Kitabı oku: «The Last of the Flatboats», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XXXIII
DOWN “THE COAST”

The moon was gibbous in its approach to the full when the boat left Vicksburg. So all the way to their journey’s end the boys had moonlight of evenings except when fog obscured it briefly, and that was not often.

As they floated down the river, with subtropical scenery on either hand, with palms and live-oaks and other perennial trees giving greenery of the greenest possible kind at a season of the year when at their home not a leaf remained alive and all the trees were gaunt skeletons, the boys lived in something like a dream. And at night the moonlight, immeasurably more brilliant than any they had ever seen, additionally stimulated their imaginations and captivated their fancy.

“That is Baton Rouge,” said Ed, as they came within sight of a city on the left side of the river. “It means ‘red stick.’”

“Why in the world did anybody ever name a town ‘red stick’?” asked Irv.

“Why, because when Tecumseh came down this way to persuade all the Indians to join in a war upon the whites, as I told you up in New Madrid Bend, he offered red sticks to the warriors. All that accepted them were thereby pledged to join in the war. It was here that the first red sticks were distributed, and so this spot was called ‘Baton Rouge.’”

“But why didn’t they call it ‘Red Sticks’ and have done with it?” asked Will. “Why did they translate it into French?”

“The Indians didn’t know English,” answered Ed. “The French first explored the Mississippi, and they not only gave French names to everything, but they taught a rude sort of French to the Indians. There is a town on the upper Mississippi called ‘Prairie du Chien.’ That means ‘the prairie of the dog.’ Then there is ‘Marquette’ in Wisconsin, named after a great French missionary and explorer. And there is Dubuque, and there are half a dozen other places with old French names. In Arkansas there is a river called the ‘St. François.’ And the name Arkansas itself was originally a French effort to spell the Indian word ‘Arkansaw.’ By the way, the Legislature of that state has passed a law declaring that the proper pronunciation of the state’s name is ‘Arkansaw.’ It is said that when James K. Polk, afterward President, was speaker of the House of Representatives, there were two congressmen there from Arkansas. One of them always pronounced his state’s name ‘Arkansas,’ as if it were English, and with the accent on the second syllable, while the other always called it ‘Arkansaw.’ Polk was so excessively polite that when either of the two arose to speak, he recognized him as ‘the gentleman from Arkansas’ or as ‘the gentleman from Arkansaw,’ accordingly as the gentleman recognized was in the habit of pronouncing the word.”

“That’s interesting,” said Phil. “And I suppose the same thing is true about the ‘Tensaw’ country in Alabama. I see that it is spelled on most maps ‘Tensas,’ but on some it is spelled ‘Tensaw,’ and I suppose that is the right pronunciation.”

“It is,” said Ed. “And then there is the Ouachita River. Its name is pronounced ‘Washitaw,’ but spelled in the French way. I once heard of a man who stayed in New Orleans for six weeks, looking every day for the advertisement of some steamboat going up that river. He saw announcements of boats for the Ouachita River, of course, but none for the ‘Washitaw.’ Finally, somebody enlightened him. You see these French names were bestowed when French was the only language of this region, and they have survived.”

The boys were studying the map by the almost superfluous light of a lantern. Presently one of them said: —

“A little way down the river, on the western bank, is a place called Plaquemine. That also is French, I suppose?”

“Certainly,” answered Ed, “and it is a region with an interesting history. It was there that the Acadians went when they were driven out of their home in British America. Longfellow tells all about it in the poem ‘Evangeline.’ I’ll read some of it,” he added, rising to go below for the book.

“No, don’t,” pleaded Irv. “That poem gives me ‘that tired feeling.’ Its story is beautiful. Its sentiment is all that could be desired. But its metre makes me feel as if I were stumbling over stones in the dark.”

“I’ll bet your favorite wager, a brass button, Irv, that you can’t quote a single line of the poem you are so ready to criticise,” said Will Moreraud, who was Longfellow mad, as his comrades said.

