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The Wild Huntress: Love in the Wilderness

Chapter Eight
A splendid Pension

The treaty of Guadalupe Hidalogo was followed by an extensive débandement, which sent many thousands of sabres ringing back into their scabbards – some of them soon after to spring forth in the cause of freedom, calumniously called “filibustering;” others perhaps destined never to be drawn again. Using a figurative expression, not a few were converted into spades; and in this pacific fashion, carried to the far shores of the Pacific Ocean – there to delve for Californian gold – while still others were suspended in the counting-house or the studio, to rust in inglorious idleness. A three years’ campaign under the sultry skies of Mexico – drawing out the war-fever that had long burned in the bosoms of the American youth – had satisfied the ambition of most. It was only those who arrived late upon the field – too late to pluck a laurel – who would have prolonged the strife.

The narrator of this tale, Edward Warfield —ci-devant captain of a corps of “rangers” – was not one of the last mentioned. With myself, as with many others, the great Mexican campaign was but the continuation of the little war —la petite guerre– that had long held an intermittent existence upon the borders of Texas, and in which we had borne part; and the provincial laurels there reaped, when interwoven with the fresher and greener bays gathered upon the battle-fields of Anahuac, constituted a wreath exuberant enough to content us for the time. For my part, notwithstanding the portentous sound of my ancestral patronymic, I was tired of the toils of war, and really desired a “spell” of peace: during which I might indulge in the dolce far niente, and obtain for my wearied spirit a respite of repose. My wishes were in similitude with those of the poet, who longed for “a lodge in some vast wilderness – some boundless contiguity of shade;” or perhaps, more akin to those of that other poet of less solitary inclinings, who only desired the “desert as a dwelling-place, with one fair spirit for his minister!” In truth, I felt a strong inclination for the latter description of life; and, in all likelihood, would have made a trial of it, but for the interference of one of those ill-starred contingencies that often embarrass the best intentions. A phrase of common occurrence will explain the circumstance that offered opposition to my will: “want of the wherewith to support a wife.”

I had been long enough in the wilderness, to know that even a “dwelling in the desert” cannot be maintained without expense; and that however pure the desert air, the fairest “spirit” would require something more substantial to live upon. Under this prudential view of the case, marriage was altogether out of the question. We, the débandes, were dismissed without pension: the only reward for our warlike achievements being a piece of “land scrip,” good for the number of acres upon the face of it – to be selected from “government land,” wherever the holder might choose to “locate.” The scrip was for greater or less amount, according to the term of the receiver’s service. Mine represented a “section” of six hundred and forty acres – worth in ordinary times, a dollar and quarter per acre; but just then – on account of the market being flooded by similar paper – reduced to less than half its value. With this magnificent “bounty” was I rewarded for services, that perhaps – some day – might be – never mind! – thank heaven for blessing me with the comforting virtues of humility and contentment! This bit of scrip then – a tried steed that had carried me many a long mile, and through the smoke of more than one red fray – a true rifle, that I had myself carried equally as far – a pair of Colt’s pistols – and a steel “Toledo,” taken at the storming of Chapultepec – constituted the bulk of my available property. Add to this, a remnant of my last month’s pay – in truth, not enough to provide me with that much coveted article, a civilian’s suit: in proof of which, my old undress-frock, with its yellow spread-eagle buttons, clung to my shoulders like a second shirt of Nessus. The vanity of wearing a uniform, that may have once been felt, was long ago threadbare as the coat itself; and yet I was not wanting in friends, who fancied that it might still exist! How little understood they the real state of the case, and how much did they misconstrue my involuntary motives!

It was just to escape from such unpleasant associations, that I held on to my “scrip.” Most of my brother-officers had sold theirs for a “song,” and spent the proceeds upon a “supper.” In relation to mine, I had other views than parting with it to the greedy speculators. It promised me that very wilderness-home I was in search of; and, having no prospect of procuring a fair spirit for my “minister,” I determined to “locate” without one.

