a storm of tumultuous questions.
"Yes, I'm from the other side of Laurel," he replies.
"Forded the river?" asks the incredulous chorus.
"No—ferried it in a canoe. I've been water-bound on the other side three days, and I couldn't stand it any longer, so I took my wagon-body off the wheels, slipped it on the canoe, and swam the horses over."
"Eureka!" cries Eric, striking one hand on the other. "That is an idea for us! What has been done can be done again. If Laurel is still up to-morrow, I'll take the carriages over in that way."
"You'll run a great risk if you do," says Mr. Lanier, who evidently does not know what reckless thing may be proposed or executed next.
"A fig for the risk!" says Charley. "I'd quite as soon cross that way as another."
"And I would rather cross that way!" cries Sylvia. "What fun it will be!"
Mr. Lanier looks grave. Crossing swollen streams in a canoe is not his idea of fun.
"Let us hope the stream may be down by to-morrow," he says.
We return to our game of euchre, but I cannot forget the width and general appearance of the wagon which was said to have been brought over on a canoe.
"Eric," I say, "these people must be talking about a boat—a constructed boat. They can't possibly mean a dug-out."
"Our friend here will tell us," says Eric.
Then he turns to our first acquaintance—the man who lives five miles from the mouth of Laurel.
"Is that craft of which you are all talking a dug-out?" he asks.
"Yes, it's a dug-out—hollowed from the trunk of a tree," is the reply.
"The tree must surely have grown in California," says Sylvia.
"No, madam," is the answer. "I can find plenty of chestnuts ten feet in diameter on the Walnut Mountains just below here, and I'm almost sure I could find walnuts of the same size."
"There was a dug-out on the river here," says our host, chiming in, "that I saw one day hold five men and a mule—and could a' held more."
"There is no doubt of one thing," says Eric—"this is one of the most splendidly timbered countries on the face of the globe."
"You don't know what it is until you go out on the mountains," says Mr. George. "There's hardly a known tree that doesn't grow here—and grow to the finest size. You'd not believe me if I were to tell you of what height and diameter I have seen the white pine."
"Yes, we would," says Charley. "We are prepared to be enlightened, and ready to believe any thing."
A few more tree-stories are told, and then we ask the cause of the fishing mania which has seized all the population of the French Br
"Those were not more than the pickets and outposts that you saw," says our informant. "The main body of the fishing army is below here. I passed at least twenty in four miles to-day. Some of the fellows sat up fishing all night, and I know three men who only caught two fish among 'em—and those were cats."
"What's the idea?"
"Oh, well, it's too wet to do any thing else, and they think the fish will bite better because the river's muddy."
By the aid of conversation and cards, the afternoon and evening drag through. One shower succeeds another in the most rapid and disheartening succession, so that it is impossible to leave the house even for a short walk, and no one is sanguine enough to speak of "clearing off."
"We might as well go back to Asheville," says Aunt Markham, who regards our prospects in the darkest manner.
"Not without an effort to do otherwise," says Eric. "I don't choose to be baffled by Fate and the Laurel."
The day has been fatiguing, and we all retire early. Of the lodging and fare which we find at this wayside house, it is best to say no more than that the people gave us their best, and seemed honestly anxious to do all in their power to please us.
About nine o'clock the stage passes back and reports Laurel still rising. We are, therefore, cheered when, on waking the next morning, we hear the rain coming down "in bucketfuls," as Sylvia despondently remarks.
"We shall have to stay here all day," she says. "I feel sure of it. We cannot 44even go back to Alexander's, for the creeks are up between here and there. Oh, dear! Were ever people out for a pleasure-trip more badly treated by the weather?"
When we leave our room, Charley is the first person to meet us, with the pleasant sunshine of his face undimmed by the gloomy outlook. Surely an equable temperament is one of the greatest blessings in the world—especially in a traveling-companion.
