The Story Of Capt Paul
I love to speak, I love to write of the mighty West. I have passed ten
happy and partly pleasant years travelling over the immense tracts of
land of the West and South. I have, during that time, garnered up
endless themes for my pen. It was my custom, during my travels, to keep
a "log," as the mariners have it, and at the close of the day I always
noted the occurrences that transpired with me or others, when of
interes
Several years ago I was stopping at Vevay, Indiana, a small village on
the Ohio river, waiting for a steamboat to touch there and take me up to
Louisville, Ky. It was in the fall of the year, water was very low, and
but few boats running. Shortly after breakfast, I took my rifle and
ammunition and started down along the river to amuse myself, and kill
time by hunting. Game was scarce, and after strolling along until noon,
I got tired and came out to the river to see if any boats were in sight,
as well as take shelter from a heavy shower of rain that had come on. I
sought an immense old tree, whose broad crown and thick foliage made my
shelter as dry as though under a roof, and here I sat down, bending my
eyes along the placid, quiet and noble river, until I was quite lost in
silent reverie. The rain poured down, and presently I heard a footstep
approaching from the woods behind, and at the same moment a rough, curly
dog came smelling along towards me. The dog came up to within a few rods
of me and stopped, took a grin at me and then disappeared again. But
my further anxiety was soon relieved by the appearance of a tall,
gaunt man, dressed in the usual costume of a western woodsman, jean
trowsers, hunting shirt, old slouched felt hat, rifle, powder horn,
bullet pouch, and sheath knife. He was an old man, face sallow and
wrinkled, and hair quite a steelish hue.
"Mornin', stranger," said he; "rayther a wet day for game?"
I replied in the affirmative, and welcomed him to my shelter. Having
taken a seat near me, on the fallen trunk of a small tree, the old man,
half to himself and partly to me, sighed--
"Ah! yes, yes, our day is fast gwoin over; an entire new set of folks
will soon people this country, and the old settler will be all gone, and
no more thought of."
"I imagine," said I, interrupting his soliloquy, "that you are an old
settler, and have noted vast, wonderful changes here in the Ohio
Valley?"
"Wonderful; yes, yes, stranger, thar you're right; I have seen wonderful
changes since I first squatted 'yer, thirty-five years ago. Every thing
changes about one so, that I skearse know the old river any more. 'Yer
they've brought their steamboats puffin', and blowin', and skeerin' off
the game, fish, and alligators. 'Yer they've built thar towns and thar
store houses, and thar nice farm houses, and keep up sich a clatter and
noise among 'em all, that one fond of our old quiet times in the woods,
goes nigh bein' distracted with these new matters and folks."
"Well," said I, "neighbor, you old woodsmen will have to do as the
Indians have done, and as Daniel Boone did, when the advancing axe of
civilization, and the mighty steam and steel arms of enterprise and
improvement make the varmints leave their lairs, and the air heavy and
clamorous with the gigantic efforts of industry, genius, and wealth, you
must fall back. Our territories are boundless, and there are yet
dense forests, woods, and wilds, where the Indian, lone hunter, and
solitary beast, shall rove amid the wild grandeur of God's infinite
space for a century yet to come."
"Ah, yes, yes, young man; I should have long since up stakes and rolled
before this sweeping tide of new settlers, only I can't bar to leave
this tract 'yer; no, stranger, I can't bar to do it."
"Doubtless," I replied; "one feels a strong love for old homes, a
lingering desire to lay one's bones to their final resting place, near a
spot and objects that life and familiarity made dear."
"Yes, yes, stranger, that's it, that's it. But look down thar--thar's
what makes this spot dear to me--thar, do you see yon little
hillock--yon little mound? Thar's what keeps old Tom Ward 'yer for
life."
The old man seemed deeply affected, and sighed heavily, as he wiped the
moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand. I gazed down towards
the spot he had called my attention to, and there I beheld, indeed,
something resembling a solitary and lonely grave; wild flowers bloomed
around it, and a flat stone stood at the head, and a small stake at the
foot.