I was at the time staying in Tennessee – the guest of a campaigning comrade and still older friend. He was grandson of that gallant leader, who, with a small band of only forty families, ventured three hundred miles through the heart of the “bloody ground” and founded Nashville upon the bold bluffs of an almost unknown river! From the lips of their descendants I had heard so many thrilling tales of adventures, experienced by this pioneer band, that Tennessee had become, in my fancy a region of romance. Other associations had led me to love this hospitable and chivalric state; and I resolved, that, within its boundaries, I should make my home. A visit to the Land-office of Nashville ended in my selection of Section Number 9, Township – , as my future plantation. It was represented to me as a fertile spot – situated in the “Western Reserve” – near the banks of the beautiful Obion, and not far above the confluence of this river with the Mississippi. The official believed there had been some “improvement” made upon the land by a squatter; but whether the squatter still lived upon it, he could not tell. “At all events, the fellow will be too poor to exercise the pre-emption right, and of course must move off.” So spoke the land agent. This would answer admirably. Although my Texan experience had constituted me a tolerable woodsman, it had not made me a woodcutter; and the clearing of the squatter, however small it might be, would serve as a beginning. I congratulated myself on my good luck; and, without further parley, parted with my scrip – receiving in return the necessary documents, that constituted me the legal owner and lord of the soil of Section 9. The only additional information the agent could afford me was: that my new purchase was all “heavily timbered,” with the exception before referred to; that the township in which it was situated was called Swampville; and that the section itself was known as “Holt’s Clearing” – from the name, it was supposed, of the squatter who had made the “improvement.”

With this intelligence in my head, and the title-deeds in my pocket, I took leave of the friendly official; who, at parting, politely wished me “a pleasant time of it on my new plantation!”

Chapter Nine
Friendly Advice

On returning to the house of my friend, I informed him of my purchase; and was pleased to find that he approved of it. “You can’t be taken in,” said he, “by land upon the Obion. From what I have heard of it, it is one of the most fertile spots in Tennessee. Moreover, as you are fond of hunting, you’ll find game in abundance. The black bear, and even the panther – or ‘painter,’ as our backwoodsmen have it – are still common in the Obion bottom; and indeed, all throughout the forests of the Reserve.”

“I’m rejoiced to hear it.”

“No doubt,” continued my friend, with a smile, “you may shoot deer from your own door; or trap wolves and wild-cats at the entrance to your hen-roost.”

“Good!”

“O yes – though I can’t promise that you will see anything of Venus in the woods, you may enjoy to your heart’s content the noble art of venerie. The Obion bottom is a very paradise for hunters. It was it that gave birth to the celebrated Crockett.”

“On that account it will be all the more interesting to me; and, from what you say, it is just the sort of place I should have chosen to squat upon.”

“By the by,” interrupted my friend, looking a little grave as he spoke, “your making use of that familiar phrase, recalls the circumstance you mentioned just now. Did I understand you to say, there was a squatter on the land?”

“There was one – so the agent has told me; but whether he be still squatted there, the official could not say.”

“Rather awkward, if he be,” rejoined my friend, in a sort of musing soliloquy; while, with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he kept pulling his “goatee” to its full length.

“In what way awkward?” I asked in some surprise. “How can that signify?”

“A great deal. These squatters are queer fellows —ugly customers to deal with – especially when you come to turn them out of their house and home, as they consider it. It is true, they have the pre-emption right– that is, they may purchase, if they please, and send you to seek a location elsewhere; but this is a privilege those gentry rarely please to indulge in – being universally too poor to purchase.”

“What then?”

“Their motto is, for ‘him to keep who can.’ The old adage, ‘possession being nine points of the law,’ is, in the squatter’s code, no dead-letter, I can assure you.”

“Do you mean, that the fellow might refuse to turn out?”

“It depends a good deal on what sort of a fellow he is. They are not all alike. If he should chance to be one of the obstinate and pugnacious kind, you are likely enough to have trouble with him.”

“But surely the law – ”

“Will aid you in ousting him – that’s what you were going to say?”

“I should expect so – in Tennessee, at all events.”

“And you would be disappointed. In almost any other part of the state, you might rely upon legal assistance; but, I fear, that about Swampville you will find society not very different from that you have encountered on the borders of Texas; and you know how little help the law could afford you there, in the enforcement of such a claim?”

