Eben Holden

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Corrections to this eBook were performed by Martin Robb.

Eben Holden a Tale of the North Country

by Irving Bacheller

PREFACE

Early in the last century the hardy wood-choppers began to come
west, out of Vermont. They founded their homes in the
Adirondack wildernesses and cleared their rough acres with the
axe and the charcoal pit. After years of toil in a rigorous climate
they left their sons little besides a stumpy farm and a coon-skin
overcoat. Far from the centres of life their amusements, their
humours, their religion, their folk lore, their views of things had in
them the flavour of the timber lands, the simplicity of childhood.
Every son was nurtured in the love of honour and of industry, and
the hope of sometime being president. It is to be feared this latter
thing and the love of right living, for its own sake, were more in
their thoughts than the immortal crown that had been the
inspiration of their fathers. Leaving the farm for the more
promising life of the big city they were as men born anew, and
their second infancy was like that of Hercules. They had the
strength of manhood, the tireless energy of children and some hope
of the highest things. The pageant of the big town - its novelty, its
promise, its art, its activity - quickened their highest powers, put
them to their best effort. And in all great enterprises they became
the pathfinders, like their fathers in the primeval forest.

This book has grown out of such enforced leisure as one may find
in a busy life. Chapters begun in the publicity of a Pullman car
have been finished in the cheerless solitude of a hotel chamber.
Some have had their beginning in a sleepless night and their end in
a day of bronchitis. A certain pious farmer in the north country
when, like Agricola, he was about to die, requested the doubtful
glory of this epitaph: 'He was a poor sinner, but he done his best'
Save for the fact that I am an excellent sinner, in a literary sense,
the words may stand for all the apology I have to make.

The characters were mostly men and women I have known and
who left with me a love of my kind that even a wide experience
with knavery and misfortune has never dissipated. For my
knowledge of Mr Greeley I am chiefly indebted to David P.
Rhoades, his publisher, to Philip Fitzpatrick, his pressman, to the
files of the Tribune and to many books.

IRVING BACHELLER
New York City, 7 April 1900

BOOK ONE

Chapter I

Of all the people that ever went west that expedition was the most
remarkable.

A small boy in a big basket on the back of a jolly old man, who
carried a cane in one hand, a rifle in the other; a black dog serving
as scout, skirmisher and rear guard - that was the size of it. They
were the survivors of a ruined home in the north of Vermont, and
were travelling far into the valley of the St Lawrence, but with no
particular destination.

Midsummer had passed them in their journey; their clothes were
covered with dust; their faces browning in the hot sun. It was a
very small boy that sat inside the basket and clung to the rim, his
tow head shaking as the old man walked. He saw wonderful
things, day after day, looking down at the green fields or peering
into the gloomy reaches of the wood; and he talked about them.

'Uncle Eb - is that where the swifts are?' he would ask often; and
the old man would answer, 'No; they ain't real sassy this time o'
year. They lay 'round in the deep dingles every day.'

Then the small voice would sing idly or prattle with an imaginary
being that had a habit of peeking over the edge of the basket or
would shout a greeting to some bird or butterfly and ask finally:
'Tired, Uncle Eb?'

Sometimes the old gentleman would say 'not very', and keep on,
looking thoughtfully at the ground. Then, again, he would stop and
mop his bald head with a big red handkerchief and say, a little
tremor of irritation in his voice: 'Tired! who wouldn't be tired with
a big elephant like you on his back all day? I'd be 'shamed o'
myself t' set there an' let an old man carry me from Dan to
Beersheba. Git out now an' shake yer legs.'

I was the small boy and I remember it was always a great relief to
get out of the basket, and having run ahead, to lie in the grass
among the wild flowers, and jump up at him as he came along.

Uncle Eb had been working for my father five years before I was
born. He was not a strong man and had never been able to carry
the wide swath of the other help in the fields, but we all loved him
for his kindness and his knack of story-telling. He was a bachelor
who came over the mountain from Pleasant Valley, a little bundle
of clothes on his shoulder, and bringing a name that enriched the
nomenclature of our neighbourhood. It was Eben Holden.

He had a cheerful temper and an imagination that was a very
wilderness of oddities. Bears and panthers growled and were very
terrible in that strange country. He had invented an animal more
treacherous than any in the woods, and he called it a swift.
'Sumthin' like a panther', he described the look of it a fearsome
creature that lay in the edge of the woods at sundown and made a
noise like a woman crying, to lure the unwary. It would light one's
eye with fear to hear Uncle Eb lift his voice in the cry of the swift.
Many a time in the twilight when the bay of a hound or some far
cry came faintly through the wooded hills, I have seen him lift his
hand and bid us hark. And when we had listened a moment, our
eyes wide with wonder, he would turn and say in a low,
half-whispered tone: ' 'S a swift' I suppose we needed more the fear
of God, but the young children of the pioneer needed also the fear
of the woods or they would have strayed to their death in them.