“Well, I’ll take that bet,” said Irv. “And I’ll give you odds. I’ll bet seven brass buttons to your one that I can, off hand, repeat the worst and clumsiest four lines in the whole poem.”

“Go ahead,” said Will. “I’ll buy a glittering brass button in New Orleans, ‘scalloped all the way round and halfway back,’ as the boy said of his ginger cakes, and pay the bet if I lose.”

“All right,” said Irv. “Here goes: —

 
‘Every house was an inn, where all were welcomed and feasted;
For with this simple people, who lived like brothers together,
All things were held in common, and what one had was another’s.
Yet under Benedict’s roof hospitality seemed more abundant.’”
 

“It really doesn’t sound like poetry,” said Phil. “But then, I’m no judge. All the same, Irv wins the bet, and I’ll exercise my authority as commander of this craft and company to compel you, Will, to buy and deliver that brass button.”

“But how do you know that those four lines are the worst in the poem?” asked Will.

“Because there simply couldn’t be worse ones,” said Phil, “and unless you produce some others equally bad, I shall hold these to be the worst.”

“Now,” said Ed, “you fellows are very free with your criticisms. But perhaps you don’t know as much as you might. Longfellow undertook to write in hexameters. We all know what hexameters are, because we have all read some Latin poetry. But there is this difficulty: a hexameter line must end in a spondee – or a foot of two long or equally accented syllables. Now there is only here and there a word in the whole English language that is a spondee. The only spondees available in English are made up of two long, or two equally accented monosyllables. That is why the metre of Evangeline is so hard to read with ease, or at any rate it is one of the reasons. Longfellow uses trochees – that is to say, feet composed of one long and one short syllable, instead. In one case he uses the word ‘baptism’ as a spondee, but in fact it is a dactyl, consisting of one long and two short syllables. Edgar Allan Poe pointed that out.”

“Why did he write in that metre, then,” asked Will, “if it is impossible in English?”

“Because he was a Greek and Latin scholar, and was so enamored of the hexameter verse that he tried to reproduce it in English. He didn’t accomplish the purpose, but he wrote some mighty good things in trying to do it.”

“But tell us, Ed,” said Constant, “why did Evangeline’s people come all the way down here?”

“They were French, and they naturally sought for a country where the French constituted the greater part of the population. This wasn’t English territory then. By the way, that reminds me of a good Vevay story. When I was a very little boy, I used to go occasionally to pay my respects to the oldest lady in town – ‘Grandmother Grisard,’ as we all reverently called her. She was a lovely old lady, and she once told me how she came to Vevay. She set out from Switzerland very early in this century, being then a young girl, to come to this French-settled Red River country, where her people had friends. But there are two Red Rivers in America, this one and the Red River of the North, which runs from Minnesota northward into Manitoba. Europeans were rather weak on American geography in those days, so instead of bringing this young girl to the Red River of Louisiana, the transportation people took her to the Red River of the North. That region was then entirely wild. Indians and Canadian half-breeds were practically its only inhabitants, and so the young Swiss girl was in the greatest peril.

“She learned, after a while, that some Swiss people had settled at Vevay, in what was then the wild, uninhabited Northwest Territory. So she set out to find Vevay, and to find people that could talk her own mother tongue. It was an awful journey across the wild, savage-haunted prairie region that now constitutes Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, and Indiana, but she made it. It required months of time. It involved terrible hardships and fearful dangers from the Indians. But after the long struggle the young Swiss girl reached Vevay and was again among people of her own race, who spoke her own language. She soon after married the most prosperous man in the village, Mr. Grisard, and, as you all know, her sons and her grandsons have ever since been men of mark in the town.”³

“Good for you, Ed!” said Will Moreraud. “We fellows of Swiss descent thank you. We are all more or less akin to Grandmother Grisard, after two or three generations of intermarriages, and now that we know her story we shall cherish it as a family legend of our own. In fact, I suspect that our Swiss forefathers and foremothers made a pretty good place out of Vevay before the Virginians and Yankees and Scotch-Irish from whom you fellows sprang ever thought of settling there.”