“Then I must take the law into my own hands,” rejoined I, falling into very old-fashioned phraseology – for I was beginning to feel indignant at the very idea of this prospective difficulty. “No, Warfield,” replied my sober friend, “do not take that course; I know you are not the man to be scared out of your rights; but, in the present case, prudence is the proper course to follow. – Your squatter, if there be one – it is to be hoped that, like many of our grand cities, he has only an existence on the map – but if there should be a real live animal of this description on the ground, he will be almost certain to have neighbours – some half-dozen of his own kidney – living at greater or less distances around him. They are not usually of a clannish disposition; but, in a matter of this kind, they will be as unanimous in their sympathies, and antipathies too, as they would about the butchering of a bear. Turn one of them out by force – either legal or otherwise – and it would be like bringing a hornets’ nest about your ears. Even were you to succeed in so clearing your land, you would find ever afterwards a set of very unpleasant neighbours to live among. I know some cases in point, that occurred nearer home here. In fact, on some wild lands of my own I had an instance of the kind.”

“What, then, am I to do? Can you advise me?”

“Do as others have often done before you; and who have actually been forced to the course of action I shall advise. Should there be a squatter, and one likely to prove obstinate, approach him as gently as you can, and state your case frankly. You will find this the best mode of treating with these fellows – many of whom have a dash of honour, as well as honesty in their composition. Speak of the improvements he has made, and offer him a recompense.”

“Ah! friend Blount,” replied I, addressing my kind host by his baptismal name, “it is much easier to listen to your advice than follow it.”

“Come, old comrade!” rejoined he, after a momentary pause, “I think I understand you. There need be no concealment between friends, such as we are. Let not that difficulty hinder you from following the course I have recommended. The old general’s property is not all gone yet; and, should you stand in need of a hundred or two, to make a second purchase of your plantation, send me word, and – ”

“Thanks, Blount – thanks! it is just as I should have expected; but I shall not become your debtor for such a purpose. I have been a frontiersman too long to be bullied by a backwoodsman – ”

“There now, Warfield, just your own passionate self! Nay, you must take my advice. Pray, do not go rashly about it, but act as I have counselled you.”

“That will depend upon contingencies. Should Master Holt – for I believe that is my predecessor’s name – should he prove amiable, I may consent to go a little in your debt, and pay him for whatever log-chopping he has done. If otherwise, by the Lady of Guadalupe! – you remember our old Mexican shibboleth – he shall be cleared out of his clearing sans façon. Perhaps we have been wasting words upon an ideal existence! Perhaps there is no squatter after all; or that old Holt has long since ‘gone under’ and only his ghost will be found flitting around the precincts of this disputed territory. Would not that be an interesting companion for my hours of midnight loneliness? A match for the wolves and wild-cats! Ha! ha! ha!”

“Well, old comrade; I trust it may turn out no worse. The ghost of a squatter might prove a less unpleasant neighbour than the squatter himself, dispossessed of his squatment. Notwithstanding this badinage, I know you will act with judgment; and you can count upon my help in the matter, if you should require it.” I grasped the speaker’s hand, to express my gratitude; and the tight pressure returned, told me I was parting with one of the few friends I had in the world.

My impedimenta had been already packed. They did not need much stowage. A pair of saddle-bags was sufficient to contain all my personal property – including the title-deeds of my freehold! My arms I carried upon my person: my sword only being strapped along the saddle. Bidding adieu to my friend, I mounted my noble Arab; and, heading him to the road, commenced journeying towards the Western Reserve.

Chapter Ten
A Classic Land

Between Nashville and Swampville extends a distance of more than a hundred miles – just three days’ travel on horseback. For the first ten miles – to Harpeth River – I found an excellent road, graded and macadamised, running most of the way between fenced plantations. My next point was Paris; and forty miles further on, I arrived in Dresden! So far as the nomenclature was concerned, I might have fancied myself travelling upon the continent of Europe. By going a little to the right, I might have entered Asia: since I was told of Smyrna and Troy being at no great distance in that direction; and by proceeding in a south-westerly course, I should have passed through Denmark, and landed at Memphis– certainly an extensive tour within the short space of three days! Ugh! those ugly names! What hedge-schoolmaster has scattered them so loosely and profusely over this lovely land? Whip the wretch with rattlesnakes! Memphis indeed! – as if Memphis with its monolithic statues needed commemoration on the banks of the Mississippi! A new Osiris – a new Sphinx, “half horse, half alligator, with a sprinkling of the snapping turtle.” At every forking of the roads, whenever I inquired my way, in my ears rang those classic homonyms, till my soul was sick of sounds. “Swampville” was euphony, and “Mud Creek” soft music in comparison! Beyond Dresden, the titles became more appropriate and much more rare. There were long stretches having no names at all: for the simple reason, that there were no places to bear them. The numerous creeks, however, had been baptised; and evidently by the backwoodsmen themselves, as the titles indicated. “Deer Creek” and “Mud” – “Coon” and “Cat” – “Big” and “Little Forky” – told that the pioneers, who first explored the hydrographic system of the Western Reserve, were not heavily laden with classic lore; and a pity it is that pedantry should be permitted to alter the simple, but expressive and appropriate, appellatives by them bestowed. Unfortunately, the system is followed up to this hour by the Fremonts and other pseudo-explorers of the farthest west. The soft and harmonious sound of Indian and Spanish nomenclature – as well as the more striking titles bestowed by the trappers – are rapidly being obliterated from the maps; their places to be supplied – at the instigation of a fulsome flattery – by the often vulgar names of demagogic leaders, or the influential heads of the employing bureau.

