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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780253336545 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Indiana University Press |
| Publication date: | 10/22/1993 |
| Series: | Library of Indiana Classics |
| Pages: | 352 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.25(h) x (d) |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Uncle Tom Andy Bill
A Story of Bears and Indian Treasure
By Charles Major
Indiana University Press
Copyright © 1993 Charles MajorAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-253-33654-5
CHAPTER 1
BY THE FIRESIDE
My uncle's name was Thomas Andrew William Addison. His father and mother had three girls and only one boy, so they said they would give him as many names as a boy could stand, to make up, in a manner, for his deficiency in number. His playmates, none of whom could boast more than one name, laughed at his unusual assortment. Some called him Tom, others Andy, and others again found that Bill came trippingly on the tongue. In time the three names amalgamated, and "Tom Andy Bill" fell permanently to his lot. My mother was one of Tom Andy Bill's sisters. She and my father dying when I was very young, my uncle took me to "raise," and warmed me in his great, tender breast.
Uncle Tom Andy Bill was an "old bachelor," though he had reared a family of fourteen children — all adopted. All these children except one (of her you will hear a great deal in these pages) were nieces or nephews and grand-nieces or grand-nephews whose parents, like mine, had died. You may be sure every member of the adopted family worshipped with unquestioning faith at the shrine of "the Adopter," as some of Tom Andy Bill's older friends lovingly called him.
The mother instinct was so strong in Tom Andy Bill's heart that all his friends regretted he had never married. I remember once hearing two old ladies deplore the fact. One of them said tenderly: —
" Oh, yes, it's too bad. He was the likeliest young man I ever knew — so tall and strong and gentle. He was like a Greek statue in form, and like a hero in bravery and truthfulness and all that was good. His hair was dark and curled about the finest head and the handsomest face I ever saw. No, he never married, but he had a sweetheart once — yes, yes, you know the story. Sad, wasn't it ? So sad."
I had long wanted to hear the story, and frequently had tried to learn it; but no one of my generation seemed to know it, though many had heard it mentioned in a general way as "very sad." None of Uncle Tom Andy Bill's generation would talk on the subject — all the romance, doubtless, having oozed out of them.
Twenty years ago, when Uncle Tom Andy Bill told the following stories, he was quite an old man, but he was still young in heart, and strong and beautiful in person. He was fully six feet two inches high, and as straight as a gray ash arrow. His face was smooth, his glowing dark eyes had lost none of their lustre, and his great shock of waving white hair was a veritable halo of glory. Seven members of the adopted family were still under his roof at the time of which I speak; the other seven had married, or, as Uncle Tom Andy Bill said, "had flown the nest." Of the seven remaining under his care, all were grand-nieces and grand-nephews save Baby Mab and me. I was a nephew, and Mab was — but you shall learn about her as we progress. I'll let Uncle Tom Andy Bill tell her little story and also the story of his sweetheart. They will be short.
I was teaching school, and learning shorthand at the same time, so I practised, taking down Uncle Tom Andy Bill's stories of his boyhood days as he told them to his family about a winter's fireside, and that is the way I happen to have them to tell to you.
Uncle Tom Andy Bill always sat in his great arm-chair on the right side of the enormous fireplace. He was near the fire so that the smoke from his pipe would go up the chimney. Next to him — very, very close — sat Baby Mab in her tiny rocking-chair. The rest of the audience, ranging in years from Die, who was ten, to myself (at that time I soared in the empyrean heights of twenty-one), sat in a circle, that is, a half circle, in front of the hearth. The fire furnished light and heat, and plenty of each.
The picture we presented, with rare old Nestor on our right flank, the dancing flames in front lighting up our faces, and the flitting shadows silently playing hide-and-seek in the dark corners of the room behind us, was one worthy of a master's brush. I wish I had it on canvas.
I will not try to reproduce Uncle Tom Andy Bill's inimitable dialect, but will give you his stories as I took them down, redolent, however, of his manner and his style. He was a man of much reading and of considerable culture, but he spoke the language of his friends, and cared a great deal more for what he said than for how he said it. I believe Uncle Tom Andy Bill's stories were, in the main, true, though on rare occasions he may have "idealized" certain incidents for the benefit of his open-eyed, credulous audience. It is almost impossible to resist the temptation to create wonder in those who eagerly believe all one says.
One cold evening, a fortnight before Christmas, Uncle Tom Andy Bill fell into a reminiscent mood, and spoke freely of his boyhood days.
" That was long, long ago, — fifty-odd years back in the heart of time. You all can't imagine how far back fifty years is. One has to live seventy years to understand what it means. When a man of seventy looks back to his boyhood, it is like looking down from a great height at men and women on the earth below. The boy of fifty or sixty years ago looks small and far away, as if he were viewed through a spyglass turned end for end."
" Tell us about the Indian treasure," suggested one of the small boys.
" You want to hear about the Indian treasure, do you?" asked Uncle Tom Andy Bill. " Well, I'll begin at the very beginning and tell you all about it, though it will take a great many evenings to finish the story, and many adventures will happen on the way."