A big bass viol, taller than himself, had long been the solace of his
Sundays. After he had shaved - a ceremony so solemn that it
seemed a rite of his religion - that sacred viol was uncovered. He
carried it sometimes to the back piazza and sometimes to the barn,
where the horses shook and trembled at the roaring thunder of the
strings. When he began playing we children had to get well out of
the way, and keep our distance. I remember now the look of him,
then - his thin face, his soft black eyes, his long nose, the suit of
broadcloth, the stock and standing collar and, above all, the
solemnity in his manner when that big devil of a thing was leaning
on his breast.

As to his playing I have never heard a more fearful sound in any
time of peace or one less creditable to a Christian. Weekdays he
was addicted to the milder sin of the flute and, after chores, if
there were no one to talk with him, he would sit long and pour his
soul into that magic bar of boxwood.

Uncle Eb had another great accomplishment. He was what they
call in the north country 'a natural cooner'. After nightfall, when
the corn was ripening, he spoke in a whisper and had his ear
cocked for coons. But he loved all kinds of good fun.

So this man had a boy in his heart and a boy in his basket that
evening we left the old house. My father and mother and older
brother had been drowned in the lake, where they had gone for a
day of pleasure. I had then a small understanding of my loss, hat I
have learned since that the farm was not worth the mortgage and
that everything had to be sold. Uncle Eb and I - a little lad, a very
little lad of six - were all that was left of what had been in that
home. Some were for sending me to the county house; but they
decided, finally, to turn me over to a dissolute uncle, with some
allowance for my keep. Therein Uncle Eb was to be reckoned
with. He had set his heart on keeping me, but he was a farm-hand
without any home or visible property and not, therefore, in the
mind of the authorities, a proper guardian. He had me with him in
the old house, and the very night he heard they were coming after
me in the morning, we started on our journey. I remember he was a
long time tying packages of bread and butter and tea and boiled
eggs to the rim of the basket, so that they hung on the outside.
Then he put a woollen shawl and an oilcloth blanket on the
bottom, pulled the straps over his shoulders and buckled them,
standing before the looking-glass, and, hang put on my cap and
coat, stood me on the table, and stooped so that I could climb into
the basket - a pack basket, that he had used in hunting, the top a
little smaller than the bottom. Once in, I could stand comfortably
or sit facing sideways, my back and knees wedged from port to
starboard. With me in my place he blew out the lantern and groped
his way to the road, his cane in one hand, his rifle in the other.
Fred, our old dog - a black shepherd, with tawny points - came
after us. Uncle Eb scolded him and tried to send him back, but I
pleaded for the poor creature and that settled it, he was one of our
party.

'Dunno how we'll feed him,' said Uncle Eb. 'Our own mouths are
big enough t' take all we can carry, but I hain' no heart t' leave 'im
all 'lone there.'

I was old for my age, they tell me, and had a serious look and a
wise way of talking, for a boy so young; but I had no notion of
what lay before or behind us.

'Now, boy, take a good look at the old house,' I remember he
whispered to me at the gate that night ''Tain't likely ye'll ever see it
ag'in. Keep quiet now,' he added, letting down the bars at the foot
of the lane. 'We're goin' west an' we mustn't let the grass grow
under us. Got t'be purty spry I can tell ye.'

It was quite dark and he felt his way carefully down the cow-paths
into the broad pasture. With every step I kept a sharp lookout for
swifts, and the moon shone after a while, making my work easier.

I had to hold my head down, presently, when the tall brush began
to whip the basket and I heard the big boots of Uncle Eb ripping
the briars. Then we came into the blackness of the thick timber
and I could hear him feeling his way over the dead leaves with his
cane. I got down, shortly, and walked beside him, holding on to the
rifle with one hand. We stumbled, often, and were long in the trail
before we could see the moonlight through the tree columns. In the
clearing I climbed to my seat again and by and by we came to the
road where my companion sat down resting his load on a boulder.

'Pretty hot, Uncle Eb, pretty hot,' he said to himself, fanning his
brow with that old felt hat he wore everywhere. 'We've come three
mile er more without a stop an' I guess we'd better rest a jiffy.'

