The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 09, No. 53, March, 1862

I had been so carried along with his story that I had felt as if I were the man on the Ice, myself, and assured him, that, though I could get along pretty well on land, and could even do something at netting, I should have been very awkward in his place.

“Wull, Sir, I looked for a lee. (‘T wouldn’ ha’ been so cold, to say cold, ef it hadn’ a-blowed so tarrible hard.) First step, I stumbled upon somethun in the snow, seemed soft, like a body! Then I comed all together, hopun an’ fearun an’ all together. Down I goed upon my knees to un, an’ I smoothed away the snow, all tremblun, an’ there was a moan, as ef ’t was a-livun.

“‘O Lard!’ I said, ‘who’s this? Be this one of our men?’

“But how could it? So I scraped the snow away, but ’t was easy to see ’t was smaller than a man. There wasn’ no man on that dreadful place but me! Wull, Sir, ’t was a poor swile, wi’ blood runnun all under; an’ I got my cuffs23 an’ sleeves all red wi’ it. It looked like a fellow-creatur’s blood, a’most, an’ I was a lost man, left to die away out there in th’ Ice, an’ I said, ‘Poor thing! poor thing!’ an’ I didn’ mind about the wind, or th’ ice, or the schooner goun away from me afore a gale, (I wouldn’ mind about ’em,) an’ a poor lost Christen may show a good turn to a hurt thing, ef ’t was on’y a baste. So I smoothed away the snow wi’ my cuffs, an’ I sid ’t was a poor thing wi’ her whelp close by her, an’ her tongue out, as ef she’d a-died fondlun an’ lickun it; an’ a great puddle o’ blood,—it looked tarrible heartless, when I was so nigh to death, an’ wasn’ hungry. An’ then I feeled a stick, an’ I thowt, ‘It may be a help to me,’ an’ so I pulled un, an’ it wouldn’ come, an’ I found she was lyun on it; so I hauled agen, an’, when it comed, ’t was my gaff the poor baste had got away from me, an’ got it under her, an’ she was a-lyun on it. Some o’ the men, when they was runnun for dear life, must ha’ struck ’em, out o’ madness like, an’ laved ’em to die where they was. ’T was the whelp wasn’ quite dead. ’Ee’ll think ’t was foolish, Sir, but it seemed as though they was somethun to me, an’ I’d a-lost the last friendly thing there was.

“I found a big hummock an’ sheltered under it, standun on my feet, wi nawthun to do but think, an’ think, an’ pray to God; an’ so I doned. I couldn’ help feelun to God then, surely. Nawthun to do, an’ no place to go, tull snow cleared away; but jes’ drift wi’ the great Ice down from the Nothe, away down over the say, a sixty mile a day, mubbe. I wasn’ a good Christen, an’ I couldn’ help a-thinkun o’ home an’ she I was troth-plight wi’, an’ I doubled over myself an’ groaned,—I couldn’ help it: but bumby it comed into me to say my prayers, an’ it seemed as thof she was askun me to pray, (an’ she was good, Sir, al’ays,) an’ I seemed all opened, somehow, an’ I knowed how to pray.”

While the words were coming tenderly from the weather-beaten fisherman, I could not help being moved, and glanced over toward the daughter’s seat; but she was gone, and, turning round, I saw her going quietly, almost stealthily, and very quickly, toward the cove.

The father gave no heed to her leaving, but went on with his tale:—

“Then the wind began to fall down, an’ the snow knocked off altogether, an’ the sun comed out; an’ I sid th’ Ice, field-ice an’ icebargs, an’ every one of ’em flashun up as ef they’d kendled up a bonfire, but no sign of a schooner! no sign of a schooner! nor no sign o’ man’s douns, but on’y ice, every way, high an’ low, an’ some places black water, in-among; an’ on’y the poor swiles bawlun all over, an’ I standun amongst ’em.

