by B. F. Craig
SCENE SIXTH.--THE SECOND GENERATION.
````The son may wear the father’s crown,
````When the gray old father’s dead;
````May wear his shoe, and wear his gown,
````But he can never wear his head.=
|How few realize that we are so swiftly passing away, and giving ourplaces on earth, to new men and women.
Tramp, tramp, tramp, and on we go, from the cradle to the grave, withoutstopping to reflect, that an old man is passing away every hour, and anew one taking his place.
Like drops of rain, descending upon the mountains, and hurrying down toform the great river, running them off to the ocean, and then returningin the clouds. The change is almost imperceptible.
New men come upon the stage of life as it were unobserved, and old onespass away in like manner, and thus the great river of life flows on.Were the change sudden, and all at once, it would shock the philosophyof the human race. A few men live to witness the rise and fall of twogenerations. Long years have intervened and the characters portrayed inthe preceding part of our story, have all passed away.
Some of their descendants come upon the stage to fight the great battleof life.
Young Simon will first claim our attention; he is the only son of S. S.Simon by a second wife, his mother is dead, and Young Simon is heir to alarge estate.
The decade from eighteen hundred and forty to eighteen hundred andfifty, is, perhaps, the most interesting decade in the history of thesettlement and progress of the Western States.
In that era, the great motive power of our modern civilization, the ironhorse and the magnetic telegraph were put into successful operation,across the broad and beautiful Western States.
The history of the West and Southwest in the first half of thenineteenth century, is replete with romance, or with truth stranger thanfiction. The sudden rise of a moneyed aristocracy in the West, furnishesa theme for the pen of a historian of no mean ability.
This American aristocracy, diverse from the aristocracy of the oldworld, who stimulated by family pride, preserved the history of a longline of ancestors, born to distinction, and holding the tenure of officeby inheritance, could trace the heroic deeds of their fathers back tothe dark ages, while some of our American aristocrats are unable to givea true history of their grandfather.
In the first half of the nineteenth century the cultivation of the cottonplant in the Southern States assumed gigantic proportions. The NorthernStates bartered their slaves for money, and the forest of the greatMississippi river fell by the ax of the colored man; salvation from the_demons of want_ was preached by the nigger and the mule.
Young Simon was a cotton planter, inheriting from his father fourplantations of one thousand acres, and more than six hundred slaves.
Young Simon knew very little of the history of his family, and themore he learned of it, the less he wanted to know. His father in hislifetime, had learned the history of Roxie Daymon alias Roxie Fairfield,up to the time she left Louisville, and had good reason to believethat Roxie Daymon, or her descendants, also Suza Fairfield, or herdescendants still survived. But as we have said, S. S. Simon stood inthe half-way-house, between the honest man and the rogue. He reflectedupon the subject mathematically, as he said mentally, “Twenty thousanddollars and twenty years interest--why! it would break me up; I wish todie a _rich man_.”
And onward he strove, seasoned to hardship in early life, he slept butlittle, the morning bell upon his plantations sounded its iron notes upand down the Mississippi long before daylight every morning, that theslaves might be ready to resume their work as soon as they could see.Simon’s anxiety to die a _rich man_ had so worked upon his feelings fortwenty years, that he was a hard master and a keen financier.
The time to die never entered his brain; for it was all absorbedwith the _die rich_ question. Unexpectedly to him, death’s white faceappeared when least expected, from hard work, and exposure, S. S. Simonwas taken down with the _swamp fever_; down--down--down for a few daysand then the _crisis_, the last night of his suffering was terrible, theattending physician and his only son stood by his bedside. All night hewas delirious, everything he saw was in the shape of Roxie Daymon,every movement made about the bed, the dying man would cry, “_Take RoxieDaymon away._”
Young Simon was entirely ignorant of his father’s history--and the name_Roxie Daymon_ made a lasting impression on his brain. Young Simon grewup without being inured to any hardships, and his health was not good,for he soon followed his father; during his short life he had everythingthat heart could desire, except a family name and good health, the lackof which made him almost as poor as the meanest of his slaves.