My legs ached too, and I was getting very sleepy. I remember the
jolt of the basket as he rose, and hearing him say, 'Well, Uncle Eb,
I guess we'd better be goin'.'

The elbow that held my head, lying on the rim of the basket, was
already numb; but the prickling could no longer rouse me, and
half-dead with weariness, I fell asleep. Uncle Eb has told me since,
that I tumbled out of the basket once, and that he had a time of it
getting me in again, but I remember nothing more of that day's
history.

When I woke in the morning, I could hear the crackling of fire, and
felt very warm and cosy wrapped in the big shawl. I got a cheery
greeting from Uncle Eb, who was feeding the fire with a big heap
of sticks that he had piled together. Old Fred was licking my hands
with his rough tongue, and I suppose that is what waked me. Tea
was steeping in the little pot that hung over the fire, and our
breakfast of boiled eggs and bread and butter lay on a paper beside
it. I remember well the scene of our little camp that morning. We
had come to a strange country, and there was no road in sight. A
wooded hill lay back of us, and, just before, ran a noisy little
brook, winding between smooth banks, through a long pasture into
a dense wood. Behind a wall on the opposite shore a great field of
rustling corn filled a broad valley and stood higher than a man's
head.

While I went to wash my face in the clear water Uncle Eb was
husking some ears of corn that he took out of his pocket, and had
them roasting over the fire in a moment. We ate heartily, giving
Fred two big slices of bread and butter, packing up with enough
remaining for another day. Breakfast over we doused the fire and
Uncle Eb put on his basket He made after a squirrel, presently,
with old Fred, and brought him down out of a tree by hurling
stones at him and then the faithful follower of our camp got a bit
of meat for his breakfast. We climbed the wall, as he ate, and
buried ourselves in the deep corn. The fragrant, silky tassels
brushed my face and the corn hissed at our intrusion, crossing its
green sabers in our path. Far in the field my companion heaped a
little of the soft earth for a pillow, spread the oil cloth between
rows and, as we lay down, drew the big shawl over us. Uncle Eb
was tired after the toil of that night and went asleep almost as soon
as he was down. Before I dropped off Fred came and licked my
face and stepped over me, his tail wagging for leave, and curled
upon the shawl at my feet. I could see no sky in that gloomy green
aisle of corn. This going to bed in the morning seemed a foolish
business to me that day and I lay a long time looking up at the
rustling canopy overhead. I remember listening to the waves that
came whispering out of the further field, nearer and nearer, until
they swept over us with a roaring swash of leaves, like that of
water flooding among rocks, as I have heard it often. A twinge of
homesick ness came to me and the snoring of Uncle Eb gave me
no comfort. I remember covering my head and crying softly as I
thought of those who had gone away and whom I was to meet in a
far country, called Heaven, whither we were going. I forgot my
sorrow, finally, in sleep. When I awoke it had grown dusk under
the corn. I felt for Uncle Eb and he was gone. Then I called to him.

'Hush, boy! lie low,' he whispered, bending over me, a sharp look
in his eye.' 'Fraid they're after us.'

He sat kneeling beside me, holding Fred by the collar and
listening. I could hear voices, the rustle of the corn and the tramp
of feet near by. It was thundering in the distance - that heavy,
shaking thunder that seems to take hold of the earth, and there
were sounds in the corn like the drawing of sabers and the rush of
many feet. The noisy thunder clouds came nearer and the voices
that had made us tremble were no longer heard. Uncle Eb began to
fasten the oil blanket to the stalks of corn for a shelter. The rain
came roaring over us. The sound of it was like that of a host of
cavalry coming at a gallop. We lay bracing the stalks, the blanket
tied above us and were quite dry for a time. The rain rattled in the
sounding sheaves and then came flooding down the steep gutters.
Above us beam and rafter creaked, swaying, and showing glimpses
of the dark sky. The rain passed - we could hear the last battalion
leaving the field - and then the tumult ended as suddenly as it
began. The corn trembled a few moments and hushed to a faint
whisper. Then we could hear only the drip of raindrops leaking
through the green roof. It was dark under the corn.

Chapter 2

We heard no more of the voices. Uncle Eb had brought an armful
of wood, and some water in the teapot, while I was sleeping. As
soon as the rain had passed he stood listening awhile and shortly
opened his knife and made a little clearing in the corn by cutting a
few hills.

'We've got to do it,' he said, 'er we can't take any comfort, an' the
man tol' me I could have all the corn I wanted.'

'Did you see him, Uncle Eb?' I remember asking.

'Yes,' he answered, whittling in the dark. 'I saw him when I went
out for the water an' it was he tol' me they were after us.'