"'Not for gold or precious stones would I leave my mountain home,'"
he sings, gayly. "I hope you are in better spirits than Lanier is this morning, Sylvia. If matters go on at the present rate, I am afraid he will commit suicide or go melancholy mad. It is a pity to see a man have so little philosophy. Can't you cheer him a little?"
"I haven't the least disposition to try," says Sylvia. "Do any of us like the delay?— is it anybody's fault? I am disgusted with Mr. Lanier, and I wish he had gone to a watering-place where he might dance the German to his heart's content, instead of joining our party."
"Who is accountable for his joining it?" says Charley. But I do not think he is ill-pleased by the young lady's petulance.
We go out on the piazza. The sky is a leaden curtain, the rain is pouring in torrents, the ris black mud and water, the river is a turbid flood. There is a sheer wall of cliff and forest opposite, along the base of which the impetuous current sweeps.
"What are you going to do, Eric?" we ask, as that gentleman comes up.
"Nothing at present," he answers. "What can a man do in the face of such a downpour as this? By nine o'clock there will probably be some signs of clearing. Then I will go to Laurel and see what the chances are for our getting across."
By nine o'clock there are some signs of clearing. A few faint gleams of sunshine appear, and the mists begin to rise from the mountains. Horses are brought out, and the gentlemen, with the exception of Mr. Lanier, start for the banks of Laurel, which is said to be all the more dangerous—to have all the more force in its current—because it is higher than the French Br into which it empties.
The morning passes in very dull fashion. Aunt Markham settles herself to a Sylvia and I go out and stroll—wade, perhaps, would give a more correct idea of the ralong the river-bank, attended by Mr. Lanier. I soon grow tired of playing the part of "third wheel to the cart," as the Germans say, and return to the house, leaving the others established in a cool, damp nook under some large trees that sweep the river with their bending boughs. An hour or two pass. No sign of the return of the horsemen; Aunt Markham grows uneasy, and suggests that they may have been drowned. Sylvia does not stir from her seat by the river; Mr. Lanier is talking earnestly—so earnestly that I feel a malicious inclination to go and break up the tête-à-tête. I have taken an unaccountable dislike to this young gentleman, despite his good looks and his well-filled purse. "Wae's me for Prince Charlie," I think—and then I see Prince Charley coming at a canter along the r
"Good news!" he says, as he draws up his horse. "Laurel is falling, and will be low enough by the afternoon for you to be ferried over in a canoe. Eric has made all the arrangements. I've seen the boat, and there is not the least danger."
"Are you sure of that?" asks Aunt Markham, tremulously. She is divided between her dislike to staying where she is and her terror of crossing in a canoe. "I never was in a dug-out," she says, "but I've seen them often. They rock horribly, and will upset at a touch."
"Not this one," says Charley. "Though a dug-out, it is two feet and a half wide."
The sun by this time is shining brilliantly, and with great heat. We take dinner; then the carriages are brought out, and the almost endless business of stowing away our luggage begins. Besides the trunks there are satchels and baskets, boxes of grasses, of ferns, and an unlimited number of wraps. Aunt Markham declines to allow the last to be strapped together. "It is useless," she says. "We shall need them before we have gone a mile."
Despite this foreboding prophecy, the afternoon remains clear, and we see the wild beauty of the gorge for the first time to advantage. The air is like crystal, and a glory of sunlight streams on the river with its masses of rock and the mountains that overshadow it. In the five miles that lie between our place of lodging and the banks of Laurel, 45the picturesque loveliness changes and deepens constantly. The river grows more and more tumultuous, and its waves wear caps of foam like the breakers of the ocean as they plunge in stormy rapids over its hidden rocks. Rugged cliffs hang over us, fringed with ferns and mosses; verdure-clad mountains rise from the other bank; leaping cascades tumble down the rocky glens and dash across our way—there are pictures on every side that would repay the lover of Nature or the artist for any hardship or fatigue that could possibly be encountered in reaching this land of almost unknown beauty.