Young Simon received some comfort in his last days from his cousinCæsar. Cæsar Simon was the son of the brother of S. S. Simon who died inearly life, leaving three children in West Tennessee. Cousin Cæsar wasraised by two penniless sisters, whom he always called “big-sis” and“little-sis.” “Big-sis” was so called from being the eldest, and had thecare of cousin Cæsar’s childhood. Cousin Cæsar manifested an imaginaryturn of mind in early childhood. He was, one day, sitting on his littlestool, by the side of the tub in which “big-sis” was washing, (for shewas a washer-woman,) gazing intently upon the surface of the water.“What in the world are you looking at C-a-e-s-a-r?” said the woman,straightening up in astonishment.
“Looking at them bubbles on the suds,” said the boy, gravely.
“And what of the bubbles?” continued the woman.
“I expected to see one of them burst into a l-o-a-f of b-r-e-a-d,” saidthe child honestly.
“Big-sis” took cousin Cæsar to the fire, went to the cupboard and cuther last loaf of bread, and spread upon it the last mouthful of buttershe had in the world, and gave it cousin Cæsar.
And thus he received his first lesson of reward for imagination which,perhaps, had something to do with his after life.
Cousin Cæsar detested work, but had a disposition to see the bottom ofeverything. No turkey-hen or guinea fowl could make a nest that cousinCæsar could not find. He grew up mischievous, so much so that “big-sis” would occasionally thrash him. He would then run off and live with“little-sis” until “little-sis” would better the instruction, for shewould whip also. He would then run back to live with “big-sis.” In thisway cousin Cæsar grew to thirteen years of age--too big to whip. Hethen went to live with old Smith, who had a farm on the Tennessee river,containing a large tract of land, and who hired a large quantityof steam wood cut every season. Rob Roy was one of old Smith’s woodcutters--a bachelor well advanced in years, he lived alone in a cabinmade of poles, on old Smith’s land. His sleeping couch was made withthree poles, running parallel with the wall of the cabin, and filledwith straw. He never wore any stockings and seldom wore a coat, winteror summer. The furniture in his cabin consisted of a three-legged stool,and a pine goods box. His ax was a handsome tool, and the only thing healways kept brightly polished. He was a good workman at his professionof cutting wood. No one knew anything of his history. He was a man thatseldom talked; he was faithful to work through the week, but spentthe Sabbath day drinking whisky. He went to the village every Saturdayevening and purchased one gallon of whisky, which he carried in a stonejug to his cabin, and drank it all himself by Monday morning, when hewould be ready to go to work again. Old Rob Roy’s habits haunted themind of cousin Cæsar, and he resolved to play a trick Upon the oldwood cutter. Old Smith had some _hard cider_ to which cousin Cæsar hadaccess. One lonesome Sunday cousin Cæsar stole Roy’s jug half fullof whisky, poured the whisky out, re-filled the jug with cider, andcautiously slipped it back into Roy’s cabin. On Monday morning Rob Royrefused to work, and was very mad. Old Smith demanded to know thecause of the trouble. “You can’t fool a man with _cider_ who lovesgood _whisky_,” said Roy indignantly. Old Smith traced the trick up anddischarged cousin Cæsar.
At twenty years of age we find Cousin Cæsar in Paducah, Kentucky,calling himself Cole Conway, in company with one Steve Sha
rp--they werepartners--in the game, as they called it. In the back room of a saloon,dimly lighted, one dark night, another party, more proficient in thesleight of hand, had won the last dime in their possession. The time hadcome to close up. The sun had crossed the meridian on the other side ofthe globe. Cole Conway and Steve Sharp crawled into an old straw shed,in the suburbs, of the village, and were soon soundly sleeping. Thesun had silvered the old straw shed when Sharp awakened, and saw Conwaysitting up, as white as death’s old horse. “What on earth is the matter,Conway?” said Sharp, inquiringly.
