Chapter VI: The Immigrant Wagon

"THERE he is!" cried Mrs. Willard; and she turned pale.

It was early morning. A heavy mist enveloped the river. But her eager eyes, piercing the fog-curtain, recognized, in the foremost passenger descending from the steamer, the young man who had so nobly volunteered to search for her husband.

The three days the stranger had been absent were weary, anxious days to her. Not a boat touched at the landing, even in the darkness, but she heard the signal bell—hopingly, forebodingly watching for tidings of her lost companion.

But, impatient as she had been to hear from the young man, now that he had arrived, she trembled at his approach. Ah, how much, at some solemn crisis, is crowded into a brief interval! Was she a widow, and her sons without a father? A word now, and that awful question would be settled.

The young man walked towards the hotel slowly and gravely. With womanly quickness, she saw that he came with an unwelcome message, else his step would be eager and light.

"Well?" she whispered, inquiringly, as he entered.

"Madam," said he,—and he paused, as if deliberating how to word what he had to communicate,—"I have learned nothing favorable or unfavorable. Nothing has been seen of Mr. Willard at either of the landings. Still he may have been rescued from the water, and carried to some obscure cabin among the bluffs; or possibly a steamer may have taken him aboard. I have, however, sent back to Dunleith, to have posters printed describing Mr. Willard, and calling for information concerning him. A copy will be put up in every conspicuous place, circulated on the steamers, and among the settlers along shore. I see no alternative but to await the effect of the handbills."

Meanwhile, the whole family, entering the room, had clustered about their new friend, breathlessly listening.

Slightly aside was aunt Esther, her face partially averted, her lips firmly knit together, and her countenance worried, yet resolute.

Ferdinand leaned against the door-casing, in a pensive, thoughtful attitude, weighing each sentence freighted with so much significance.

Georgie, his hand clasped in his mother's, gazed into her face, as if more troubled for her than aught else.

The Hunchback had drawn a chair to the plain centre-table occupying the middle of the apartment, his sharp elbows resting on the stand, his great head propped on his weak little hands.

"I am sure, sir," said aunt Esther, breaking the terrible silence that had settled on them all, struck dumb as they were by the blow that had smitten the husband and father from their side,—"I am sure, sir, that we are greatly obliged." But she did not finish the acknowledgment; her words choked her, and simultaneously they all began to sob.

"Madam," said the young man, addressing Mrs. Willard, "may I ask if you will deem it best to return east immediately?"

"I could not," she faltered, "while my poor husband's fate is unsettled."

"But," he gently suggested, "to board long at this hotel would be very expensive. You mentioned that Mr. Willard had the money with him. Will you be offended if I inquire what your condition is financially?"

"Fortunately," was the reply, "I persuaded Mr. Willard, on reaching the boat, to let me take charge of a portion of the funds. Here is what he handed me." And she counted from her purse fifty-five dollars.

"A sorry amount for a family," was the response. "Now, I have been revolving this subject, and have a plan to propose. You would scarcely wish to go back to New England at present; that is plain. And had you means, it would be imprudent to tarry here. There have been copious rains this season. The Mississippi, therefore, overflowed wide tracts of land. The freshet is now subsiding, leaving the submerged vegetation exposed to the sun. This will create sickness; and here, shut in among these bluffs, the air is, you have reason to know, intensely hot, so that the miasma is developed more rapidly, and acts with a deadlier influence on the system. Remain here two weeks, or perhaps even one, and some of you will be down with ague and fever, or some other bilious disease. Now, my idea is that you had better go off upon the healthful prairies, away from the miasma of the river, among the large-hearted prairie farmers, take up land, and set to work improving it while waiting to hear from your husband. How does this strike 'you?'" he inquired, turning to aunt Esther.

"This is my sister, Miss Esther Willard. She disapproved of our removal west, and only came out to accompany us on the road," explained Mrs. Willard.

"Then she does not fancy the frontier?"

"No."

"Her opinion will not, therefore, be biased in favor of my plan. Miss Willard, have the kindness to express your views freely on the point."

"How far, sir, would the family have to go to find good, unoccupied land?"

"O, not a great ways, necessarily; but I would advise from sixty to eighty miles."

"How would they get there?"

"I doubt not a conveyance can be obtained."

"Who would do the farming?"

"These boys," returned the young man. "Two of them are active and strong; the other would be a safe companion and adviser. Farming on the fertile prairies, you must recollect, is vastly different from what it is in rocky, sterile New England."

"What would land cost?"

