What’s that?
I said I’ll be happy—
I heard what you said! What you got there, Frank? You steal something? I declare, I caught you red-handed just last week—
Nothing, Mama.
Nothing, boy? I’ll hide you good if you’re lying!
She hit the porch pillar—whack!—with her broomstick.
You will not, Mama, as I live you will never beat me again, and I won’t be courting those girls you keep telling me about as I don’t wish to marry, and I’ll be happy if I never see another cow again. What I want is what I’m off to now—to see the world.
The world! What mischief’ve you got up to—
Mama, we’re going away for a spell, Frank interrupted, just like I told you we was. Now you mustn’t try to stop us—
Benjamin Franklin Tarr! To talk to your own mother so! By my sweet Jesus I’d die of shame if I ever did such a thing. And George Washington Tarr! You two little heathens’re always talking a deal of moonshine but you will not be going on no adventures when there’s farm work to get done—
But Mama, the farm aint really ours no more since—
George tugged Frank’s arm (or else they might never’ve got out of there) and the last they saw of her (as they ran pell-mell down the road, coattails flying) she was standing on the front porch and shaking her broom at the sky.
* * *
We mak it down French crick.
The upper reaches of French Creek are all meanders and oxbows through low marshland. A pole would’ve been more useful than a sweep in these parts, and Frank had to work mighty hard, plunging it into muck and heaving it free, fending off from the banks and rocks and little islets that turned out to be just hanks of weeds snagged on sunk trees. He struggled and sweated and swore up a storm.
It’s like rassling a hog, he complained.m A mad hog.
Let me try, George said.
You can’t do it, you’re too little.
Can too!
Can not. No, stop that, let go!
But Frank let George take charge and nothing bad happened. The creek was wider along here, and the water still rising, churning with brown; all he had to do was hold the middle.
One of those unaccountably warm April days when the sun beats down hard but a cloud comes along and a breeze springs up and reminds you summer’s still far off—all up and down the banks green breaking out like wildfires—sun hot on bare skin. They’d both shed shoes, coats, shirts; rolled their trousers up above their knees. George’s hair was blondish tending towards reddish (that’s his mother’s side) and a bucketful of freckles spangled all over face and chest, down his wiry arms, pretty sturdy for his age—thirteen this past November—like flecks of wheat floating on milk.
The raft slid easy round a bend.
Frank, almost three years older, was already burnt beet-red, shoulders and nose especially; dark hair and dark brows, even a few brownish wisps on his chest. He set on the crate where George’d been dangling his feet in the water; picked up the fishing wand George had dropped, cast the line into the water.
You catch anything? he asked.
Naw. No bait. Wish I got one for supper though.
Should’ve thought of that.
Should’ve thought of a lot of things. Like Mama sending Papa to fetch us back on the wagon.
He aint your papa, Frank said. And she won’t. He’s too busy in the fields, horse too.
They didn’t have a sheet-iron stove after all, because none of the oldsters believed the two of them would (or could) tote it back upriver. Instead, they’d heaped dirt in the middle of the raft, flattened the top, and ringed it with bricks too soft to build with.
Frank pried out one of the bricks and poked around with a stick. After a minute, he went Ha ha! and pulled out a squirmy thread, a red wriggler. He pinched it in half and baited his hook.
The creek’s next bend was a sharper one. George leaned into the sweep, turning them towards the inner bank, where it’d be deeper, and away from a line of rocks skirling with white. But a trick current caught hold and tugged hard—George yelped and heaved, the sweep pulled him over, would’ve pulled him clean off if he hadn’t let go. Swinging free, it knocked Frank upside the head and down he went—the fishing wand sent flying—and the raft whirled around like leaf in the wind and they were spanking straight towards those rocks and
Frank Frank Frank! George yelled
and Frank sat up and grabbed the sweep, hugged it hard against his body
and George took hold too, held on for dear life as their feet scrabbled against logs and pushed the sweep back in line and
thump thump thump went something underneath the raft and the two boys nearly fell over again
and the raft lurched and steadied, running out the far side of the bend, clear calm water ahead, the raft slowed and drifted
and it had all been really only—what? A minute? No, less. It was all over and they were fine.
The fishing wand, caught under a lash-pole, snapped free, flew wild, George grabbed at it, the line snagged his arm, yanked taut. A walleye long as his forearm flopped and flashed greenish golden. He drew it in.