"'Tisn't often one comes this way to ask the question, and the Lord
knows, stranger, I'm always willing to tell the sad story of that lonely
grave. Well, well, it's no use to grieve always, the red whelps have
paid well for thar doins, and now, but few of 'em are spared to
repent--the Lord forgive 'em all," to which I involuntarily
echoed--"Amen!"
"Well, stranger, you see, about five-and-thirty years ago, I left
Western Virginia to come down 'yer in the Ohio valley. I well remember
the first glimpse I got of this stream; it war a big stream to me, and I
gloried in the sight of it. Thar war but few settlements then upon its
banks, and thar war none of your roarin', splashin' steamboats about;
but I like the steamboats--thar grand creatures, and go it like
high-mettled horses. Well, I war a young man then; me and my brother and
our old mother joined in with a neighbor, built a family boat, put in
our goods, and started off down the stream, towards the lower part thar
of Kentucky.
"Captain Paul, our neighbor, war an old woodsman, though he war a young
man; he had a wife and several fine, growin' children along with us, and
our journey for many days war prosperous and pleasant. Capt. Paul's
wife's sister war along with us, a fine young creature she war too. My
brother and her I always carc'lated would make a match of it when we
reached our journey's end; but poor Ben, God bless the boy, he little
dreampt he'd be cut off so soon in the prime of life, and leave his
bones 'yer to rot. I war young too, then, and little thought I should
ever come to be this old, withered-up creature you see me now,
stranger."
"Why, you appear to be a hearty, hale man yet," said I, encouraging the
old man to proceed in his narrative, "and no doubt shoot as well and see
as keenly and far as ever?"
"Ay, ay, I can drive a centre purty well yet; but my hand begins to
tremble sometimes, and I'm failing--yes, yes, I know I'm failing. But,
to go on with my story: I acted as sort of pilot. Then the country were
yet pretty full of Ingins, and mighty few cabins war made along the
river in them times. The whites and red-skins war eternally fighting. I
won't say which war to blame; the whites killed the creatures off fast
enough, and the Ingins took plenty of scalps and war cruel to the white
man whenever they fastened on him.
"Our old ark or boat war well loaded down; a few loose boards served as
a shelter from the sun and rain, and a few planks spiked to the sides
'bove water, kept the swells from rollin' in on us. Two black boys
helped the captain and I to manage the boat, and an old black woman
waited on the wimin folks and did the cooking.
"You see yon pint thar, up the river?" continued the narrator, pointing
his long, bony finger towards a great bend, and a point on the Kentucky
side of the stream.
"Yes," I replied, "I see it distinctly."
"Well, it war thar, or jest above thar, about sunset of a pleasant day,
that we came drifting along with our flat-boat, or broad horn, as they
were called in them days, when Captain Paul said he thought it would be
a snug place just behind the pint, to tie up to them same big trees yet
standin' thar as they did then. Ben, poor Ben and I concluded too, it
would be a clever place to camp for the night; so we headed the boat
in--for, you see, we always kept in the middle of the stream, as near as
possible, to keep clear of the red skins who committed a mighty heap of
depredations upon the movers and river traders, by decoyin' the boat on
shore, or layin' in ambush and firin' their rifles at the incautious
folks in the boats that got too nigh 'em. Guina and Joe, the two black
boys, rowed enough to get around the pint. We had no fear of the Ingins,
as we expected we war beyond thar haunts just thar; mother war gettin'
out the supper things, and Captain Paul's wife and sister were nestling
away the children. Just then, as we got cleverly under the lee of the
shore thar, I heard a crack like a dry stick snappin' under foot--
"'Thar's a deer or bar,' said the captain.
"'Hold on your oars,' says I--'boys, I don't like that--it 'tain't a
deer's tread, nor a bar's nether,' says I.