“Of course they did,” said Ed; “that’s why our people settled there. The Swiss settlers must have been people of the highest character, or their descendants wouldn’t be the foremost citizens of the town, as they are to-day. It is a curious fact, by the way, that when they settled at Vevay they tried to do precisely what they and their ancestors had always done in their own country, – they planted vineyards, and set out to make wine. My father, before he died, told me that in his boyhood four-fifths of the lands cultivated by the Swiss were planted in vineyards. Henry Clay was greatly interested in their work, and tried hard to introduce Vevay wine in Washington, and to secure tariff protection for it.”

“What became of the vineyards?” asked Constant.

“Why, the temperance wave destroyed them. It came to be thought wrong, and even disreputable, to make or sell wine, or anything else that had alcohol in it. So, little by little, the Swiss people, who were always, above all things, reputable and moral, dug up their vineyards, and planted corn instead.”

“Yes,” said Will Moreraud. “I remember hearing a rather pretty story on that subject concerning a kinsman of my own. He had his dear old grandmother – or great-grandmother, I forget which – as an inmate of his house, and when the movement to convert the vineyards into cornfields was at its height, the old lady strenuously objected. She said that she had been born in a vineyard, and had all her life looked out upon vineyards through every window. My kinsman was very tender of his grandmother’s feelings. But at the same time he was resolved to change his vineyards into cornfields. He knew that the old lady could never leave the house, owing to her great age and infirmities. So he went to every window in every story of the house and studied the landscape. Having ascertained precisely how far it was possible for the old lady to see from the windows of the house, he ordered all the vineyards beyond her line of vision destroyed, and all within it preserved.”

“Beautiful!” cried Phil. “There ought to be more men like that one, if only to make the dear old grandmothers happy in the evening of their lives.”

“Perhaps there are more of them than you think,” said Constant. “It’s my impression that men generally are pretty good fellows, if you really find out about them.”

“Of course they are,” said Ed. “Does it occur to you that when we fellows undertook this flatboat enterprise, every man in Vevay stood generously ready to help? It is always so. Men are usually kindly and generous if they have a chance to be. As for women – ”

“God bless them!” cried Irv, rising to his six feet of height.

“So-say-we-all-of-us!” chanted Phil, to the familiar tune, while the rest joined in.

CHAPTER XXXIV
A TALK ON DECK

The latter end of the voyage was uneventful in outward ways at least, but it led to some things, as we shall see later on, that were of more consequence in the lives of the five boys than all the strenuous happenings which had gone before.

The boat no longer leaked. A few minutes’ pumping once in every two or three hours was sufficient to keep her bilge free from water. The river, though falling rapidly, was still full, but the levees were keeping it within bounds, and there were no crevasses to avoid. There were fogs now and then, but the flatboat floated through them without any apparent disposition to run away again. There were the three meals a day to cook, and the lanterns to keep in order, but beyond that and the washing of clothes, sheets, and the like, there was literally nothing to do but talk.

And how they did talk! And of how many different things! We have heard one of their conversations. Suppose we listen to some more of them.

“I say, Ed,” said Irv, “with this wonderful river bringing the products of a score of states to New Orleans for a market, how is it that New Orleans isn’t the greatest port in the country?”

“It came near being so once. It was New York’s chief rival, and some day it may be again. So long as there were no railroads New Orleans was the chief outlet, and inlet as well, for all this great western and southern country. Not only did most of the western produce and southern cotton come to it for sale at home or shipment abroad, but most of the foreign goods imported for the use of the West and South came in through New Orleans, and so did most of the passengers who wanted to reach any point west of the Alleghenies.”

“Why didn’t it go on in that way?” asked Constant.

“In the first place, a wise governor of New York, De Witt Clinton, persuaded the people of that state to make some artificial geography. They dug canals to connect the Great Lakes with the Hudson River. This enabled them to carry western produce to New York all the way by water, and as cheaply as it could be carried down the river – more cheaply, in fact, so far as that part of it grown far away from the rivers was concerned. This gave New York a very great advantage. For New York is a thousand miles or more nearer to Europe than New Orleans is, and so if grain could be landed in New York at smaller expense than in New Orleans, that was the cheapest as well as the shortest route to Europe.