“I slumbered heavy in the latter end of night, and had a brilliantdream, and awoke from it, to realize this old straw shed doth effectme,” said Conway gravely. “The dream! the dream!” demanded Sharp. “Idreamed that we were playing cards, and I was dealing out the deck; thelast card was mine, and it was very thick. Sharp, it looked like abox, and with thumb and finger I pulled it open. In it there werethree fifty-dollar gold pieces, four four-dollar gold pieces, and tenone-dollar gold pieces. I put the money in my pocket, and was listeningfor you to claim half, as you purchased the cards. You said nothing morethan that ‘them cards had been put up for men who sell prize cards.’ Itook the money out again, when lo, and behold! one of the fifty-dollarpieces had turned to a rule about eight inches long, hinged in themiddle. Looking at it closely I saw small letters engraved upon it,which I was able to read--you know, Sharp, I learned to read by spellingthe names on steamboats--or that is the way I learned the letters of thealphabet. The inscription directed me to a certain place, and there Iwould find a steam carriage that could be run on any common road wherecarriages are drawn by horses. We went, and found the carriage. It wasa beautiful carriage--with highly finished box--on four wheels, the boxwas large enough for six persons to sit on the inside. The pilot satupon the top, steering with a wheel, the engineer, who was also fireman,and the engine, sat on the aft axle, behind the passenger box. The wholestructure was very light, the boiler was of polished brass, and sat uponend. The heat was engendered by a chemical combination of phosphorusand tinder. The golden rule gave directions how to run the engine--bymy directions, Sharp, you was pilot and I was engineer, and we startedsouth, toward my old home. People came running out from houses andfields to see us pass I saw something on the beautiful brass boiler thatlooked like a slide door. I shoved it, and it slipped aside, revealingthe dial of a clock which told the time of day, also by a separate handand figures, told the speed at which the carriage was running. On theright hand side of the dial I saw the figures 77. They were made ofIndia rubber, and hung upon two brass pins. I drew the slide door overthe dial except when I wished to look at the time of day, or the rate ofspeed at which we were running, and every time I opened the door, oneof the figure 7’s had fallen off the pin. I would replace it, and againfind it fallen off. So I concluded it was only safe to run seven milesan hour, and I regulated to that speed. In a short time, I looked again,and we were running at the rate of fifteen miles an hour. I knew that Ihad not altered the gauge of steam. A hissing sound caused me to thinkthe water was getting low in the boiler. On my left I saw a brass handlethat resembled the handle of a pump. I seized it and commenced work. Icould hear the bubbling of the water. I look down at the dry road, andsaid, mentally, ‘no water can come from there.’ Oh! how I trembled. Itso frightened me that I found myself wide awake.”
“Dreams are but eddies in the current of the mind, which cut off fromreflection’s gentle stream, sometimes play strange, fantastic tricks.I have tumbled headlong down from high and rocky cliffs; cold-bloodedsnakes have crawled ‘round my limbs; the worms that eat throughdead men’s flesh, have crawled upon my skin, and I have dreamed oftransportation beyond the shores of time. My last night’s dream hoistedme beyond my hopes, to let me fall and find myself in this d----oldstraw shed.”
“The devil never dreams,” said Sharp, coolly, and then continued:“Holy men of old dreamed of the Lord, but never of the devil, and tounderstand a dream, we must be just to all the world, and to ourselvesbefore God.”
“I have a proposition to make to you, Conway?
“_What?_” said Conway, eagerly.
“If you will tell me in confidence, your true name and history, I willgive you mine,” said Sharp, emphatically. “Agreed,” said Conway, andthen continued, “as you made he proposition give us yours first.