"There are," he replied, "two sorts subject to settlement. First, 'school lands,' so called because reserved to be sold for school purposes. These, at some appointed time, will be offered for sale at public auction. This may not take place for years. Until then the squatter or occupant has the use of it free; and when it is disposed of, usually by courtesy of the neighboring settlers, he has the first chance at bidding. The other lands can be bought at one dollar and twenty-five cents per acre, a cabin and a few other improvements being requisite as proof that the preëmptor is an actual settler, and not a mere speculator."

"What would the boys do for school and church privileges?"

"O, their aunt could teach them for a while," he smilingly responded, "should she decide to share their fortunes till they get fairly started. But immigration is rapidly coming in. Educational and Christian advantages will soon be enjoyed, and railroads must shortly be built. Land, if well chosen,—and on the route I would mark out one could not select amiss,—can but rise in value. So that, while waiting to hear from Mr. Willard, instead of getting sick and consuming what little means the family possesses, they will gain in health and vigor, and perhaps attain a nice property. Now, what say you to this scheme, Miss Willard?"

The maiden lady's calculating nose seemed to lengthen, the sympathetic ear-drops waxed tremulous, her features worked as if a tenacious prejudice and strongly repressed emotions were fighting against conviction. At length, she said,—

"I suppose you are correct, sir."

"And you will not forsake your sister in her trouble?"

There was a painful struggle. Dear, orderly New England,—where neatness, thrift, and plenty reigned, where she was born and nurtured,—and forms of friends she might not again behold! She was thinking of all this, and putting it in contrast to the loneliness, toil, and deprivation of the wild prairie. Could she, for others' sake, give up the old associations and comforts for the new scenes? Crushing the rebellious regrets, she answered,—

"I shall not leave the family."

"And," pursued her interrogator, "how do the boys vote on this question?"

"I'm for the prairies," cried impulsive Georgie.

"So am I," added Ferdinand.

"And Frankie?" inquired the young man.

But little Hunchback looked grave and depressed, and sadly shook his head.

"What are your objections?" asked the young man.

"I think the plan may be wise, but these boys never can carry it out. They haven't counted the cost," replied the dwarf. "A great deal of hard work will have to be done, and they don't like too much of it. They'll get discouraged in less than a week."

"O, little Hunchy's blue!" interrupted Georgie. "I guess we'll do as much as he will."

"True," replied the Hunchback, gloomily; "but I can do nothing."

"Well, all seem to regard the plan as a good one," said their adviser. "Next comes the matter of ways and means. Perhaps, however, it will give you more confidence in the project to learn that I am well acquainted with pioneer life. My name is Thomas Jones. My parents were originally from the east. They emigrated in consequence of my father's losses in business, and the persecutions of creditors. His difficulties unsettled his mind in a certain direction, and we led a roaming life in the wilderness, too often removing to get ahead pecuniarily. He got to be a famous hunter and marksman, and was cool and brave in danger. He removed at last to Spirit Lake, and was mortally wounded there while defending the settlers at the time of the Indian uprising. My sister Sarah, too, was killed, and Charley and little Bub only escaped by concealing themselves in a hollow tree.

"Soldiers from a frontier fort came to the relief of the cabin so bravely defended by my dear father, and subsequently returned for Charley and Bub, who had taken possession of the forsaken dwelling, and defended it against a second attack of the Indians. After father's death, which occurred at the fort, my mother, having been well educated, became governess to the two children, Alice and Walter McElroy, of the commander of the fortress. Through the generosity of a friend, and the kindness of the good missionary at L—, I was subsequently sent east to study for the ministry, and am now on my way to spend vacation with my relatives and acquaintances of the frontier. Good-by, now, for a little while. This evening I will see you further concerning our plan."

"What a splendid fellow that is!" exclaimed Ferdinand, gazing gratefully and admiringly out of the window after young Jones. "Wasn't it fortunate that he happened along just as he did?"

"'Happened' along!" repeated his aunt, looking shocked. "Do you believe in 'chance?' God sent him. Who of the thousands we saw on the journey paid us any generous attention? Did they not each 'take care of number one'? And how remarkable that he, of all that crowd on the steamer, should be just where he could hear us speaking of our dreadful trouble! Boys, this is a providence. God's hand is in it, and this assurance leads me to think we shall get along on the frontier."

"Does God order everything?" piped little Hunchie, crossly.

"I know what you mean, Frankie," kindly replied his aunt. "There are laws which, if we break, we must suffer the penalty. If we carelessly expose our money, we may be robbed. We are free agents, and can choose good or evil. If a man chose to rob another, he can do it. We are not machines. But when we suffer for our own faults, or through the wickedness of others, God, in pity, often sends his servants to our assistance. And 'I' do not doubt he sent Thomas Jones."