Laurel Run.
Presently we see a br green stream flowing in front of us, and the horses are drawn up on the banks of Laurel. Notwithstanding the late heavy rains, there is no tinge of mud in the clear water of this mountain river, and we appreciate the strength of its current when we see that it sweeps directly across the French Brbefore the latter river can change its course. Even then, it takes half of the channel, and the clear and the turbid current flow onward side by side.
The bridge which was swept away crossed the stream near its mouth; but the ford is a little higher, and to this we drive. There is a cabin on the other side, from which, in answer to several halloos, the ferryman issues. The canoe in which we are to make the passage is moored on the other side, and at this Aunt Markham gazes doubtfully.
"John," she says to her coachman, whom she considers less likely to run dangerous risks than Eric, in whose vocabulary fear is a word unknown—"John, do you think that boat is safe? I suppose we can cross in it, but how about the carriages and the horses? Don't you think it might be better for you to remain on this side until the river goes down?"
This is a proposal which does not meet with John's approval. No one has a better appreciation of good lodging and good fare than the negro of the old régime. "There ain't no danger at all ef we takes the carriages off the wheels," he replies. "We can hold 'em steady on the boat, and the horses can swim easy enough."
"Oh, it will all be easy," says Eric, coming to the carriage door. "There is no reason to be nervous, mother. I am sorry that it is necessary you should alight—every thing must be taken out of here, John—luggage, cushions, every thing."
"This is—dreadful!" says Aunt Markham, with a gasp, after she has been deposited on the rside in the blazing heat of the sun, with satchels, , and baskets strewed around in wild confusion.
"I call it jolly," says Rupert, who is prancing about on Cecil, and getting as much as possible in everybody's way.
46"Don't ride that horse over me, Rupert!" cries Aunt Markham, retreating in terror and making convulsive efforts to scramble up the steep hill behind her.
"There ain't no danger at all."
"I must say that I consider this a very great risk," observes Mr. Lanier, climbing to where I have perched on the hillside, under the shade of a large walnut tree. "I shall not be surprised if Markham loses one or both of his carriages, and gets some of the horses drowned. In my opinion the river is still too high and too swift to be crossed with safety in any way."
"Suppose you stay on this side, then?" I cannot resist saying. "Yonder comes the ferryman. He seems to have no difficulty about bringing the boat over."
"What a pleasant way of crossing!" says Sylvia's voice below. She is standing with Charley on the bank of the stream, while Eric, who lends a hand to every thing, is assisting Harrison to take off the trunks, and John and Rupert are taking out the horses. "What shall go over first—a cargo of trunks or a cargo of people?" she says, turning round as the boat touches the shore.
"You and I will go," says Charley. "Let us be the first to make the passage."
"The whole party may as well go," says Eric. "The boat is large enough."
"We don't want the whole party," says Sylvia. "We mean to cross by ourselves, with a trunk or two for ballast.—Harrison, bring mine here.—If I go to the bottom, let me at least have the satisfaction of knowing that I take my wardrobe along with me."
Two or three trunks are placed in the boat. Sylvia and Charley embark, Mr. Lanier the while looking on anxiously and uttering one or two unheeded remonstrances; then the ferryman, who has been leaning on his pole, listening to every thing with a brgrin on his dusky face, pushes off. The boat rocks on the swift current, but he manages it with great skill, and, when they are halfway across, Sylvia's gay tones—she has taken off her gloves and is dabbling with both hands in the clear-tinted water—float back to us.
"O Charley, shall you ever forget the Laurel? Isn't this delicious?"
Crossing the Laurel.