"By this time we had got within thirty yards of the bank--another slight
noise--the bushes moved, and I sung out--'Ingins, by the Lord! back the
boat, back, boys, back!'
"Poor Ben snatched up his rifle, so did the captain; but before we could
get way on the boat, a band of the bloody devils rushed out and gave us
a volley of shouts and shower of balls, that made these hills and river
banks echo again. Poor Ben fell mortally wounded and bleeding, into the
bottom of the boat; two of the captain's children were killed, his wife
wounded, and a bullet dashed the cap off my head.
"I shouted to the boys to pull, and soon got out of reach of the Ingins.
They had no canoes, bein' only a scoutin' war party; they could not
reach us. The wounded horses and cows kicked and plunged among the
goods, the wimin and children screamed.
"Oh! stranger, it war a frightful hour; one I shall remember to my dyin'
day, as it war only yesterday I saw and heard it. It war now dark, the
boat half filled with water, my brother dyin', Captain Paul nerveless
hangin' over his wife and children, cryin' like a whipped child. I still
clung on to my oar, and made the poor blacks pull for this side of the
river, as fast and well as thar bewildered and frightened senses allowed
'em.
"My poor mother leaned over poor Ben. She held his head in her lap; she
opened his bosom and the blood flowed out. He still breathed faintly--
"'Benjamin, my son,' said she, 'do you know me?'
"'Mother,' he breathed lowly. Mother tried to have him drink a cup of
water from the river, but he war past nourishment--and she asked him if
he knew he war dyin'?
"He gasped, 'Yes, mother, and may the Lord our God in heaven be merciful
to me, thus cut from you and life, mother--'
"'God's will be done,' cried my mother, as the pale face of her darlin'
boy fell upon her hand--he was gone.
"We reached shore, but dar not kindle a light, for fear the Ingins might
be prowlin' about on this side; yes, under this very tree, did we 'camp
that gloomy night. The whole of us, livin', dead, and wounded, lay 'yer,
fearin' even to weep aloud. About midnight, I took the two blacks, and
we dug yon grave and laid poor Ben in it, and the two children by his
side. It war an awful thing--awful to us all; and our sighs and sobs,
mingled with the prayers of the old mother, went to God's footstool, I'm
sure. We made such restin' places as circumstances permitted. I lay
down, but the cries of poor Captain Paul's wife and sister, cries of the
two survivin' children, and moans of us all, made sleep a difficult
affair. By peep of day I went down to the grave, and thar sat the old
mother. She had sat thar the live-long night; the sudden shock had been
too much for her.
"Two days afterwards the grave was opened and enlarged, and received two
more bodies, the wife of Captain Paul, and our kind, good old mother.
Thirty-five years have now passed. Could I leave this place? No; not a
day at a time have I missed seeing the grave, when within miles of it.
No, here must I rest too."
The old man seemed deeply affected. I could not refrain from taking up
the thread of his narrative to inquire what had become of Captain Paul
and his wife's sister.
"Well, poor thing, you see it war natural enough for her to love her
sister's children, and the captain, he couldn't help lovin' her too, for
that. The captain settled down here, about two miles back, and in a few
years the sister-in-law and he war man and wife, and a kind, good old
wife she is too. I've 'camped with 'em ever since, and with 'em I'll
die, and be put thar--thar, to rest in that little mound with the rest.
But I must bide my time, stranger--we must all bide our time. Now,
stranger, I've told you my sad story, I must ax a favor. Seeing as you
are a town-bred person, perhaps a preacher, I want you to kneel down by
that grave and make a prayer. I feel that it is a good thing to pray,
though we woods people know but little about it."
I told him I was not a minister in the common acceptation of the term,
but considering we all are God's ministers that study God's will and our
own duty to man, I could pray, did pray, and left the poor woodsman with
an exalted feeling, I hope, of divine and infinite grace to all who seek
it.
A boat touched Vevay that evening, and I left, deeply impressed with
this little story.
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