Ah, what a prop in adversity is faith in One who not only has a father's loving interest in his children, but who wisely and powerfully befriends them, causing "all things to work together for their good!" How much more rational and ennobling such trust than to suppose ourselves and the great universe to have "happened" into existence, an existence without forethought, intelligence, order, or end, to be whirled remorselessly about by blind and pitiless Fate!

Aunt Esther's words sent a thrill of hope to Mrs. Willard's heart, and, sadly smiling, she remarked,—

"O, if indeed the mighty God is watching over us, I must not despair."

"Ferdie, Frankie, Georgie, where are you? Come out here," shouted a cheerful voice in front of the tavern.

The lads seized their caps, and hastened to see what was wanted.

In a huge Pennsylvania wagon—"long enough," as they say in that state, "to reach from one mud-hole to another,"—sat the speaker, reins in hand. It was Thomas Jones. The boys started in surprise, and dolefully exclaimed,—

"O, you are not going away—are you?"

"Not yet," was the smiling reply. "How would you like to travel in a carriage of this sort? Ask your mother and aunt to step this way."

As the two ladies approached, the young man dismounted, and said,—

"Mrs. Willard, how would you and your household fancy a trip into prairiedom in this establishment? Not very elegant, you perceive; but please glance in, and see how much room there is inside."

And he gently constrained her to mount to the driver's seat.

"It will accommodate you all, and goods enough almost to furnish a cabin. And there are the horses, not handsome, but serviceable. It will be delightful wandering over the prairies in this way! Believe me, you will enjoy it."

"Whose team is it?" asked Mrs. Willard.

"Yours, madam."

"'Mine!'" she ejaculated.

"Mother's!" echoed the boys.

"The horses will stand. Let us go into the house, and I will explain. You see, madam, I was very much perplexed how to get you on your enterprise. Stage-coaching would eat up your means, and leave you distant from unpreëmpted land. As I was walking up the street, turning this subject over in my mind, before a shop-shanty was this team, and the owner was engaged in bargaining to buy out the store. All that stood in the way of a trade were the wagon and horses. The immigrant, if he went into trading, would not longer need it, and the shopkeeper did not wish it. Here, perhaps, is a providence, thought I; and stepping up, I inquired how little money would pay for the wagon and span.

"'Wal, stranger,' answered the immigrant, 'bein' as I'm bound ter have this ere shop, I'll part with the hull concern dog cheap.'

"'I'll consider it,' said I.

"Returning, I entered the bar-room. I'm seldom in there, you are aware, madam. The room was filled with smoke and smokers. Walking straight to the bar, I said to the landlord, in a loud tone,—

"'That's a hard case.'

"'What?' he asked, still stirring toddy for a toper.

"'Why, about that woman up stairs, whose husband was lost in the river.'

"'I heard about that,' said he, indifferently.

"'But,' I persisted, speaking louder, 'it's a "very" hard case.'

"'What's the row, friend?' asked a lounger.

"'I'll tell you,' said I. And I rehearsed the whole account, having the fixed attention of all present.

"'Is she gwine back ter the east?' inquired a rough customer, knocking the ashes from his pipe.

"'No; she thinks too much of her husband. She's bound to stay till she hears what has became of him.'

"'That's the kind,' he replied.

"'She ain't gwine ter board here on that on "that" onsartinty—is she?' he further inquired.

"'No; she and her boys are too smart for that. They are going out on the prairies. But,' I added, 'the husband had most of the money with him; and how the women and boys can get there is what puzzles me. There's a good wagon and span for sale up here, and if I had the money—'

"'Stranger,' broke in a burly fellow, pulling out a greasy wallet, 'I'm 'most dead broke; but ef yer don't let me have a finger in that pie, I'll know the reason. Here, gentlemen,' he continued, passing round his jammed and ancient hat, 'put in yer shiners fer the women and the boys.'

"The result is, the team belongs to Mrs. Willard, and if she don't use it, I don't know what will become of it. But come, Ferdie," he instantly added, "let us go and put up the horses; then I'll make suggestions concerning the route."

It was late that night when the Willards and their young pioneer friend separated, for he had much advice to give, and numberless questions to answer. Besides, he was to leave by stage in the morning, and this was their parting interview. With pen and ink, he sketched their course geographically, and also presented them with a pocket map of the country. These, Ferdie took charge of.

"Good-by, Mr. Jones," cried the lads in a breath, as he left.

"Boys," he replied, deeply moved, "my mother, brothers, and sisters always called me Tom. Don't 'mister' me again."

"Tom, dear, dear Tom!" cried Georgie, throwing his arms around his neck; "I 'do' love you so!"