A certain wild chasm, cut deep into the very heart of a spur of the Great Smoky Mountains, is spanned by a network, which seen from above is the heavy interlacing timbers of a railroad bridge thrown across the narrow space from one great cliff to the other, but seen from the depths of the gorge below it seems merely a fantastic gossamer web fretting the blue sky.
It often trembles with other sounds than the reverberating mountain thunder and beneath other weight than the heavy fall of the mountain rain. Trains flash across it at all hours of the night and day; in the darkness the broad glare of the headlight and the flying column of pursuing sparks have all the scenic effect of some strange uncanny meteor, with the added emphasis of a thunderous roar and a sulphurous smell; in the sunshine there skims over it at intervals a cloud of white vapor and a swift black shadow.
“Sence they hev done sot up that thar bridge I hain’t seen a bar nor a deer in five mile down this hyar gorge. An’ the fish don’t rise nuther like they uster do. That thar racket skeers ’em.”
And the young hunter, leaning upon his rifle, his hands idly clasped over its muzzle, gazed with disapproving eyes after the flying harbinger of civilization as it sped across the airy structure and plunged into the deep forest that crowned the heights.
Civilization offered no recompense to the few inhabitants of the gorge for the exodus of deer and bear and fish. It passed swiftly far above them, seeming to traverse the very sky. They had no share in the world; the freighted trains brought them nothing—not even a newspaper wafted down upon the wind; the wires flashed no word to them. The picturesque situation of the two or three little log-houses scattered at long intervals down the ravine; the crystal clear flow of a narrow, deep stream—merely a silver thread as seen from the bridge above; the grand proportions of the towering cliffs, were calculated to cultivate the grace of imagination in the brakemen, leaning from their respective platforms; to suggest a variation in the Pullman conductor’s jaunty formula, “’Twould hurt our feelings pretty badly to fall over there, I fancy,” and to remind the out-looking passenger of the utter loneliness of the vast wilds penetrated by the railroad. But they left no speculations behind them. The terrible sense of the inconceivable width of the world was spared the simple-minded denizens of the woods. The clanging, crashing trains came like the mountain storms, no one knew whence, and went no one knew whither. The universe lay between the rocky walls of the ravine. Even this narrow stage had its drama.
In the depths of the chasm spanned by the bridge there stood in the shadow of one of the great cliffs a forlorn little log hut, so precariously perched on the ledgy slope that it might have seemed the nest of some strange bird rather than a human habitation. The huge natural column of the crag rose sheer and straight two hundred feet above it, but the descent from the door, though sharp and steep, was along a narrow path leading in zigzag windings amid great bowlders and knolls of scraggy earth, pushing their way out from among the stones that sought to bury them, and fragments of the cliff fallen long ago and covered with soft moss. The path appeared barely passable for man, but upon it could have been seen the imprint of a hoof, and beside the hut was a little shanty, from the rude window of which protruded a horse’s head, with so interested an expression of countenance that he looked as if he were assisting at the conversation going on out-of-doors this mild March afternoon.
“Ye could find deer, an’ bar, an’ sech, easy enough ef ye would go arter ’em,” replied the young hunter’s mother, as she sat in the doorway knitting a yarn sock. “That thar still-house up yander ter the Ridge hev skeered off the deer an’ bar fur ye worse’n the railroad hev. Ye kin git that fur an’ no furder. Ye hev done got triflin’ an’ no ’count, an’ nuthin’ else in this worl’ ails ye,—nur the deer an’ bar, nuther,” she concluded, with true maternal candor.
“It war tole ter me,” said an elderly man, who was seated in a rush-bottomed chair outside the door, and who, although a visitor, bore a lance in this domestic controversy with much freedom and spirit, “ez how ye hed done got religion up hyar ter the Baptis’ meetin’-house the last revival ez we hed. An’ I s’posed it war the truth.”
“I war convicted,” replied the young fellow, ambiguously, still leaning lazily on his rifle. He was a striking figure, remarkable for a massive proportion and muscular development, and yet not lacking the lithe, elastic curves characteristic of first youth. A dilapidated old hat crowned a shock of yellow hair, a sunburned face, far-seeing gray eyes, and an expression of impenetrable calm. His butternut suit was in consonance with the prominent ribs of his horse, the poverty-stricken aspect of the place, and the sterile soil of a forlorn turnip patch which embellished the slope to the water’s edge.
“Convicted!” exclaimed his mother, scornfully. “An’ sech goin’s-on sence! Mark never hed no religion to start with.”
“What did ye see when ye war convicted?” demanded the inquisitive guest, who spoke upon the subject of religion with the authority and asperity of an expert.