He took a look at the sky after a while, and, remarking that he
guessed they couldn't see his smoke now, began to kindle the fire.
As it burned up he stuck two crotches and hung his teapot on a
stick' that lay in them, so it took the heat of the flame, as I had seen
him do in the morning. Our grotto, in the corn, was shortly as
cheerful as any room in a palace, and our fire sent its light into the
long aisles that opened opposite, and nobody could see the warm
glow of it but ourselves.

'We'll hev our supper,' said Uncle Eb, as he opened a paper and
spread out the eggs and bread and butter and crackers. 'We'll jest
hev our supper an' by 'n by when everyone's abed we'll make tracks
in the dirt, I can tell ye.'

Our supper over, Uncle Eb let me look at his tobacco-box - a shiny
thing of German silver that always seemed to snap out a quick
farewell to me before it dove into his pocket. He was very cheerful
and communicative, and joked a good deal as we lay there waiting
in the firelight. I got some further acquaintance with the swift,
learning among other things that it had no appetite for the pure in
heart.

'Why not?' I enquired.

'Well,' said Uncle Eb, 'it's like this: the meaner the boy, the sweeter
the meat.'

He sang an old song as he sat by the fire, with a whistled interlude
between lines, and the swing of it, even now, carries me back to
that far day in the fields. I lay with my head in his lap while he was
singing.

Years after, when I could have carried him on my back' he wrote
down for me the words of the old song. Here they are, about as he
sang them, although there are evidences of repair, in certain lines,
to supply the loss of phrases that had dropped out of his memory:

I was goin' to Salem one bright summer day,
I met a young maiden a goin' my way;
O, my fallow, faddeling fallow, faddel away.

An' many a time I had seen her before,
But I never dare tell 'er the love thet I bore.
O, my fallow, etc.

'Oh, where are you goin' my purty fair maid?'
'O, sir, I am goin' t' Salem,' she said.
O, my fallow, etc.

'O, why are ye goin' so far in a day?
Fer warm is the weather and long is the way.'
O, my fallow, etc.

'O, sir I've forgorten, I hev, I declare,
But it's nothin' to eat an' its nothin' to wear.'
O, my fallow, etc.

'Oho! then I hev it, ye purty young miss!
I'll bet it is only three words an' a kiss.'
O, my fallow, etc.

'Young woman, young woman, O how will it dew
If I go see yer lover 'n bring 'em t' you?'
O, my fallow, etc.

''S a very long journey,' says she, 'I am told,
An' before ye got back, they would surely be cold.'
O, my fallow, etc.

'I hev 'em right with me, I vum an' I vow,
An' if you don't object I'll deliver 'em now.'
O, my fallow, etc.

She laid her fair head all on to my breast,
An' ye wouldn't know more if I tol' ye the rest
O, my fallow, etc.

I went asleep after awhile in spite of all, right in the middle of a
story. The droning voice of Uncle Eb and the feel of his hand upon
my forehead called me back, blinking, once or twice, but not for
long. The fire was gone down to a few embers when Uncle Eb
woke me and the grotto was lit only by a sprinkle of moonlight
from above.

'Mos' twelve o'clock,' he whispered. 'Better be off.'

The basket was on his back and he was all ready. I followed him
through the long aisle of corn, clinging to the tall of his coat. The
golden lantern of the moon hung near the zenith and when we
came out in the open we could see into the far fields. I climbed
into my basket at the wall and as Uncle Eb carried me over the
brook, stopping on a flat rock midway to take a drink, I could see
the sky in the water, and it seemed as if a misstep would have
tumbled me into the moon.

'Hear the crickets holler,' said Uncle Eb, as he followed the bank
up into the open pasture.

'What makes 'em holler?' I asked.

'O, they're jes' filin' their saws an' thinkin'. Mebbe tellin' o' what's
happened 'em. Been a hard day fer them little folks. Terrible flood
in their country. Everyone on em hed t' git up a steeple quick 'she
could er be drownded. They hev their troubles an' they talk 'bout
'em, too.'

'What do they file their saws for?' I enquired.

'Well, ye know,' said he, 'where they live the timber's thick an' they
hev hard work clearin' t' mek a home.'

I was getting too sleepy for further talk. He made his way from
field to field, stopping sometimes to look off at the distant
mountains then at the sky or to whack the dry stalks of mullen with
his cane. I remember he let down some bars after a long walk and
stepped into a smooth roadway. He stood resting a little while, his
basket on the top bar, and then the moon that I had been watching
went down behind the broad rim of his hat and I fell into utter
forgetfulness. My eyes opened on a lovely scene at daylight Uncle
Eb had laid me on a mossy knoll in a bit of timber and through an
opening right in front of us I could see a broad level of shining
water, and the great green mountain on the further shore seemed to
be up to its belly in the sea.