“While I was lookun out, I sid a great icebarg (they calls ’em) a quarter of a mile away, or thereabouts, standun up,—one end a twenty fathom out o’ water, an’ about a forty fathom across, wi’ hills like, an’ houses,—an’ then, jest as ef ’e was alive an’ had tooked a notion in ’e’sself, seemunly, all of a sudden ’e rared up, an’ turned over an’ over, wi’ a tarrible thunderun noise, an’ comed right on, breakun everything an’ throwun up great seas: ’t was frightsome for a lone body away out among ’em! I stood an’ looked at un, but then agen I thowt I may jes’ so well be goun to thick ice an’ over Noofundland-ways a piece, so well as I could. So I said my bit of a prayer, an’ told Un I could n’ help myself; an’ I made my confession how bad I’d been, an’ I was sorry, an’ ef ’E’d be so pitiful an’ forgive me; an’ ef I mus’ loss my life, ef ’E’d be so good as make me a good Christen first,—an’ make they happy, in course.

“So then I started; an’ first I goed to where my gaff was, by the mother-swile an’ her whelp. There was swiles every two or three yards a’most, old uns an’ young uns, all round, everywhere; an’ I feeled shamed in a manner: but I got my gaff, an’ cleaned un, an’ then, in God’s name, I took the big swile, that was dead by its dead whelp, an’ hauled it away, where the t’ other poor things could n’ si’ me, an’ I sculped24 it, an’ took the pelt;—for I thowt I’d wear un, now the poor dead thing did n’ want to make oose of un no more,—an’ partly becase’t was sech a lovun thing. An’ so I set out, walkun this way, for a spurt, an’ then t’ other way, keepun up mostly a Nor-norwest, so well as I could: sometimes away round th’ open, an’ more times round a lump of ice, an’ more times, agen, off from one an’ on to another, every minute. I did n’ feel hungry, for I drinked fresh water off th’ ice. No schooner! no schooner!

“Bumby the sun was goun down:’t was slow work feelun my way along, an’ I did n’ want to look about: but then agen I thowt God ’ad made it to be sid; an’ so I come to, an’ turned all round, an’ looked; an’ surely it seemed like another world, someway,’t was so beautiful,—yellow, an’ different sorts o’ red, like the sky itself in a manner, an’ flashun like glass. So then it comed night: an’ I thowt I should n’ go to bed, an’ I may forget my prayers, an’ so I’d, mubbe, best say ’em right away; an’ so I doned: ‘Lighten our darkness,’ and others we was oosed to say: an’ it comed into my mind the Lard said to Saint Peter, ‘Why did n’ ’ee have faith?’ when there was nawthun on the water for un to go on; an’ I had ice under foot,—‘t was but frozen water, but’t was frozen,—an’ I thanked Un.

“I could n’ help thinkun o’ Brigus an’ them I’d laved in it, an’ then I prayed for ’em; an’ I could n’ help cryun, a’most: but then I give over agen, an’ would n’ think, ef I could help it; on’y tryun to say an odd psalm, all through singun-psalms an’ other, for I knowed a many of ’em by singun wi’ Patience, on’y now I cared more about ’em: I said that one,—

‘Sech as in ships an’ brickle barksInto the seas descend,Their merchantun, through fearful floods,To compass an’ to end:They men are force-put to beholdThe Lard’s works, what they be;An’ in the dreadful deep the sameMost marvellous they see.’

An’ I said a many more, (I can’t be accountable how many I said,) an’ same uns many times over: for I would keep on; an’ ’ould sometimes sing ’em very loud in my poor way.

“A poor baste (a silver fox ’e was) comed an’ looked at me; an’ when I turned round, he walked away a piece, an’ then ’e comed back, an’ looked.

“So I found a high piece, wi’ a wall of ice atop for shelter, ef it comed on to blow; an’ so I stood, an’ said, an’ sung, I knowed well I was on’y driftun away.