“I know the old general will be pleased – perhaps reciprocate the compliment in his next despatch – if I call this beautiful river ‘Smith.’”

“How the secretary will smile, when he sees his name immortalised upon my map, by a lake never to be dried up, and which hereafter is to be known by the elegant and appropriate appellation of ‘Jones!’” Under just such influence are these absurd titles bestowed; and the consequence is, that amid the romantic defiles of the Rocky Mountains, we have our ears jarred by a jumble of petty and most inappropriate names – Smiths, Joneses, Jameses, and the like – while, from the sublime peaks of the Cascade range, we have “Adams,” “Jackson,” “Jefferson,” “Madison,” and “Washington,” overlooking the limitless waters of the Pacific. This last series we could excuse. The possession of high qualities, or the achievement of great deeds, ennobles even a common name; and all these have been stamped with the true patent. In the associated thoughts that cling around them, we take no note of the sound – whether it be harsh or harmonious. But that is another question, and must not hinder us from entering our protest against the nomenclature of Smith, Jones, and Robinson!

Beyond Dresden, my road could no longer be termed a road. It was a mere trace, or lane, cut out in the forest – with here and there a tree “blazed,” to indicate the direction. As I neared the point of my destination, I became naturally curious to learn something about it – that is, about Swampville – since it was evident that this was to be the point d’appui of my future efforts at colonisation – my depôt and port entry. I should have inquired had I found any one to inquire from; but, for ten miles along the road, I encountered not a human creature. Then only a “darkey” with an ox-cart loaded with wood; but, despairing of information from such a source, I declined detaining him. The only intelligence I was able to draw from the negro was that; “da ‘city’ o’ Swampville, massr, he lay ’bout ten mile furrer down da crik.” The “ten mile down da crik” proved to be long ones; but throughout the whole distance I saw not a creature, until I had arrived within a mile or so of the “settlement!”

I had been already apprised that Swampville was a new place. Its fame had not yet reached the eastern world; and even in Nashville was it unknown, except, perhaps, to the Land-Office. It was only after entering the Reserve, that I became fully assured of its existence; and there it was known as a “settlement” rather than a “city.” For all that, Swampville proved to be not so contemptible a place; and the reason I had encountered so little traffic, while approaching it, was that I had been coming in the wrong direction– in other words, I had approached it from behind.

Swampville was in reality a riverine town. To it the east was a back country; and its front face was to the west. In that direction lay its world, and the ways that opened to it. Log-shanties began to line the road – standing thicker as I advanced; while at intervals, appeared a “frame-house” of more pretentious architecture. In front of one of these – the largest of the collection – there stood a tall post; or rather a tree with its top cut off, and divested of its lower branches. On the head of this was a “martin-box”; and underneath the dwelling of the birds, a broad framed board, on which was legible the word “Hotel.” A portrait of Jackson, done in “continental uniform,” embellished the face of the board. The sign seemed little appropriate: for in the harsh features of “Old Hickory” there was but slight promise of hospitality. It was no use going farther. The “Jackson Hotel” was evidently the “head inn” of the place; and without pause or parley, I dismounted at its door.

I was too well used to western habits to wait either for welcome or assistance – too careful of my Arab to trust him to hands unskilled – and I did the unsaddling for myself. A half-naked negro gave me some slight help in the “grooming” process – all the while exhibiting his ivories and the whites of his eyes in an expression of ill-concealed astonishment, produced apparently by the presence of my uniform coat – to the “darkey,” no doubt, an uncommon apparition.