NEW Boston has once been the most promising of the growing cities of the West, according to some New York gentleman who constituted a land improvement company, distributed handsome maps gratis, and courted susceptible Eastern editors. Its water-power was unrivaled; ground for all desirable public buildings, and for a handsome park with ready-grown trees and a natural lake, had been securely provided for by the terms of the company’s charter; building material abounded; the water was good; the soil of unequaled fertility; while the company, with admirable forethought, had a well-stocked store on the ground, and had made arrangements to send to the town a skillful physician, and a popular preacher.
A reasonable number of colonists found their way to the ground in the pleasant Spring time, and, in spite of sundry local peculiarities not mentioned in the company’s circular, they might have remained, had not a mighty freshet, in June, driven them away, and even saved some of them the trouble of moving their houses.
When, however, most of the residences floated down the river, some of them bearing their owners on their roofs, such of the inhabitants as had money left the promised land for ever; while the others made themselves such homes as they could in the nearest settlements which were above water, and fraternized with the natives through the medium of that common bond of sympathy in the Western lowlands, the ague.
Only a single one of the original inhabitants remained, and he, although he might have chosen the best of the abandoned houses for his residence, or even the elegant but deserted “company’s store,” continued to inhabit the cabin he had built upon his arrival. The solid business men of the neighboring town of Mount Pisgah, situated upon a bluff, voted him a fool whenever his name was mentioned; but the wives of these same men, when they chanced to see old Wardelow passing by, with the wistful face he always wore, looked after him tenderly, and never lost an opportunity to speak to him kindly. When they met at tea-parties, or quilting-bees, or sewing-societies, or in other gatherings exclusively feminine, there were not a few of them who had the courage to say that the world would be better if more men were like old Wardelow.
For love seemed the sole motive of old Wardelow’s life. The cemetery which the thoughtful projectors of New Boston had presented to the inhabitants had for its only occupant the wife of old Wardelow; and she had been conveyed thereto by a husband who was both young and handsome. The freshet which had, soon afterward, swept the town, had carried with it Wardelow’s only child, a boy of seven years, who had been playing in a boat which he, in some way, unloosed.
From that day the father had found no trace of his child, yet he never ceased hoping for his return. Every steamboat captain on the river knew the old man, and the roughest of them had cheerfully replied in the affirmative when asked if they wouldn’t bring up a small boy who might some day come on board, report himself as Stevie Wardelow, and ask to be taken to New Boston.
Almost every steamboat man, from captain and pilot down to fireman and roustabout, carried and posted Wardelow’s circulars wherever they went—up Red River, the Yazoo, the White, the Arkansas, the Missouri, and all the smaller tributaries of the Mississippi.
New Boston had long been dropped from the list of post-towns, but every cross-road for miles around had a fingerboard showing the direction and telling the distance to New Boston. Upon a tall cottonwood-tree on the river-bank, and nearly in front of Wardelow’s residence, was an immense signboard bearing the name of “New Boston Landing,” and on the other side of the river, at a ferry-staging belonging to a crossing whose other terminus was a mile further down the river, was a sign which informed travelers that persons wishing to go to New Boston would find a skiff marked “Wardelow” tied near the staging.
The old man never went to Mount Pisgah for stores, or up the river to fish, or even into his own cornfield and garden, without affixing to his door a placard telling where he had gone and when he would return.
When he went to the cemetery, which he frequently did, a statement to that effect, and a plan showing the route to and through the cemetery, was always appended to his door, and, as he could never clearly imagine his boy as having passed the childhood in which he had last seen him, all the signboards, placards, and circulars were in large capital letters.
Even when the river overflowed its banks, which it did nearly every Spring, the old man did not leave his house. He would not have another story built upon it, as he was advised to do, lest Stevie might fail to recognize it on his return; but, after careful study, he had the house raised until the foundation was above high-water mark, and then had the ground made higher, but sloped so gradually that the boy could not notice the change.
When one after another of the city’s “plots,” upon which deserted houses stood, were sold for default in payment of taxes, old Wardelow bought them himself—they always went for a song, and the old man preferred to own them, lest some one else might destroy the ruins, and thus make the place unfamiliar to the returning wanderer.
THE OLD MAN NEVER LEFT HIS HOUSE WITHOUT AFFIXING TO HIS DOOR A PLACARD
TELLING WHERE HE HAD GONE AND WHEN HE WOULD RETURN.
Of friends he had almost none. Although he was intelligent, industrious, ingenious, and owned a library which passed for quite a large one in those days and in the new West, he cared to talk on only one subject, and as that was
of no particular interest to other people, and became, in the course of time, extremely stale to those who did not like it, the people of Mount Pisgah and the adjoining country did not spend more time upon old Wardelow than was required by the necessities of business.
There were a few exceptions to this rule. Old Mrs. Perry, who passed for a saint, and whose life did not belie her reputation, used to drive her old pony up to New Boston about once a month, carrying some home-made delicacy with her, and chatting sympathetically for an hour or two.