“It was tarrible lonely in the night, when night comed: it’s no use! ’T was tarrible lonely: but I ’ouldn’ think, ef I could help it; an’ I prayed a bit, an’ kep’ up my psalms, an’ varses out o’ the Bible, I’d a-larned. I had n’ a-prayed for sleep, but for wakun all night, an’ there I was, standun.

“The moon was out agen, so bright; an’ all the hills of ice shinun up to her; an’ stars twinklun, so busy, all over; an’ No’ther’ Lights goun up wi’ a faint blaze, seemunly, from th’ ice, an’ meetun up aloft; an’ sometimes a great groanun, an’ more times tarrible loud shriekun! There was great white fields, an’ great white hills, like countries, comun down to be destroyed; an’ some great bargs a-goun faster, an’ tearun through, breakun others to pieces; an’ the groanun an’ screechun,—ef all the dead that ever was, wi’ their white clothès–But no!” said the stout fisherman, recalling himself from gazing, as he seemed to be, on the far-off ghastly scene, in memory.

“No!—an’ thank ’E’s marcy, I’m sittun by my own room. ’E tooked me off: but ’t was a dreadful sight,—it’s no use,—ef a body’d let ’e’sself think! I sid a great black bear, an’ hard un growl; an’ ’t was feelun, like, to hear un so bold an’ so stout, among all they dreadful things, an’ bumby the time ’ould come when ’e couldn’ save ’e’sself, do what ’e woul’.

“An’ more times ’t was all still: on’y swiles bawlun, all over. Ef it hadn’ a-been for they poor swiles, how could I stan’ it? Many’s the one I’d a-ketched, day-time, an’ talked to un, an’ patted un on the head, as ef they’d a-been dogs by the door, like; an’ they’d oose to shut their eyes, an’ draw their poor foolish faces together. It seemed neighbor-like to have some live thing.

“So I kep’ awake, sayun an’ singun, an’ it wasn’ very cold; an’ so—first thing I knowed, I started, an’ there I was lyun in a heap; an’ I must have been asleep, an’ didn’ know how ’t was, nor how long I’d a-been so: an’ some sort o’ baste started away, an’ ’e must have waked me up; I couldn’ rightly see what ’t was, wi’ sleepiness: an’ then I hard a sound, sounded like breakers; an’ that waked me fairly. ’T was like a lee-shore; an’ ’t was a comfort to think o’ land, ef ’t was on’y to be wrecked on itself: but I didn’ go, an’ I stood an’ listened to un; an’ now an’ agen I’d walk a piece, back an’ forth, an’ back an’ forth; an’ so I passed a many, many longsome hours, seemunly, tull night goed down tarrible slowly, an’ it comed up day o’ t’ other side: an’ there wasn’ no land; nawthun but great mountains meltun an’ breakun up, an’ fields wastun away. I sid ’t was a rollun barg made the noise like breakers, throwun up great seas o’ both sides of un; no sight nor sign o’ shore, nor ship, but dazun white,—enough to blind a body,—an’ I knowed ’t was all floatun away, over the say. Then I said my prayers, an’ tooked a drink o’ water, an’ set out agen for Nor-norwest: ’t was all I could do. Sometimes snow, an’ more times fair agen; but no sign o’ man’s things, an’ no sign o’ land, on’y white ice an’ black water; an’ ef a schooner wasn’ into un a’ready, ’t wasn’ likely they woul’, for we was gettun furder an’ furder away. Tired I was wi’ goun, though I hadn’ walked more ’n a twenty or thirty mile, mubbe, an’ it all comun down so fast as I could go up, an’ faster, an’ never stoppun! ’T was a tarrible long journey up over the driftun ice, at sea! So, then I went on a high bit to wait tull all was done: I thowt ’t would be last to melt, an’ mubbe, I thowt, ’e may capsize wi’ me, when I didn’ know (for I don’ say I was stout-hearted): an’ I prayed Un to take care o’ them I loved; an’ the tears comed. Then I felt somethun tryun to turn me round like, an’ it seemed as ef she was doun it, somehow, an’ she seemed to be very nigh, somehow, an’ I didn’ look.