“My name is Steve Brindle. My father was called Brindle Bill, and oncelived in Shirt-Tail Bend, on the Mississippi. He died in the stateprison. My mother was a sister of Sundown Hill, who lived in the sameneighborhood. My father and mother were never married. So you see, I am acome by-chance, and I have been going by chance all of my life. Now, Ihave told you the God’s truth, so far as I know it. Now make a cleanbreast of it, Conway, and let us hear your pedigree,” said Brindle,confidentially.
“I was born in Tennessee. My father’s name was Cæsar Simon, and I bearhis name. My mother’s name was Nancy Wade. I do not remember either ofthem I was partly raised by my sisters, and the balance of the time Ihave tried to raise myself, but it seems it will take me a Iong timeto _make a raise_--” at this point, Brindle interfered in breathlesssuspense, with the inquiry, “Did you have an uncle named S. S. Simon?”
“I have heard my sister say as much,” continued Simon.
“Then your dream is interpreted,” said Brindle, emphatically. “YourUncle, S. S. Simon, has left one of the largest estates in Arkansas,and now you are on the steam wagon again,” said Brindle, slapping hiscompanion on the shoulder.
Brindle had been instructed by his mother, and made Cousin Cæsaracquainted with the outline of all the history detailed in thisnarrative, except the history of Roxie Daymon _alias_ Roxie Fairfield,in Chicago.
The next day the two men were hired as hands to go down the river on aflat-bottom boat.
Roxie Daymon, whose death has been recorded, left an only daughter, nowgrown to womanhood, and bearing her mother’s name. Seated in the parlorof one of the descendants of Aunt Patsy Perkins, in Chicago, we see hersad, and alone; we hear the hall bell ring. A servant announces the nameof Gov. Morock. “Show the Governor up,” said Roxie, sadly. The ever openear of the Angel of observation has only furnished us with the followingconversation:
“Everything is positively lost, madam, not a cent in the world. Everycase has gone against us, and no appeal, madam. You are left hopelesslydestitute, and penniless. Daymon should have employed me ten yearsago--but now, it is too late. Everything is gone, madam,” and theGovernor paused. “My mother was once a poor, penniless girl, and I canbear it too,” said Roxie, calmly. “But you see,” said the Governor,softening his voice; “you are a handsome young lady; your fortune is yetto be made. For fifty dollars, madam, I can fix you up a _shadow_, thatwill marry you off. You see the law has some _loop holes_ and--and inyour case, madam, it is no harm to take one; no harm, no harm, madam,” and the Governor paused again. Roxie looked at the man sternly, andsaid: “I have no further use for a lawyer, Sir.”
“Any business hereafter, madam, that you may wish transacted, send yourcard to No. 77, Strait street,” and the Governor made a side move towardthe door, touched the rim of his hat and disappeared.
It was in the golden month of October, and calm, smoky days ofIndian summer, that a party of young people living in Chicago, madearrangements for a pleasure trip to New Orleans. There were four or fiveyoung ladies in the party, and Roxie Daymon was one. She was handsomeand interesting--if her fortune _was gone_. The party consisted of themoneyed aristocracy of the city, with whom Roxie had been raised andeducated. Every one of the party was willing to contribute and payRoxie’s expenses, for the sake of her company. A magnificent steamer, ofthe day, plying between St. Louis and New Orleans, was selected forthe carrier, three hundred feet in length, and sixty feet wide. Thepassenger cabin was on the upper deck, nearly two hundred feet inlength; a guard eight feet wide, for a footway, and promenade on theoutside of the hall, extended on both sides, the fall length of thecabin; a plank partition divided t
he long hall--the aft room was theladies’, the front the gentlemen’s cabin. The iron horse, or some ofhis successors, will banish these magnificent floating palaces, and Idescribe, for the benefit of coming generations.