Hey, look, George said. I caught a fish.
The stream now was calm as a pond. Frank sat down, leaned back against the sweep’s mount.
Boy! he said. That was a real close thing.
What’s that noise? George asked.
Because the creek’s rushing had never been that loud before.
Both boys looked downstream. The flat water ended sharp, like a picture torn in half, in a frothy white line, and the landscape further on looked to have taken a couple steps downhill.
It’s a dam! George said.
No, that’s a weir, Frank said.
You know how to deal with it?
The old guys said steer for the center.
They both took hold of the sweep, good firm grips, and braced their legs. The raft picked up speed, held a steady line towards the edge. Then they were right on it, could see the six-foot drop and the water gushing over.
The raft tilted like an upset table, shot over the weir, teetered for a horrible second, and flung down into the lower water, smack, and the whole thing going under a few inches then rising up, water gushing off the logs—
My fish my fish, get the fish! George yelped.
Frank snatched it up just in time. The sweep banged as its blade went over. The raft rocked and steadied.
The water was shallower here, and rocky, but with a deep channel, straighter than before. The sun was getting low. They could’ve kept going, it was hours till dark, but they tied up anyway, and for supper roasted their catch over a fire kindled on the brick-and-dirt hearth, and had bread and butter with a good pinch of sugar sprinkled on.
Crawling into the hut, George cracked his head on the roof-pole.
Should’ve tried the hut out fore we went, make it bigger maybe, he said.
Could’ve should’ve would’ve, Frank said.
Well it’s true.
Frank didn’t reply.
How much you think the raft’ll go for? George asked.
Hardwood goes for much as a quarter dollar the lumber foot, Frank said. You do the reckoning.
So maybe twenty dollars?
Fifty.
That true?
Frank didn’t answer.
What you going to spend yours on? George asked.
George said, In Pittsburgh, I’ll get me some maple syrup. I like syrup.
George said, And something pretty for Mama, she likes pretty things.
Go to sleep, Frank said.
What you going to spend yours on? George asked.
A new little brother, Frank said.
Huh, George said. Well, I figure we’ll have plenty for pretty much anything. Twenty-five dollars!
He sighed happily and turned over. Frank tugged some blanket back.
After a while, Frank said: I figure we made near thirty miles today.
I never been
thirty miles away from home before, George said.
No, as the river runs, I mean; maybe twelve, fifteen miles in a line.
Oh, I been twelve before.
Go to sleep.
The fire fell to ash, and the moon rose, and the day and the night were the first day.
* * *
We pas thru the oil feilds.
(What you going to spend yours on? George asked.)
French Creek runs through Wattsburg, where the East Branch joins up, and so to Union City, where the South Branch comes in, then on to Muddy Creek and a broad, westward loop through Crawford County, Meadville, Cochranton, Sugarcreek—a town, not a creek—into Venango County, and on to Franklin, where it empties into the Allegheny River.
(Best not to spend money till you got it, Frank said.)
Now the Tarr family was not among the original settlers of Greenfield Township, Pennsylvania, they were johnny-come-latelies, looking for better luck and greener fields, better than in Venango anyway, where the soil is greasy with black ooze that poisons crops and sickens livestock and belches up stink. Old Granpaps Tarr had swore he’d never leave the place his Grandpap had left the old country to find, and he never did, and he’s buried there now on a hill in Cherry Tree overlooking the abandoned farm.
(Tell me anyways, George said. Me, I’m going to buy a whole jug of maple syrup!)
After the Great Frost of June 1859, the land agent for some joint stock company back east offered more per acre than could be tilled out of it in three, four years. Papa took that cash and run with it—loaded the wagon, the horse, and both mules, and hightailed it out of the valley that the timber boom and the iron boom and the coal boom (very short) and now (oh Lord preserve us) the oil boom had left so desolate.
(I aint going to till another inch, Frank said, of that mean little farm, mortgaged out to bankers who squeeze and squeeze until they as good as own you too—
(And Mister Jay Gould comes along and emmy-doe-manes away twenty acres for his railroad but somehow you still owe money on it—
(And the money you got this year aint worth the same it was last year though it’s the very same cash notes—)
The boys couldn’t see the old farm from the raft, but they saw the abandoned derricks and rigs and pipes and tanks, and ghost towns—whole ghost cities—that come right down to the water in these parts. This stretch of French Creek is better known as Oil Creek, and they smelt the reason why way before they came to it, like something gone rotten a long time ago. Brooks and runs join the creek all along its course, but here they drained sluggish, like a man too sick to get out of bed. Trickles and seeps turned the water murky, with a green-blue-purple glisten.