"What strange ideas of enjoyment some people have!" says Mr. Lanier, who is seated on the roots of a tree, fanning himself. "I don't think I shall ever forget the Laurel; but as for seeing any thing delicious in such a business—"
47The rest of the trunks, Aunt Markham and myself, accompanied by this gentleman, cross next. Eric and Rupert remain behind to superintend the sending over of the carriages. We are landed in safety, despite one or two alarms on Aunt Markham's part. "O—h!" she says, in a prolonged gasp, every time that the boat gives a lurch— and dug-outs are by no means the steadiest crafts in the world. Mr. Lanier says nothing. He only sits on a trunk and looks grave. He is not afraid—as he has taken some trouble to explain—but he disapproves of running reckless risks, and he objects to getting his feet wet in a muddy canoe.
Sylvia and Charley welcome us gayly. There is a prettily-shaded spring, not more than five steps from the river, where they have seated themselves and opened the lunch-basket—filled at Alexander's, and not emptied yet. There is a bottle of claret which Charley is opening with his knife. "We drink to the passage of the Laurel!" he says. "May our future adventures be as pleasant!"
One or two of the party object to this sentiment—but they drink the claret. The children of the ferryman come in detachments to stare at us and the proceedings on the other bank. A hungry-looking, soft-eyed hound draws near and is fed generously by Sylvia. We talk and laugh and watch the carriages being brought over in pieces—first the bodies, then the wheels—and applaud the gallant horses that come out dripping and shining from their bath. Even Mr. Lanier begins to admit that there is some pleasure in all this. Walnut Mountain rises superbly behind us; the clear waters of Laurel sweep swiftly in front; the wild, deep gorge down which the latter flows is in shadow, while the afternoon sunlight falls bry on the rushing French Br
"If life were all like this," says Sylvia, leaning back against a rock, her hat off, her pretty hair in a curly tangle, "what a charming thing it would be!"
"You seemed to think it particularly charming last night," says Rupert, with an explosion of boyish laughter. He has come to refresh himself after his arduous exertions—his hat is on the back of his head, his face aflame with color. "Did you see what trouble we had to get Brimmer into the water?" he asks. "He knew as well as I did that he would have to swim, and he didn't fancy the idea."
The passage of the Laurel, with the attendant trouble of putting the carriages together again and reharnessing the horses, occupies two hours. It was three o'clock when we paused on its farther bank; it is five when Eric at last says, "All ready," and we prepare to start for the Springs.
"Good-by, Wash," says Charley, addressing the ferryman, who, after eleven trips across the river, seems disposed to think that rest from labor is sweet. "May you live a thousand years, and may your shadow never grow less! You have our blessing, and, if you should ever be called upon to do a thing of this kind again, you'll understand the proper method."
"Yes, sah—thanky, sah," responds Wash, with a grin.
The drive to the Springs in the lovely afternoon is a marvel of delight. It is a peculiarity of this rthat one is never able to determine with any degree of certainty what part of it is most beautiful. Yet, if it were necessary to decide, the palm might be awarded to that portion which lies beyond the waters of Laurel. There are, if possible, more variety, more wildness, more blended majesty and loveliness in these four miles than are to be found on any other part of the river. The Walnut Mountains—a range of splendid heights, rising to a ridge that stands for miles, level as a prairie, against the sky—inclose the gorge, while the cliff-like rocks that line the rassume some of their most imposing and picturesque forms. It is here, also, that the famous islands of the French Brin which Cherokee traditions placed a siren who lured hunters to destruction by the sweetness of her voice—appear like spots of fairy verdure on the rushing current. Rocks, islets, drooping foliage, glancing water, golden sunshine streaming on all the grand vistas and curves of beauty—how can one write of these things in terms that shall not seem exaggerated to those who have never looked on them?
Presently we reach Deep Water—where the river, narrowed between two walls of shelving rock, is said to be ninety feet deep, and flows without a sound, almost without apparent motion. Released from this confinement, it whirls more madly than ever over a magnificent ledge of broken rock, and 48parts around Mountain Island. When it unites again, it is more quiet. We follow one more sweeping bend, and the lovely valley of the Warm Springs is before us.
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