“I never seen nuthin’ much.” Mark Yates admitted the fact reluctantly.
“Then ye never hed no religion,” retorted Joel Ruggles. “I knows, ’kase I hev hed a power o’ visions. I hev viewed heaven an’ hung over hell.” He solemnly paused to accent the effect of this stupendous revelation.
There had lately come a new element into the simple life of the gorge,—a force infinitely more subtle than that potency of steam which was wont to flash across the railroad bridge; of further reaching influences than the wide divergences of the civilization it spread in its swift flight. Naught could resist this force of practical religion applied to the workings of daily life. The new preacher that at infrequent intervals visited this retired nook had wrought changes in the methods of the former incumbent, who had long ago fallen into the listless apathy of old age, and now was dead. His successor came like a whirlwind, sweeping the chaff before him—a humble man, ignorant, poor in this world’s goods, and of meager physical strength. It was in vain that the irreverent sought to bring ridicule upon him, that he was called a “skimpy saint” in reference to his low stature, “the widow’s mite,” a sly jest at the hero-worship of certain elderly relicts in his congregation, a “two-by-four text” to illustrate his slim proportions. He was armed with the strength of righteousness, and it sufficed.
It was much resented at first that he carried his spiritual supervision into the personal affairs of those of his charge, and required that they should make these conform to their outward profession. And thus old feuds must needs be patched up, old enemies forgiven, restitution made, and the kingdom set in order as behooves the domain of a Prince of Peace. The young people especially were greatly stirred, and Mark Yates, who had never hitherto thought much of such subjects, had experienced an awakening of moral resolve, and had even appeared one day at the mourners’ bench.
Thus he had once gone up to be prayed for, “convicted of sin,” as the phrase goes in those secluded regions. But the sermons were few, for the intervals were long between the visitations of the little preacher, and Mark’s conscience had not learned the art of holding forth with persistence and pertinence, which spiritual eloquence (not always welcome) is soon acquired by a receptive, sensitive temperament. Mark was cheerful, light-hearted, imaginative, adaptable. The traits of the wilder, ruder element of the district, the hardy courage, the physical prowess, the adventurous escapades appealed to his sense of the picturesque as no merit of the dull domestic boor, content with the meager agricultural routine, tamed by the endless struggle with work and unalterable poverty, could stir him. He had no interest in defying the law and shared none of the profits, but the hair-breadth escapes of certain illicit distillers hard by, their perpetual jeopardy, the ingenuity of their wily devices to evade discovery by the revenue officers and yet supply all the contiguous region, the cogency of their arguments as to the injustice of the taxation that bore so heavily upon the small manufacturer, their moral posture of resisting and outwitting oppression—all furnished abundant interest to a mind alert, capable, and otherwise unoccupied.
Not so blunt were his moral perceptions, however, that he did not secretly wince when old Joel Ruggles, after meditating silently, chewing his quid of tobacco, reverted from the detail of the supposed spiritual wonders, which in his ignorance he fancied he had seen, to the matter in hand:
“Hain’t you-uns hearn ’bout the sermon ez the preacher hev done preached agin that thar still?—he called it a den o’ ’niquity.”
“I hearn tell ’bout’n it yander ter the still,” replied Mark, calmly. “They ’lowed thar ez they hed a mind ter pull him down out’n the pulpit fur his outdaciousness, ’kase they war all thar ter the meetin’-house, an’ he seen ’em, an’ said what he said fur them ter hear.” He paused, a trifle uncomfortable at the suggestion of violence. Then reassuring himself by a moment’s reflection, he went on in an off-hand way, “I reckon they ain’t a-goin’ ter do nuthin’ agin him, but he hed better take keer how he jows at them still folks. They air a hard-mouthed generation, like the Bible says, an’ they hev laid off ter stop that thar talk o’ his’n.”
“Did ye hear ’em sayin’ what they war a-aimin’ ter do?” asked Ruggles, keenly inquisitive.
“’Tain’t fer me ter tell what I hearn whilst visitin’ in other folkses’ houses,” responded the young fellow, tartly. “But I never hearn ’em say nuthin’ ’ceptin’ they war a-goin’ ter try ter stop his talk,” he added. “I tells ye that much ’kase ye’ll be a-thinkin’ I hearn worse ef I don’t. That air all I hearn ’em say ’bout’n it. An’ I reckon they don’t mean nuthin’, but air talkin’ big whilst mad ’bout’n it. They air ’bleeged ter know thar goin’s-on ain’t fitten fur church members.”