Among the Mount Pisgah merchants there was one—who had never had a child of his own—who always pressed the old man’s hand warmly, and admitted the possibility of whatever new hope Wardelow might express.
The pastors of the several churches at Mount Pisgah, however much they disagreed on doctrinal points, were in perfect accord as to the beauty of a character which was so completely under the control of a noble principle that had no promise of money in it; most of them, therefore, paid the old man professional visits, from which they generally returned with more benefit than they had conferred.
Time had rolled on as usual, in spite of Wardelow’s great sorrow. The Mexican war was just breaking out when New Boston was settled, and Wardelow’s hair was black, and Mount Pisgah was a little cluster of log huts; but when Lincoln was elected, Wardelow had been gray and called old for nearly ten years, and Mount Pisgah had quite a number of two-story residences and brick stores, and was a county town, with court-house and jail all complete.
None of the railway lines projected toward and through Mount Pisgah had been completed, however, nor had the town telegraphic communication with anywhere; so, compared with localities enjoying the higher benefits of civilization, Mount Pisgah and its surroundings constituted quite a paradise for horse-thieves.
There were still sparsely settled places, too, which needed the ministrations of the Methodist circuit-rider.
The young man who had been sent by the Southern Illinois Conference to preach the Word on the Mount Pisgah circuit was great-hearted and impetuous, and tremendously in earnest in all that he did or said; but, like all such men, he paid the penalty of being in advance of his day and generation by suffering some terrible fits of depression over the small results of his labor.
And so, following the example of most of his predecessors on the Mount Pisgah circuit, he paid many a visit to old Wardelow, to learn strength from this perfect example of patient faith.
As the circuit-rider left the old man one evening, and sought his faithful horse in the deserted barn in which he had tied him, he was somewhat astonished to find the horse unloosed, and another man quietly leading him away.
Courage and decision being among the qualities which are natural to the successful circuit-rider, he sprang at the thief and knocked him down. The operator in horse-flesh speedily regained his feet, however, and as he closed with the preacher the latter saw, under the starlight, the gleam of a knife.
Commending himself to the Lord, he made such vigorous efforts for the safety of his body that, within two or three moments, he had the thief face downward on the ground, his own knee on the thief’s back, one hand upon the thief’s neck, and in his other hand the thief’s knife. Then the circuit-rider delivered a short address.
“My sinful friend,” said he, “when two men get into such a scrape as this, and one of them is in your line of business, one or the other will have to die, and I don’t propose to be the one. I haven’t finished the work which the Master has given me to do. If you’ve any dying messages to send to anybody, I give you my word as a preacher that they shall be delivered, but you must speak quick. What’s your name?”
“I’ll give you five hundred dollars to let me off—you may holler for help and tie my hand, and——”
“No use—speak quick,” hissed the preacher—“what’s your name?”
“Stephen Wardelow,” gasped the thief.
“What!” roared the preacher, loosening his grasp, but instantly tightening it again.
“Stephen Wardelow,” replied the thief. “But I haven’t got any messages to send to anybody. I haven’t a relative in the world, and nobody would care if I was dead. I might as well go now as any time. Hit square when you do let me have it—that’s all!”
“Where’s your parents?” asked the preacher.
“Dead, I reckon,” the thief answered. “Leastways, I know mother is, and dad lived in a fever an’ aguerish place, an’ I s’pose he’s gone, too, before this.”
“Where did he live?”
“I don’t know—some new settlement somewheres in Illinois. I got lost in the river when I was a little boy, an’ was picked up by a tradin’-boat an’ sold for a nearly-white nigger—I s’pose I was pretty dark.”
There was a silence; the captive lay perfectly quiet, as if expecting the fatal blow. Suddenly a voice was heard:
“Not wishin’ to interfere in a fair fight—it’s me, parson, Sheriff Peters—not wishin’ to interfere in a fair fight, I’ve been a-lookin’ on here, where I’d tracked the thief myself, and would have grabbed him if you hadn’t been about half a minute ahead of me. And if you want to know my honest opinion—my professional opinion—it’s just this: There was stuff for a splendid sheriff spiled when you went a-preachin’. How you’d get along when it come to collectin’ taxes, I don’t know, never havin’ been at any meetin’ where you took up a collection; but when it come to an arrest, you’d be just chain-lightning ground down to a pint. The pris’ner’s yours, and so’s all the rewards that’s offered for him, though they’re not offered for a man of the name he gives. But honest, now, don’t you think there’s a chance of mitigatin’ circumstances in his case? Let’s talk it over—I’ll help you tie him so he can’t slip you.”