“After a bit, I got up to look out where most swiles was, for company, while I was livun: an’ the first look struck me a’most like a bullet! There I sid a sail! ‘T was a sail, an’ ’t was like heaven openun, an’ God settun her down there. About three mile away she was, to nothe’ard, in th’ Ice.

“I could ha’ sid, at first look, what schooner’t was; but I did n’ want to look hard at her. I kep’ my peace, a spurt, an’ then I runned an’ bawled out, ‘Glory be to God!’ an’ then I stopped, an’ made proper thanks to Un. An’ there she was, same as ef I’d a-walked off from her an hour ago! It felt so long as ef I’d been livun years, an’ they would n’ know me, sca’ce. Somehow I did n’ think I could come up wi’ her.

“I started, in the name o’ God, wi’ all my might, an’ went, an’ went,—‘t was a five mile, wi’ goun round,—an’ got her, thank God! ’T was n’ the Baccaloue, (I sid that long before,) ’t was t’ other schooner, the Sparrow, repairun damages they ’d got day before. So that kep’ ’em there, an’ I’d a-been took from one an’ brought to t’ other.

“I could n’ do a hand’s turn tull we got into the Bay agen,—I was so clear beat out. The Sparrow kep’ her men, an’ fotch home about thirty-eight hundred swiles, an’ a poor man off th’ Ice: but they, poor fellows, that I went out wi’, never comed no more; an’ I never went agen.

“I kep’ the skin o’ the poor baste, Sir: that’s ’e on my cap.”

When the planter had fairly finished his tale, it was a little while before I could teach my eyes to see the things about me in their places. The slow-going sail, outside, I at first saw as the schooner that brought away the lost man from the Ice; the green of the earth would not, at first, show itself through the white with which the fancy covered it; and at first I could not quite feel that the ground was fast under my feet. I even mistook one of my own men (the sight of whom was to warn me that I was wanted elsewhere) for one of the crew of the schooner Sparrow of a generation ago.

I got the tale and its scene gathered away, presently, inside my mind, and shook myself into a present association with surrounding things, and took my leave. I went away the more gratified that I had a chance of lifting my cap to a matron, dark-haired and comely, (who, I was sure, at a glance, had once been the maiden of Benjie Westham’s “troth-plight,”) and receiving a handsome curtsy in return.

FREMONT'S HUNDRED DAYS IN MISSOURI

III.

THE FORCED MARCH TO SPRINGFIELD

Bolivar, October 26th. Zagonyi’s success has roused the enthusiasm of the army. The old stagers took it coolly, but the green hands revealed their excitement by preparing for instant battle. Pistols were oiled and reloaded, and swords sharpened. We did all this a month ago, before leaving St. Louis. We then expected a battle, and went forth with the shadow and the sunshine of that expectation upon our hearts; but up to this time we have not seen a shot fired in earnest. Now the blast of war blows in our ears, and we instinctively “stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood.”

Captain H., the young chevalier of the staff, whom we have named Le Beau Capitaine, went this morning to St. Louis with intelligence of the victory. He has ninety miles to ride before midnight, to catch to-morrow’s train.

Under the influence of the excitement which prevailed, we were on horseback this morning long before it was necessary, when the General sent us word that the staff might go forward, and he would overtake us. The gay and brilliant cavalcade which marched out of Jefferson City is destroyed,—the maimed and bleeding Guard is reposing a few miles south of Bolivar,—the detachment which was left at head-quarters has gone on to join the main body,—and the staff, broken into small parties, straggles along the road. A more beautiful day never delighted the earth. The atmosphere is warm, the sky cloudless, and the distance is filled with a soft dreamy haze, which veils, but does not conceal, the purple hills and golden forests.