“An’ ye a-jowin’ ’bout’n a hard-mouthed generation,” interposed his mother, indignantly. “Ye’re one of ’em yerself. Thar hain’t been a bite of wild meat in this hyar house fur a month an’ better. Mark hev’ mighty nigh tucken ter live at the still; an’ when he kin git hisself up to the p’int o’ goin’ a-huntin’, ’pears like he can’t find nuthin’ ter shoot. I hev hearn a sayin’ ez thar is a use fur every livin’ thing, an’ it ’pears ter me ez Mark’s use air mos’ly ter waste powder an’ lead.”
Mark received these sarcasms with an imperturbability which might in some degree account for their virulence and, indeed, Mrs. Yates often averred that, say what she might, she could not “move that thar boy no more’n the mounting.”
He shifted his position a trifle, still leaning, however, upon the rifle, with his clasped hands over the muzzle and his chin resting on his hands. The quiet radiance of a smile was beginning to dawn in his clear eyes as he looked at his interlocutors, and he spoke with a confidential intonation:
“The las’ meetin’ but two ez they hev hed up yander ter the church they summonsed them thar Brices ter ’count fur runnin’ of a still, an’ a-gittin’ drunk, an’ sech, an’ the Brices never come, nor tuk no notice nor nuthin’. An’ then the nex’ meetin’ they tuk an’ turned ’em out’n the church. An’ when they hearn ’bout that at the still, them Brices—the whole lay-out—war pipin’ hot ’bout’n it. Thar warn’t nare member what voted fur a-keepin’ of ’em in; an’ that stuck in ’em, too—all thar old frien’s a-goin’ agin ’em! I s’pose ’twar right ter turn ’em out,” he added, after a reflective pause, “though thar is them ez war a-votin’ agin them Brices ez hev drunk a powerful lot o’ whisky an’ sech in thar lifetime.”
“Thar will be a sight less whisky drunk about hyar ef that small-sized preacher-man kin keep up the holt he hev tuk on temperance sermons,” said Mrs. Yates a trifle triumphantly. Then with a clouding brow: “I could wish he war bigger. I ain’t faultin’ the ways o’ Providence in nowise, but it do ’pear ter me ez one David and G’liath war enough fur the tales o’ religion ’thout hevin’ our own skimpy leetle shepherd and the big Philistines of the distillers at loggerheads—whenst flat peebles from the brook would be a mighty pore dependence agin a breech-loading rifle. G’liath’s gun war more’n apt ter hev been jes’ a old muzzle-loader, fur them war the times afore the war fur the Union; but these hyar moonshiners always hev the best an’ newest shootin’-irons that Satan kin devise—not knowin’ when some o’ the raiders o’ the revenue force will kem down on ’em—an’ that makes a man keen ter be among the accepted few in the new quirks o’ firearms. A mighty small man the preacher-man ’pears ter be! If it war the will o’ Providence I could wish fur a few more pounds o’ Christian pastor, considering the size an’ weight ez hev been lavished on them distillers.”
“It air scandalous fur a church member ter be a gittin’ drunk an’ foolin’ round the still-house an’ sech,” said Joel Ruggles, “an’ ef ye hed ever hed any religion, Mark, ye’d hev knowed that ’thout hevin’ ter be told.”
“An’ it’s scandalous fur a church member to drink whisky at all,” said Mrs. Yates, sharply, knitting off her needle, and beginning another round. A woman’s ideas of reform are always radical.
Joel Ruggles did not eagerly concur in this view of the abstinence question; he said nothing in reply.
“Thar hain’t sech a mighty call ter drink whisky yander ter the still,” remarked young Yates, irrelevantly, feeling perhaps the need of a plea of defense. “It ain’t the whisky ez draws me thar. The gang air a-hangin’ round an’ a-talkin’ an’ a-laughin’ an’ a-tellin’ tales ’bout bar-huntin’ an’ sech. An’ thar’s the grist mill a haffen mile an’ better through the woods.”
“Thar’s bad company at the still, an’ it’s a wild beast ez hev got a fang ez bites sharp an’ deep, an’ some day ye’ll feel it, ez sure ez ye’re a born sinner,” said Mrs. Yates, looking up solemnly at him over her spectacles. “I never see no sense in men a-drinkin’ of whisky,” she continued, after a pause, during which she counted her stitches. “The wild critters in the woods hev got more reason than ter eat an’ drink what’ll pizen ’em—but, law! it always did ’pear to me ez they war ahead in some ways of the men, what kin talk an’ hev got the hope of salvation.”