The sheriff lighted a pocket-lantern and placed it in a window-frame behind him, then he tied the prisoner’s feet and legs in several places, tied his hands behind his back, sat him upon the ground with his face toward the door, cocked a pistol, and then beckoned the preacher toward a corner. The sheriff opened his pocketbook and took out a paper, whispering as he did so:
“I’ve carried this as a sort of a curiosity, but it may come in handy now. Let’s see—confound it!—the poor old fellow is describing the child just as it was fifteen years ago. Oh, here’s a point or two!—’brown eyes, black hair’—oh, bully! here’s the best thing yet!—’first joint of the left fore-finger gone.’”
The sheriff snatched the light, and both men hastened to examine the prisoner’s hand. After a single glance their eyes met and each set of optics inquired of the other.
At length the sheriff remarked:
“He’s your pris’ner.”
The circuit-rider flushed and then turned pale. He took the lantern from the sheriff, turned the light full on the prisoner’s face, and said:
“Prisoner, suppose you were to find that your father was alive?”
The horse-thief replied with a piercing glance, which was full of wonder, but said not a word. A moment or two passed, and the preacher said:
“Suppose you were to find that your father was alive, and had searched everywhere for you, and that he thought of nothing but you, and was all the time hoping for your return—that he had grown old before his time, all because of his longing and sorrow for you?” The thief dropped his eyes, then his face twitched; at last he burst out crying. “Your father is alive; he isn’t far from this cabin; he’s very sick; I’ve just left him. Nothing but the sight of you will do him any good; but I think so much of him that I’d rather kill you this instant than let him know what business you’ve been in.”
“Them’s my sentiments, too,” remarked the sheriff.
“Let me see him!” exclaimed the prisoner, clasping and raising his manacled hands, while his face filled with an earnestness which was literally terrible—“let me see him, if it’s only for a few minutes! You needn’t be afraid that I’ll tell him what I am, and you won’t be mean enough to do it, if I don’t try to run away. Have mercy on me! You don’t know what it is to never have had anybody to love you, and then suddenly to find that there is some one that wants you!”
The preacher turned to the officer and said:
“I’m a law-abiding citizen, sheriff.”
And the sheriff replied:
“He’s your pris’ner.”
“Then suppose I let him go, on his promise to stick to his father for the rest of his life!”
“He’s your pris’ner,” repeated the sheriff.
“Suppose, then, I were to insist upon your taking him into custody.”
“Why, then,” said the sheriff, speaking like a man in the depths of meditation, “I would let him go myself, and—and I’d have to shoot you to save my reputation as a faithful officer.”
The preacher made a peculiar face. The prisoner exclaimed:
“Hurry, you brutes!”
The preacher said, at last:
“Let him loose.”
The sheriff removed the handcuffs, dived into his own pocket, brought out a pocket-comb and glass, and handed them to the thief; then he placed the lantern in front of him, and said:
“Fix yourself up a little. Your hat’s a miz’able one—I’ll swap with you. You’ve got to make up some cock-and-bull story now, for the old man’ll want to know everything. You might say you’d been a sheriff down South somewhere since you got away from the feller that owned you.”
The preacher paused over a knot in one of the cords on the prisoner’s legs, and said:
“Say you were a circuit-rider—that’s more near the literal truth.”
The sheriff seemed to demur somewhat, and he said, at length:
“Without meanin’ any disrespect, parson, don’t you think ’twould tickle the old man and the citizens more to think he’d been a sheriff? They wouldn’t dare to ask him so many questions then, either. And it might be onhandy for him if he was asked to preach, while a smart horse-thief has naturally got some of the p’ints of a real sheriff about him.”
“You insist upon it that he’s my prisoner,” said the preacher, tugging away at his knot, “and I insist upon the circuit-rider story. And,” continued the young man, with one mighty pull at the knot, “he’s got to be a circuit-rider, and I’m going to make one of him. Do you hear that, young man? I’m the man that’s setting you free and giving you to your father!”
“You can make anything you please out of me,” said the prisoner. “Only hurry!”
“As you say, parson,” remarked the sheriff, with admirable meekness; “he’s your prisoner, but I could make a splendid deputy out of him if you’d let him take my advice. And I’d agree to work for his nomination for my place when my term runs out. Think of what he might get to be!—there has sheriffs gone to the Legislature, and I’ve heard of one that went to Congress.”
“Circuit-riders get higher than that, sometimes,” said the preacher, leading his prisoner toward old Wardelow’s cabin; “they get as high as heaven!”
“Oh!” remarked the sheriff, and gave up the contest.
Both men accompanied the prisoner toward his father’s house. The preacher began to deliver some cautionary remarks, but the young man burst from him, threw open the door, and shouted:
“Father!”
The old man started from his bed, shaded his eyes, and exclaimed:
“Stevie!”
The father and son embraced, seeing which the sheriff proved that even sheriffs are human by snatching the circuit-rider in his arms and giving him a mighty hug.
The father recovered and lived happily. The son and the preacher fulfilled their respective promises, and the sheriff, always, on meeting either of them, so abounded in genial winks and effusive handshakings, that he nearly lost his next election by being suspected of having become religious himself.