Nothing of interest occured to our party, until the boat landed at theSimon plantations. Young Simon and cousin Cæsar boarded the boat, forpassage to New Orleans, for they were on their way to the West Indies,to spend the winter. Young Simon was in the last stage of consumptionand his physician had recommended the trip as the last remedy. YoungSimon was walking on the outside guard, opposite the ladies’ cabin, whena female voice with a shrill and piercing tone rang upon his ear--“_TakeRoxie Daymon away_.” The girls were romping.--“Take Roxie Daymon away,” were the mysterious dying words of young Simon’s father. Simon turned,and mentally bewildered, entered the gentlemen’s cabin. A colored boy,some twelve years of age, in the service of the boat, was passing--Simonheld a silver dollar in his hand as he said, “I will give you this, ifyou will ascertain and point out to me the lady in the cabin, that theycall _Roxie Daymon_.” The imp of Africa seized the coin, and passing onsaid in a voice too low for Simon’s ear, “good bargain, boss.” The RomanEagle was running down stream through the dark and muddy waters of theMississippi, at the rate of twenty miles an hour.
In the dusk of the evening, Young Simon and Roxie Daymon were sittingside by side--alone, on the aft-guard of the boat. The ever open earof the Angel of observation has furnished us with the followingconversation..
“Your mother’s maiden name, is what I am anxious to learn,” said Simongravely.
“Roxie Fairfield, an orphan girl, raised in Kentucky,” said Roxie sadly.
“Was she an only child, or did she have sisters?” said Simoninquiringly.
“My mother died long years ago--when I was too young to remember,my father had no relations--that I ever heard of--Old aunt PatseyPerkins--a great friend of mother’s in her life-time, told me aftermother was dead, and I had grown large enough to think about kinsfolk,that mother had two sisters somewhere, named Rose and Suza, _poortrash_, as she called them; and that is all I know of my relations: andto be frank with you, I am nothing but poor trash too, I have no familyhistory to boast of,” said Roxie honestly.
“You will please excuse me Miss, for wishing to know something of yourfamily history--there is a mystery connected with it, that may proveto your advantage”--Simon was _convinced_.--He pronounced theword twenty--when the Angel of caution placed his finger on hislip--_hush!_--and young Simon turned the conversation, and as soon ashe could politely do so, left the presence of the young lady, and soughtcousin Cæsar, who by the way, was well acquainted with the most of thecircumstances we have recorded, but had wisely kept them to himself.Cousin Cæsar now told young Simon the whole story.
Twenty-thousand dollars, with twenty years interest, was against hisestate. Roxie Daymon, the young lady on the boat, was an heir, otherslived in Kentucky--all of which cousin Cæsar learned from a descendantof Brindle Bill. The pleasure party with Simon and cousin Cæsar, stoppedat the same hotel in the Crescent City. At the end of three weeks thepleasure party returned to Chicago. Young Simon and cousin Cæsar leftfor the West Indies.--Young Simon and Roxie Daymon were engaged to bemarried the following spring at Chicago. Simon saw many beautiful womenin his travels--but the image of Roxie Daymon was ever before him. Thegood Angel of observation has failed to inform us, of Roxie Daymon’sfeelings and object in the match. A young and beautiful woman; full oflife and vigor consenting to wed a dying man, _hushed_ the voice of thegood Angel, and he has said nothing.
Spring with its softening breezes returned--the ever to be rememberedspring of 1861.
The shrill note of the iron horse announced the arrival of young Simonand cousin Cæsar in Chicago, on the 7th day of April, 1861.
Simon had lived upon excitement, and reaching the destination of hishopes--the great source of his life failed--cousin Cæsar carriedhim into the hotel--he never stood alone again--the marriage was putoff--until Simon should be better. On the second day, cousin Cæsar waspreparing to leave the room, on business in a distant part of the city.Roxie had been several times alone with Simon, and was then present.Roxie handed a sealed note to cousin Cæsar, politely asking him todeliver it. The note was inscribed, Gov. Morock, No. 77 Strait street.