'Hello there!' said Uncle Eb; 'here we are at Lake Champlain.'

I could hear the fire crackling and smell the odour of steeping tea.

'Ye flopped 'round like a fish in thet basket,' said Uncle Eb. ''Guess
ye must a been drearnin' O' bears. Jumped so ye scairt me. Didn't
know but I had a wil' cat on my shoulders.'

Uncle Eb had taken a fish-line out of his pocket and was tying it to
a rude pole that he had cut and trinmed with his jack-knife.

'I've found some crawfish here,' he said, 'an' I'm goin' t' try fer a bite
on the p'int O' rocks there.'

'Goin' t' git some fish, Uncle Eb?' I enquired.

'Wouldn't say't I was, er wouldn't say't I wasn't,' he answered. 'Jes
goin' t' try.'

Uncle Eb was always careful not to commit himself on a doubtful
point. He had fixed his hook and sinker in a moment and then we
went out on a rocky point nearby and threw off into the deep
water. Suddenly Uncle Eb gave a jerk that brought a groan out of
him and then let his hook go down again, his hands trembling, his
face severe.

'By mighty! Uncle Eb,' he muttered to himself, 'I thought we hed
him thet time.'

He jerked again presently, and then I could see a tug on the line
that made me jump. A big fish came thrashing into the air in a
minute. He tried to swing it ashore, but the pole bent and the fish
got a fresh hold of the water and took the end of the pole under.
Uncle Eb gave it a lift then that brought it ashore and a good bit of
water with it. I remember how the fish slapped me with its wet tail
and sprinkled my face shaking itself between my boots. It was a
big bass and in a little while we had three of them. Uncle Eb
dressed them and laid them over the fire on a gridiron of green
birch, salting them as they cooked. I remember they went with a
fine relish and the last of our eggs and bread and butter went with
them.

Our breakfast over, Uncle Eb made me promise to stay with Fred
and the basket while he went away to find a man who could row us
across. In about an hour I heard a boat coming and the dog and I
went out on the point of rocks where we saw Uncle Eb and another
man, heading for us, half over the cove. The bow bumped the
rocks beneath us in a minute. Then the stranger dropped his oars
and stood staring at me and the dog.

'Say, mister,' said he presently, 'can't go no further. There's a
reward offered fer you an' thet boy.'

Uncle Eb called him aside and was talking to him a long time.

I never knew what was said, but they came at last and took us into
the boat and the stranger was very friendly.

When we had come near the landing on the 'York State' side, I
remember he gave us our bearings.

'Keep t' the woods,' he said, 'till you're out o' harm's way. Don't go
near the stage road fer a while. Ye'll find a store a little way up the
mountain. Git yer provisions there an' about eighty rod farther ye'll
strike the trail. It'll take ye over the mountain north an' t' Paradise
Road. Then take the white church on yer right shoulder an' go
straight west.'

I would not have remembered it so well but for the fact that Uncle
Eb wrote it all down in his account book and that has helped me
over many a slippery place in my memory of those events. At the
store we got some crackers and cheese, tea and coffee, dried beef
and herring, a bit of honey and a loaf of bread that was sliced and
buttered before it was done up. We were off in the woods by nine
o'clock, according to Uncle Eb's diary, and I remember the trail led
us into thick brush where I had to get out and walk a long way. It
was smooth under foot, however, and at noon we came to a slash
in the timber, full of briars that were all aglow with big
blackberries. We filled our hats with them and Uncle Eb found a
spring, beside which we built a fire and had a memorable meal
that made me glad of my hunger.

Then we spread the oilcloth and lay down for another sleep. We
could see the glow of the setting sun through the tree-tops when
we woke, and began our packing.

'We'll hev t' hurry,' said Uncle Eb, 'er we'll never git out o' the
woods t'night 'S 'bout six mile er more t' Paradise Road, es I mek it.
Come, yer slower 'n a toad in a tar barrel.'

We hurried off on the trail and I remember Fred looked very
crestfallen with two big packages tied to his collar. He delayed a bit
by trying to shake them off, but Uncle Eb gave him a sharp word
or two and then he walked along very thoughtfully. Uncle Eb was
a little out of patience that evening, and I thought he bore down
too harshly in his rebuke of the old dog.

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