"The more, the better!" shouted every boy and girl in the room. "And we do want you to begin at the very beginning and tell us all about it right up to the end."
"And we want a lot of bear stories, too," said one of the boys.
"Don't you hope it will take all winter?" whispered one of the small girls.
"Sh! Sh! Sh!" came from several pairs of older lips, and Uncle Tom Andy Bill began.
THE STORY
You see, father and mother came up from Carolina about the year '19 or '20 and settled here in Indiana on Blue River. I was a little fellow, ten or twelve years old, but I remember it all — all. We built our cabin where the old house still stands — down the river, five miles from here, as you all know. I thought father selected the spot close to the river so that I should not have far to go afishing. He probably had other reasons, but you see the one boy in a family of girls is apt to think that all the spheres of the family system revolve about him. It's bad for a boy to get the notion into his head that he is " the whole thing," for, you see, he has to get it out again. It is knocked out of him later in life, and the more firmly the idea becomes fixed in his head, the harder the knocks must be to loosen it. It cracks many a fool's skull for good and all.
The neighbors for miles around came to help us build our log cabin. When it was finished and the openings between the logs were well "chinked" with mud, father built a great chimney; then we moved in and were as snug as a bug in a rug. After the house was built, father went to work to make a clearing by chopping down trees and grubbing out underbrush.
Oh, how I enjoyed the great bonfires when the neighbors came to help at the " log rolling." Father chopped down the trees and cut them into pieces that could be easily handled. When the neighbors came, they rolled the logs together and piled the brush; then the torch was applied, and what a sight it was! Talk about your Fourth of July fireworks! Compared to our log fires, they look like a candle beside a burning barn.
Clearing the ground was hard work, but father soon had a fine patch of rich bottom ground cleared of everything but stumps. Stumps! They stood so thick on the ground that you would have thought a dog could not wiggle between them in places, if his backbone happened to be stiff. Here, during the first summer, father raised a small crop of corn and a great number of pumpkins that helped to keep us alive during the winter.
Our chief support was game, of which the deep, black forests were full. Deer, quail, wild turkeys, rabbits, and squirrels infested the whole country; and father, in a few hours' hunting, could easily fill our little kitchen with more venison, as the meat of all wild game was called, than we could eat in a month.
When I was about twelve years old, father bought a rifle for me and began to take me out hunting with him. In addition to venison for the table, we hunted coons, wolves, foxes, minks, and beavers for the sake of their fur, and father brought home many a dollar from the sale of pelts. In those days there were many bears, too, and for several reasons we loved to hunt them. They killed our sheep and were fonder of pig — a tender little squeaker — than you all are of circus candy. It was impossible to keep them away from our little pigs, and that was one reason we liked to kill the bears. We also liked the meat of a young fat bear, and a good whole bearskin was worth ten shillings, that is, two dollars and a half. If you want to know how big two dollars and a half looked at that time, just go out and take a peep at the full moon. We loved to hunt deer, too, for their meat was delicious and their hides sold for two shillings — fifty cents. Even fifty cents looked big then.
Father and I killed many wolves and foxes, too, but of all the game that prowled the forest, I loved best to hunt bear. There was the spice of danger in it, and when we killed a bear, we not only felt proud of our achievement, but we had something worth while for our labor.
I remember, when I was about fourteen years old, father and I started out one morning to kill a deer. A neighbor boy, who lived one mile down the river from fathers house, accompanied us. His name was Balser Brent, and he and I were chums. He had a beautiful gun and was a great hunter for his years. As I have said, we started out to kill a deer, but we found a bear. I suppose if we had started out for a bear, we might have found a deer, so easy is it to get what one does not seek. We got what we didn't seek that day, and got plenty of it.
Along Blue River the settlers had built several houses, and deer, being shy, are apt to stray away from the habitations of their mortal enemy, man. Therefore, father, Balser, and I walked over to Brandywine Creek, three or four miles west of Blue, where we hoped soon to kill a deer, swing it over a pole, and carry it home.
We had with us Balser's dogs, Tige and Prince, and there were not on all Blue River two better hunters than these intelligent animals. They would hunt anything, but they agreed with Balser and me that bear was the only game really worth the prowess of enterprising men and first-class dogs.
I suppose Tige and Prince knew we were hunting deer that morning, and although they were willing to help, they were not at all enthusiastic. They were watchful and alert, but they did not seem to throw all their energies into the work. We had been on the banks of Brandywine an hour or two, but had not seen a deer even at a distance.
All of us, including the dogs, were growing tired and were inclined to be listless, when suddenly I noticed new life manifest itself in Tige, who was running thirty yards ahead of us. He pricked up his ears and his whole body seemed to be on the alert. He stood for a moment on three legs and gave forth a quick, low bark, which was evidently intended as a remark to Prince, for Prince quickly bounded to his side, and both dogs put their noses to the ground with eagerness and excitement. They consulted for a moment, then they uttered another low, quick bark; this time they were speaking to Balser.