“Then again New Orleans lies in a much hotter climate than New York, and so do the seas over which freight from New Orleans must be carried. In a hot climate grain is apt to sprout and spoil, or it was so until comparatively recent years, when means of preventing that were discovered.”

Ed stopped, as if he had finished. Will wanted more and asked for it.

“Go on,” he said. “Tell us all about it.”

“Yes, do,” echoed the others.

“I am not sure that I know ‘all about it,’” answered Ed, “but I have been reading some articles concerning it since our trip awakened my interest, and if you want me to do so, I’ll tell you what I have learned from them.”

“Do!” cried Irv. “This party of young Hoosiers has often been hungrier for corned beef and cabbage, with all that those terms imply, than for intellectual pabulum of any kind whatever. But at present our physical systems are abundantly fed. What we want now is intellectual refreshment, all of which, being interpreted, means ‘Go on, Ed; we’re interested.’”

Ed laughed, and continued: —

“Well, the war damaged New Orleans, of course, not only by shutting up the port for some years, but by impoverishing the southern states which New Orleans supplied with provisions and goods and from which it drew cotton. Then, again, New York had and still has most of the free money there is in this country, the money that is hunting for something to do. You know that money is like a man in this respect. It always wants to earn wages. Now, when the western farmer sells his grain and the like to a country merchant, he wants money for it. As a great many farmers sell at the same time, the country merchant naturally hasn’t enough money of his own to satisfy them all. So he ships the grain, etc., as fast as he receives it, and makes drafts upon the commission merchants to whom he is sending it. That is to say, he makes them pay in advance for produce shipped in order that he may have the money with which to buy more when it is offered. The commission merchants in their turn borrow the money from the banks in their cities, giving liens on the grain for security. This is a very rough explanation, of course, but you can see from it how the city that has the largest amount of money ‘hunting for a job’ must draw to itself, when other things are anywhere near equal, the greater part of all the produce that can go at about the same cost to that or some other city.”

“That’s clear enough,” said Phil. “But what about the railroads? Why do they all seem to run to New York?”

“That’s an interesting point,” answered Ed. “I’m glad you reminded me of it. When the railroads were built, each little road was independent of all the rest. But each of them wanted to reach New York, because the artificial geography created by New York’s canals had made that the country’s greatest port, and because New York had more money to lend on produce, as I have explained, than any other city. So as the numberless little railroad lines consolidated themselves into great trunk lines, they all made for New York as eagerly as flies make for an open sugar barrel. Even the Baltimore and Ohio road, which was built by Baltimore people to make Baltimore a rival of New York, spent money in lavish millions to secure a New York terminus and make Baltimore a way station. To sum it all up, the farmer wants to sell to the local merchant who will pay him in cash; the local merchant ships his purchases to Chicago or any other intermediate city whose commission merchants will make the biggest and quickest advances of money on the grain, etc., before it arrives; the merchants in the intermediate cities ship to the port whose commission merchants will make them the largest advances in their turn and thus enable them to go on buying while the opportunity lasts. That city is New York. Of course this is only a general statement. There is often plenty of money to lend in Boston, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, and lately those cities and Newport News in Virginia have taken a good deal of New York’s grain trade. But what I have said will explain to you one of the reasons why New Orleans ‘isn’t in it,’ in this matter.”

“Then our wonderful river no longer renders a service to the country?” said Constant, interrogatively.

“Oh, yes, it does,” answered Ed, eagerly. “It still carries vast quantities of goods to New Orleans, not only for consumption in the South, but for shipment abroad. And even if it carried nothing, it would still be rendering a service of incalculable value to the country.”

“How?” asked all the boys, in a breath.