Cousin Cæsar had been absent but a short time, when that limb of the lawappeared and wrote a will dictated by young Simon; bequeathing allof his possessions, without reserve to Roxie Daymon. “How much,” saidRoxie, as the Governor was about to leave. “Only ten dollars, madam,” said the Governor, as he stuffed the bill carelessly in his vest pocketand departed.
Through the long vigils of the night cousin Cæsar sat by the side of thedying man; before the sun had silvered the eastern horizon, the soulof young Simon was with his fathers. The day was consumed in makingpreparations for the last, honor due the dead. Cousin Cæsar arrangedwith a party to take the remains to Arkansas, and place the son by theside of the father, on the home plantation. The next morning as cousinCæsar was scanning the morning papers, the following brief noticeattracted his attention: “Young Simon, the wealthy young cotton planter,who died in the city yesterday, left by his last will and testament hiswhole estate, worth more than a million of dollars, to Roxie Daymon, ayoung lady of this city.”
Cousin Cæsar was bewildered and astonished. He was a stranger in thecity; he rubbed his hand across his forehead to collect his thoughts,and remembered No. 77 Strait street. “Yes I observed it--it is alaw office,” he said mentally, “there is something in that numberseventy-seven, I have never understood it before, since my dream on thesteam carriage _seventy-seven_,” and cousin Cæsar directed his stepstoward Strait street.
“Important business, I suppose sir,” said Governor Mo-rock, as he readcousin Cæsar’s anxious countenance.
“Yes, somewhat so,” said cousin Cæsar, pointing to the notice in thepaper, he continued: “I am a relative of Simon and have served himfaithfully for two years, and they say he has willed his estate to astranger.”
“Is it p-o-s-s-i-b-l-e-,” said the Governor, affecting astonishment.
“What would you advise me to do?” said cousin Cæsar imploringly.
“Break the will--break the will, sir,” said the Governor emphatically.
“Ah! that will take money,” said cousin Cæsar sadly.
“Yes, yes, but it will bring money,” said the Governor, rubbing hishands together.
“I s-u-p p-o-s-e we would be required to prove incapacity on the part ofSimon,” said cousin Cæsar slowly.
“Money will prove anything,” said the Governor decidedly.
The Governor struck the right key, for cousin Cæsar was well schooled intreacherous humanity, and noted for seeing the bottom of things; but hedid not see the bottom of the Governor’s dark designs.
“How much for this case?” said cousin Cæsar.
“Oh! I am liberal--I am liberal,” said the Governor rubbing his handsand continuing, “can’t tell exactly, owing to the trouble and cost ofthe things, as we go along. A million is the stake--well, let me see,this is no child’s play. A man that has studied for long years--youcan’t expect him to be cheap--but as I am in the habit of working fornothing--if you will pay me one thousand dollars in advance, I willundertake the case, and then a few more thousands will round itup--can’t say exactly, any more sir, than I am always liberal.”
Cousin Cæsar had some pocket-money, furnished by young Simon, to payexpenses etc., amounting to a little more than one thousand dollars. Hismind was bewildered with the number seventy-seven, and he paid over tothe Governor one thousand dollars. After Governor Morock had the moneysafe in his pocket, he commenced a detail of the cost of the suit--amongother items, was a large amount for witnesses.
The Governor had the case--it was a big case--and the Governor hasdetermined to make it pay him.
Cousin Caeser reflected, and saw that he must have help, and as he leftthe office of Governor Moro
ck, said mentally: “One of them d--n figuresevens I saw in my dream, would fall off the pin, and I fear, I havestruck the wrong lead.”
In the soft twilight of the evening, when the conductor cried, “allaboard,” cousin Cæsar was seated in the train, on his way to Kentucky,to solicit aid from Cliff Carlo, the oldest son and representative man,of the family descended from Don Carlo, the hero of Shirt-Tail Bend, andSuza Fairfield, the belle of Port William.