A few miles south of our last night’s camp we came out upon a large prairie, called the Twenty-Five Mile Prairie. It is an undulating plain, seven miles wide and twenty-five long. It was the intention to concentrate the army here. A more favorable position for reviewing and manoeuvring a large force cannot be found. But the plan has been changed. We must hasten to Springfield, lest the Rebels seize the place, capture White and our wounded, and throw a cloud over Zagonyi’s brilliant victory.

Passing from the prairie, we entered a broad belt of timber, and soon reached a fine stream. We drew rein at a farmhouse on the top of the river-bank, where we found a pleasant Union family. The farmer came out, and, thinking Colonel Eaton was the General, offered him two superb apples, large enough for foot-balls. He was disappointed to find his mistake, and to be compelled to withdraw the proffered gift. Sigel encamped here last night;, and the débris of his camp-fires checker the hill-side and the flats along the margin of the creek. After waiting an hour, the General not coming up, Colonel Eaton and myself set out alone over a road which was crowded with Sigel’s wagons. Everything bears witness to the extraordinary energy and efficiency of that officer. This morning he started before day, and he will be in Springfield by noon to-morrow. His train is made up of materials which would drive most generals to despair. There are mule-teams, and ox-teams, and in some cases horses, mules, and oxen hitched together. There are army-wagons, box-wagons, lumber-wagons, hay-racks, buggies, carriages,—in fact, every kind of animal and every description of vehicle which could be found in the country. Most of our division-commanders would have refused to leave camp with such a train; but Sigel has made it answer his purpose, and here he is, fifty miles in advance of any other officer, tearing after Price.

We were jogging painfully over the incumbered road, and through clouds of dust, when an officer rode up in great haste, and asked for Dr. C., who was needed at the camp of the Guards. By reason of the broken order in which the staff rode to-day, he could not be found. For two mortal hours unlucky aides-de-camp dashed to the front and the rear, and scoured the country for five miles upon the flanks, visiting the farm-houses in search of the missing surgeon. At last he was found, and hurried on to the relief of the Guard. At this moment the General came up, and, to our astonishment, Zagonyi was riding beside him, bearing upon his trim person no mark of yesterday’s fatigue and danger. The Major fell behind, and rode into Bolivar with me. On the way we met Lieutenant Maythenyi of the Guard.

Our camp is on the farm of a member of the State legislature who is now serving under Price. His white cottage and well-ordered farm-buildings are surrounded by rich meadows, bearing frequent groups of noble trees; the fences are in good condition, and the whole place wears an air of thrift and prosperity which must be foreign to Missouri even in her best estate.

Springfield, October 28th. Few of those who endured the labor of yesterday will forget the march into Springfield. At midnight of Saturday, the Sharp-shooters were sent on in wagons, and at two in the morning the Benton Cadets started, with orders to march that day to Springfield, thirty miles. Their departure broke the repose of the camp. To add to the confusion, a report was spread that the General intended to start at daybreak, and that we must have breakfast at four o’clock and be ready for the saddle at six. This programme was carried out. Long before day our servants called us; fires were lighted, and breakfast eaten by starlight. Before dawn the wagons were packed and horses saddled. But the General had no intention of going so early; the report had its origin in the uneasy brain of some officer who probably thought the General ought to leave at daybreak. Some of the old heads paid no attention to the report, or did not hear it, and they were deep in the pleasures of the morning nap while we poor fellows were shivering over our breakfast.

Colonel Wyman reported himself at Bolivar, having marched from Rolla and beaten the Rebels in three engagements. The General set out at nine o’clock for our thirty-mile ride. The black horse fell into his usual scrambling gait, and we pounded along uneasily after him. As we passed through Bolivar, the inhabitants came into the streets and greeted us with cheers and the waving of handkerchiefs,—a degree of interest which is not often exhibited. Fording a small stream, we came into Wyman’s camp, and thence upon a long, rolling prairie. An hour’s ride brought us to the place where the Guard encamped the night before. The troops had left, but the wounded officers were still in a neighboring house, waiting for our ambulances. Those who were able to walk came out to see the General. He received them with marked kindness. At times like this, he has a simple grace and poetry of expression and a tenderness of manner which are very winning. He spoke a few words to each of the brave fellows, which brought smiles to their faces and tears into their eyes. Next came our turn, and we were soon listening to the incidents of the fearful fray. None of them are severely wounded, except Kennedy, and he will probably lose an arm. We saw them all placed in the ambulances, and then fell in behind the black pacer.