“By compelling the railroads to carry freight at reasonable rates. Let me tell you some facts in illustration. Somewhere about the year 1870 – a little before, I think it was – the railroads were charging extortionate prices for carrying freight to eastern cities. Some great merchants and steamboat owners put their heads together to stop the extortion. They organized the Mississippi Valley Transportation Company, to carry freight down the river to the sea. They built great stern-wheel steamboats, and set them to push vast fleets of barges loaded with freight to New Orleans. This so enormously cheapened freight rates that the railroads were threatened with ruin, and New Orleans seemed likely to take New York’s place as the country’s great grain-exporting city. The railroads began at once to reduce their rates in self-defence, and from that day to this they have had to reduce them more and more, lest the water routes, and chiefly the Mississippi River, should take their trade away from them. So you see that even if not one ton of freight were carried over our wonderful river, which, in fact, carries hundreds of millions of tons, it would still be rendering an enormous service to the country by keeping railroad freight rates down.”

The boys pondered these things awhile. Then Irv said: —

“But you said awhile ago that New Orleans might some day again become New York’s rival as a shipping port. Would you mind telling us just what you meant by that?”

“Why, no,” said Ed, hesitating. “I suppose I was thinking of the time, which is surely coming, when this great, rich Mississippi Valley of ours will be as densely populated as other and less productive parts of the earth are.”

“For instance?” said Will, interrogatively.

“Well, I suppose,” said Ed, “that the great Mississippi Valley fairly represents our whole country as to population. We have in this country, according to a statistical book that I have here, about 20 people, big and little, to the square mile, or somewhat less. Now the Netherlands, according to the same book, have about 351, Belgium about 529, and England about 540 people to the square mile. In other words, we must multiply ourselves by 26 or 27 before we shall have as dense a population as England now has. When we have 27 times as many people in the Mississippi Valley as we now have, I don’t think there is much doubt that New Orleans will be just as important a port and just as big a city as her most ambitious citizen would like her to be.”

The boys sat silent for a while. Then Irv took out a pencil and paper, and figured for a few minutes. Finally he broke silence.

“Do I understand that this country of ours is capable – taking it by and large – of supporting a population as great to the square mile as that of England, or anything like as great?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Ed. “Our agriculture is in its infancy, we are merely scratching the surface, and not a very large part of the surface at that. We have arid and desert regions, of course, but on the other hand, we have a richer soil and an immeasurably more fruitful climate than England has. England can’t grow a single bushel of corn, for example, while we grow more than two billion bushels every year. It seems to me clear that our country, taken as a whole, and this rich Mississippi Valley especially, can support a much larger population to the square mile than England can.”

“Well, if it ever does,” said Irv, referring to his figures, “we shall have a population of about two billion people, or very many times more than the greatest nations in all history ever had.”

“Why not?” asked Phil. “Isn’t ours the greatest nation in all history in the way it has stood for liberty and right and progress? Why shouldn’t it be immeasurably the greatest in population and wealth and everything else? Why shouldn’t we multiply our seventy millions or so of people into the billions?”

“Well, yes, why not?” asked Irv. “It would only mean that twenty or thirty times as many men as ever before would enjoy the blessing of liberty.”

“It would mean vastly more than that,” said Ed.

“What?” asked Irv.

“It would mean that twenty or thirty times as many men stood for liberty throughout all the earth; it would mean that twenty or thirty times as many men as ever before were ready to fight for liberty and human right. It would mean even more than that. It would mean that the Great Republic, planted upon the theory of absolute and equal liberty, would so enormously outweigh all other nations combined, in numbers and in physical and moral force, that no nation and no coalition of nations would ever dare dispute our country’s decisions or balk her will. We should in that case dominate the world by our numbers, our wealth, and our productiveness. For in the very nature of things, countries that already have from twenty to twenty-five times our population to the square mile cannot hope to grow as we inevitably shall.”

“But what if we don’t continue to stand for liberty and human right?” asked Phil. “What if we forget our national mission, and use our vast power not for freedom, but for conquest; not for the right, but for the wrong?”

“That is what every American citizen owes it to his country to guard against by his vote,” answered Ed.

“In other words,” said Irv “that’s what we are here for.”

“Precisely,” said Ed. “But it is time to get supper, and I, for one, am hungry.”

“So am I,” responded Irv, as he went below to bear his share in the supper getting.