The Eden of one man may be the Inferno of his neighbor, and now I am to throw to the winds, like leaves of a worthless manuscript, some years of time, and introduce you to a new Kentucky,--a Kentucky that was not for the pioneer.One page of this manuscript might have told of a fearful winter, when the snow lay in great drifts in the bare woods, when Tom and I fashioned canoes or noggins out of the great roots, when a new and feminine bit of humanity cried in the bark cradle, and Polly Ann sewed deer leather.Another page--nay, a dozen--could be filled with Indian horrors, ambuscades and massacres.
And also I might have told how there drifted into this land, hitherto unsoiled, the refuse cast off by the older colonies.
I must add quickly that we got more than our share of their best stock along with this.
No sooner had the sun begun to pit the snow hillocks than wild creatures came in from the mountains, haggard with hunger and hardship.They had left their homes in Virginia and the Carolinas in the autumn; an unheralded winter of Arctic fierceness had caught them in its grip.
Bitter tales they told of wives and children buried among the rocks.Fast on the heels of these wretched ones trooped the spring settlers in droves; and I have seen whole churches march singing into the forts, the preacher leading, and thanking God loudly that He had delivered them from the wilderness and the savage.The little forts would not hold them; and they went out to hew clearings from the forest, and to build cabins and stockades.
And our own people, starved and snowbound, went out likewise,--Tom and Polly Ann and their little family and myself to the farm at the river-side.And while the water flowed between the stumps over the black land, we planted and ploughed and prayed, always alert, watching north and south, against the coming of the Indians.
But Tom was no husbandman.He and his kind were the scouts, the advance guard of civilization, not tillers of the soil or lovers of close communities.Farther and farther they went afield for game, and always they grumbled sorely against this horde which had driven the deer from his cover and the buffalo from his wallow.
Looking back, I can recall one evening when the long summer twilight lingered to a close.Tom was lounging lazily against the big persimmon tree, smoking his pipe, the two children digging at the roots, and Polly Ann, seated on the door-log, sewing.As I drew near, she looked up at me from her work.She was a woman upon whose eternal freshness industry made no mar.
``Davy,'' she exclaimed, ``how ye've growed! I thought ye'd be a wizened little body, but this year ye've shot up like a cornstalk.''
``My father was six feet two inches in his moccasins,''
I said.
``He'll be wallopin' me soon,'' said Tom, with a grin.
He took a long whiff at his pipe, and added thoughtfully, ``I reckon this ain't no place fer me now, with all the settler folks and land-grabbers comin' through the Gap.''
``Tom,'' said I, ``there's a bit of a fall on the river here.''
``Ay,'' he said, ``and nary a fish left.''
``Something better,'' I answered; ``we'll put a dam there and a mill and a hominy pounder.''
``And make our fortune grinding corn for the settlers,''
cried Polly Ann, showing a line of very white teeth.``Ialways said ye'd be a rich man, Davy.''
Tom was mildly interested, and went with us at daylight to measure the fall.And he allowed that he would have the more time to hunt if the mill were a success.
For a month I had had the scheme in my mind, where the dam was to be put, the race, and the wondrous wheel rimmed with cow horns to dip the water.And fixed on the wheel there was to be a crank that worked the pounder in the mortar.So we were to grind until I could arrange with Mr.Scarlett, the new storekeeper in Harrodstown, to have two grinding-stones fetched across the mountains.
While the corn ripened and the melons swelled and the flax flowered, our axes rang by the river's side; and sometimes, as we worked, Cowan and Terrell and McCann and other Long Hunters would come and jeer good-naturedly because we were turning civilized.Often they gave us a lift.
It was September when the millstones arrived, and Ispent a joyous morning of final bargaining with Mr.
Myron Scarlett.This Mr.Scarlett was from Connecticut, had been a quartermaster in the army, and at much risk brought ploughs and hardware, and scissors and buttons, and broadcloth and corduroy, across the Alleghanies, and down the Ohio in flatboats.These he sold at great profit.We had no money, not even the worthless scrip that Congress issued; but a beaver skin was worth eighteen shillings, a bearskin ten, and a fox or a deer or a wildcat less.Half the village watched the barter.The rest lounged sullenly about the land court.
The land court--curse of Kentucky! It was just a windowless log house built outside the walls, our temple of avarice.The case was this: Henderson (for whose company Daniel Boone cut the wilderness road) believed that he had bought the country, and issued grants therefor.
Tom held one of these grants, alas, and many others whom I knew.Virginia repudiated Henderson.Keen-faced speculators bought acre upon acre and tract upon tract from the State, and crossed the mountains to extort.
Claims conflicted, titles lapped.There was the court set in the sunlight in the midst of a fair land, held by the shameless, thronged day after day by the homeless and the needy, jostling, quarrelling, beseeching.Even as Ilooked upon this strife a man stood beside me.
``Drat 'em,'' said the stranger, as he watched a hawk-eyed extortioner in drab, for these did not condescend to hunting shirts, ``drat 'em, ef I had my way I'd wring the neck of every mother's son of 'em.''
I turned with a start, and there was Mr.Daniel Boone.