This thrust was neither parried nor returned. Joel Ruggles, discreetly silent, gazed with a preoccupied air at the swift stream flowing far below, beginning to darken with the overhanging shadows of the western crags. And Mark still leaned his chin meditatively on his hands, and his hands on the muzzle of his rifle, in an attitude so careless that an unaccustomed observer might have been afraid of seeing the piece discharged and the picturesque head blown to atoms.
Through the futility of much remonstrance his mother had lost her patience—no great loss, it might seem, for in her mildest days she had never been meek. Poverty and age, and in addition her anxiety concerning a son now grown to manhood, good and kind in disposition, but whose very amiability rendered him so lax in his judgment of the faults of others as to slacken the tension of his judgment of his own faults, and whose stancher characteristics were manifested only in an adamantine obstinacy to her persuasion—all were ill-calculated to improve her temper and render her optimistic, and she had had no training in the wider ways of life to cultivate tact and knowledge of character and methods of influencing it. Doubtless the “skimpy saint” in the enlightenment of his vocation would have approached the subject of these remonstrances in a far different spirit, for Mark was plastic to good suggestions, easily swayed, and had no real harm in him. He understood, too, the merit and grace of consistency, of being all of a piece with his true identity, with his real character, with the sterling values he most appreciated. But the quality that rendered him so susceptible to good influences—his adaptability—exposed him equally to adverse temptation. He had spoken truly when he had said that it was only the interest of the talk of the moonshiners and their friends—stories of hunting fierce animals in the mountain fastnesses, details of bloody feuds between neighboring families fought out through many years with varying vicissitudes, and old-time traditions of the vanished Indian, once the master of all the forests and rocks and rivers of these ancient wilds—and not the drinking of whisky, that allured him; far less the painful and often disgusting exhibitions of drunkenness he occasionally witnessed at the still, in which those sufficiently sober found a source of stupid mirth. Afterward it seemed to him strange to reflect on his course. True he had had but a scanty experience of life and the world, and the parson’s reading from the Holy Scriptures was his only acquaintance with what might be termed literature or learning in any form. But arguing merely from what he knew he risked much. From the pages of the Bible he had learned what the leprosy was, and what, he asked himself in later years, would he have thought of the mental balance of a man who frequented the society of a leper for the sake of transitory entertainment or mirth to be derived from his talk? In the choice stories of “bar” and “Injuns,” innocent in themselves, he must needs risk the moral contagion of this leprosy of the soul.
Nevertheless he was intent now on escaping from his mother and Joel Ruggles, since it was growing late and he knew the cronies would soon be gathered around the big copper at the still-house, and he welcomed the diversion of a change of the subject. It had fallen upon the weather—the most propitious times of plowing and planting; an earnest confirmation of the popular theory that to bring a crop potatoes and other tubers must be planted in the dark of the moon, and leguminous vegetables, peas, beans, etc., in the light of the moon. Warned by the lengthening shadows, Joel Ruggles broke from the pacific discussion of these agricultural themes, rose slowly from his chair, went within to light his pipe at the fire, and with this companion wended his way down the precipitous slope, then along the rocky banks of the stream to his own little home, half a mile or so up its rushing current.
As he went he heard Mark’s clear voice lifted in song further down the stream. He had hardly noted when the young fellow had withdrawn from the conversation. It was a mounted shadow that he saw far away among the leafy shadows of the oaks and the approaching dusk. Mark had slipped off and saddled his half-broken horse, Cockleburr, and was doubtless on his way to his boon companions at the distillery.
The old man stood still, leaning on his stick, as he silently listened to the song, the sound carrying far on the placid medium of the water and in the stillness of the evening.
“O, call the dogs—Yo he!—Yo ho!
Boone and Ranger, Wolf an’ Beau,
Little Bob-tail an’ Big Dew-claw,
Old Bloody-Mouth an’ Hanging Jaw.
Ye hear the hawns?—Yo he!—Yo ho!
They all are blowin’, so far they go,
With might an’ main, for the trail is fresh,
A big bear’s track in the aidge o’ the bresh!”
“Yo he! yo ho!” said the river faintly. “Yo he! yo ho!” said the rocks more faintly; and fainter still from the vague darkness came an echo so slight that it seemed as near akin to silence as to sound, barely impinging upon the air. “Yo he! yo ho!” it murmured.
But old Joel Ruggles, standing and listening, silently shook his head and said nothing.
“Yo he! yo ho!” sung Mark, further away, and the echoes of his boyish voice still rang vibrant and clear.
Then there was no sound but the stir of the river and the clang of the iron-shod hoofs of Cockleburr, striking the stones in the rocky bridle-path. The flint gave out a flash of light, the yellow spark glimmering for an instant, visible in the purple dusk with a transitory flicker like a firefly.
And old Joel Ruggles once more shook his head.