A short distance farther on, a very amusing scene occurred. The road in front was nearly filled by a middle-aged woman, fat enough to have been the original of some of the pictures which are displayed over the booths at a county fair.

“Are you Gin’ral Freemount?” she shouted, her loud voice husky with rage.

“Yes,” replied the General in a low tone, somewhat abashed at the formidable obstruction in his path, and occupied in restraining the black pacer, who was as much frightened at the huge woman as he could have been at a park of artillery.

“Waal, you’re the man I want to see. I’m a widder. I wus born in Old Kentuck, and am a Union, and allers wus a Union, and will be a Union to the eend, clear grit.”

She said this with startling earnestness and velocity of utterance, and paused, the veins in her face swollen almost to bursting. The black pacer bounded from one side of the road to the other, throwing the whole party into confusion.

The General raised his cap and asked,—

“What is the matter, my good woman?”

“Matter, Gin’ral! Ther’s enough the matter. I’ve allers gi’n the sogers all they wanted. I gi’n ‘em turkeys and chickens and eggs and butter and bread. And I never charged ‘em anything for it. They tuk all my corn, and I never said nuthing. I allers treated ‘em well, for I’m Union, and so wus my man, who died more nor six yeah ago.”

She again paused, evidently for no reason except to escape a stroke of apoplexy.

“But tell me what you want now. I will see to it that you have justice,” interrupted the General.

“You see, Gin’ral, last night some sogers come and tuk my ox-chains,—two on ‘em,—all I’ve got,—and I can’t buy no more in these war-times. I can’t do any work without them chains; they’d ‘a’ better uv tuk my teams with ‘em, too.”

“How much were your ox-chains worth,” said the General, laughing.

“Waal now,” answered the fat one, moderating her tone, “they’re wuth a good deal jes’ now. The war has made such things dreffle deah. The big one wus the best I ever see; bought it last yeah, up at Hinman’s store in Bolivar; that chain was wuth—waal now—Ho, Jim! ho, Dick! come y’ere! Gin’ral Freemount wants to know how much them ox-chains wus wath.”

A lazy negro and a lazier white man, the latter whittling a piece of cedar, walked slowly from the house to the road, and, leaning against the fence, began in drawling tones to discuss the value of the ox-chains, how much they cost, how much it would take to buy new ones in these times. One thought “may-be four dollars wud do,” but the other was sure they could not be bought for less than five. There was no promise of a decision, and the black pacer was floundering about in a perfect agony of fear. At last the General drew out a gold eagle and gave it to the woman, asking,—

“Is that enough?”

She took the money with a ludicrous expression of joy and astonishment at the rare sight, but exclaimed,—

“Lor’ bless me! it’s too much, Gin’ral! I don’t want more nor my rights. It’s too much.”

But the General spurred by her, and we followed, leaving the “Union” shouting after us, “It’s too much! It’s more nor I expected!” She must have received an impression of the simplicity and promptitude of the quartermaster’s department which the experience of those who have had more to do with it will hardly sustain.

Our road was filled with teams belonging to Sigel’s train, and the dust was very oppressive. At length it became so distressing to our animals that the General permitted us to separate from him and break up into small parties. I made the rest of the journey in company with Colonel Eaton. Our road lay through the most picturesque region we had seen. The Ozark Mountains filled the southern horizon, and ranges of hills swept along our flanks. The broad prairies, covered with tall grass waving and rustling in the light breeze, were succeeded by patches of woods, through which the road passed, winding among picturesque hills covered with golden forests and inlaid with the silver of swift-running crystal streams.