"A bear, sure as you live," said Balser.
"Why do you think so?" asked father.
"Tige and Prince told me so," answered Balser.
Father shook his head, laughed, and answered, "Nonsense, dogs can't talk."
"Can't they, though?" returned Balser. "Now listen. I'll ask them if it's a bear, and if it is, they will answer in a quick, low, excited bark, without lifting their noses from the ground; if it is other game, they will lift their heads and bark louder, or not at all. Is it a bear, Tige?"
Tige answered exactly as his master said he would, and Balser and I ran to the dogs. We could see no tracks, for the ground was dry and covered with leaves. It was the fall of the year.
"Hunt him, Tige! Hunt him, Prince!" said Balser, and the dogs started rapidly on the scent, Balser and I following as fast as we could run. Father had no faith in dog talk, but he walked rapidly after us. Within ten minutes we came to a spring where the ground was soft, and when the dogs passed over the muddy place, we knew we could soon prove or disprove their assertion concerning the bear. If they were on the right scent, we should see bear tracks. Sure enough, the tracks were there — great, long, fresh tracks, not more than an hour old. I can't explain how an experienced hunter knows the age of a track or a "spoor," as the traces left by an animal are often called by our Dutch friends; but if they are less than a day old, one practised in the art of "spooring" can guess the time at which they were made and will not miss it an hour.
"Father, father!" I cried, "the dogs are right! Here are the tracks of at least two bears. One of them must be as big as a horse; his foot is as long as my arm!"
"If that is true, we had better turn back," said father, laughing; "I don't want to hunt a bear that has a foot on him as long as your arm. I like big bears, but excuse me, please."
"Oh, come on, dad! Do hurry," cried I, starting off after Balser and the dogs.
Father stopped to examine the tracks and was soon convinced that the dogs were right, so he followed us. The dogs were running away from us, so eager were they in the chase, and father cried out: —
"Call the dogs, Balser; make them go slowly so that we can keep up with them."
Balser whistled to the dogs and they waited for us. When we came up to them, off we started again in a great hurry; father lagging behind perhaps a hundred yards. Balser and I kept close to the dogs, all going at a very rapid pace; and soon we noticed a short distance ahead of us a little hill. Tige and Prince ran up the hill perhaps twenty-five feet in advance of Balser and me who were running side by side. When the dogs reached the top of the hill, they leaped forward as if they were jumping over a precipice ; at the same time giving forth a sharp, angry bark, emphasized by a clear note of surprise.
Balser and I felt sure the dogs had sighted the bears. We knew that the precipice, if there was one, could not be very high, or the dogs would not have taken it, so we did not slacken our speed, but in our eagerness sprang after Tige and Prince, and landed squarely on two huge bears that were lying at the foot of the low, rocky cliff. Balser went first, and I saw him fall on the back of a black monster that had risen to its haunches, having been startled by the dogs. Tige and Prince had jumped far over the bears and had landed at the top of a steep little declivity, down which they rolled twenty or thirty feet to the bottom. They were so confused by their tumble that they spun round and round for a moment like a dog chasing its tail.
I was going too fast to stop when I saw Balser fall upon the bear, and although I distinctly heard him cry out, "Don't jump, Tom Andy Bill!" I had to jump, and down I went. You see I didn't want Balser to have all the fun of riding the bears, so when I fell I knocked him out of the saddle, so to speak, and took his place. Balser fell toward the other bear, which had also risen to its haunches. In his effort to roll away from the bear, Balser came to the top of the little hill and unceremoniously rolled down after the dogs, leaving me to ride the bear alone.
To say that all of us, including the bears, were surprised and frightened, doesn't begin to express the true condition. I never was so scared; that is, I never had been up to that time. Afterward I was, — but that will come later. I hardly knew what I was doing, and when I felt the huge brute squirming and twisting under me in its efforts to get on its feet, I threw my arms about its neck and clung to it as a trick rider clings to a bucking horse. I don't know why I hung on, but instinct seemed to tell me that I was safer on top of the bear than I would be if it were on top of me, so I clung to its back with a persistency worthy of a better cause. Balser's gun had fallen from his hands; but mine was strapped across my back, and of course I kept it with me.
The bears were as badly frightened as we were, so when the black fellow, upon whose back I was clinging like a monkey to a goat, had gained its feet, it instinctively bolted for safety; that is, it hurriedly entered a cave that ran into the rocks at the bottom of the little precipice over which we had so rashly jumped. Not knowing what else to do, I still clung to the bear, and into the cave we went together. Soon after the bear entered the cave I realized my danger, and knew that I ought to have dismounted outside; but by the time my slow brain had turned the thought over, it was too late, for right back of me came the other bear, growling like young thunder and throwing the gravel and leaves about like a thing possessed.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Uncle Tom Andy Bill by Charles Major. Copyright © 1993 Charles Major. Excerpted by permission of Indiana University Press.
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