(Sometimes, Frank said, when the whole world seems against you, and when they told you this and told you that and getting on your back about it, and you just got to bust out, sometimes, and go off somewheres, and see some of that wicked wide world you always hear about but never get to see just how wide or how wicked—well, that’s my plan.)
The sky was gray as an old wool blanket. No trees, no meadows, no cows or horses, no people. A few birds circled overhead, crows probably, black as coal anyhow. Heaps of slag loomed right over them, like black hills. Creosote timbers lay stacked for a railroad never built. The shard-framed windows of a burnt-out hotel glinted like rows of suspicious eyes. Taller than the hotel, a painted sign
W E L C O M E t o P I T H O
MeccaOfTheOilWorldOr8thWond
canted, its right side peeling off dingy tatters. The creekside railroad station, half-built, was topped with a slate-shingled steeple like a cockeyed dunce-cap.
(Can I go too? George asked.)
Past the ghost town, a forest of derricks tilted, some fallen, some unfinished, all bleached gray-white, like bones, and creaking and groaning in the breeze that rippled the water’s surface—all rainbowy—and fluttered the boys’ hair.
Don’t like this place, George said.
Don’t be so skeary-like, Frank said.
Something far away went bang, followed by a crash, a bunch more crack-crack-cracks, then quiet. George looked at Frank.
Must’ve been something fallen down, Frank said.
I guess, George said.
Makes you wonder.
What about?
Oh, weren’t always like this. Why people’d do it all? What for.
Cause they could, I guess.
All kinds of things I could do, but don’t.
In Indian times, it must’ve been forests and meadows, all full of bears and wolves and the like.
It was still that way when Great-Grandpaps come here.
That’s a long time ago. Before the railroads.
You bet.
Well, he brung an axe, didn’t he, and he hewed down a deal of trees, just like we did to make a raft to sell.
The slopes here aint good for fields, so would’ve been lots left.
Well, you know—money.
A mighty heap of money, and where’d it all go?
Us Tarrs got none of it.
Must’ve cost a ton of money to build all these things but they just up and left em.
Yep, hotels, streets, railroads—
Sitting there all empty.
I wonder what it was like here in those glory days! George said.
The high ridges along the creek brought dusk early. The raft drifted along, the water murmured secrets to the shore, birds started to gather on derrick-top and roof-ridge, calling, like travelers looking for the rest of their party.
What’re Mama and Papa doing now, you suppose? George asked.
That man aint your papa.
Well I wonder anyways.
Talking about waling wayward boys, Frank said.
You think?
Yup.
Well, maybe we’ll be gone long enough they’ll forget.
Probly not.
Then best we can do is not never come back, George said.
What, never?
Never.
The breeze was picking up as the sky darkened, and the creaks and moans of the abandoned works got louder. One small cloud, high up, glowed orange, like a spot rubbed clear on a foggy window.
There really ghosts in a ghost town? George asked.
Could be.
I’m not scared.
Me neither.
Just a bunch of old stuff.
Right.
Wait—you hear that?
Hear what?
Like a voice.
Naw, aint nobody there.
Something splashed the water behind them. Both boys jumped up, peered all around. Then a splash in front: a rock.
Halloo!
A little figure on the farther bank, waving both arms: Halloo, ahoy, halloo yonder watercraft, ahoy! A passenger, a paying passenger, ahoy!
* * *
We tak on the Prins of the Oil-men.
Pray to allow one to present John Washington Steele, called Johnny, also called Coal-Oil Johnny, and best known—and justly so!—as the Prince of Oil-Men. I am, of course, at your humble service, my dear boys.
The skinny old man actually bowed at them, flourished his hat.
And might this be your first venture to the Great Oil-Dorado, my dear boys?
Who are you, mister?
Ah, you find before you but a mere innocent, dragged up and enriched beyond his capacitation, and abandoned, thus ravished, to live upon his wits, such as they remain, and so far.
He looked around them in the failing light, at the raft, the shack, fry-pan, water-barrel, crates of stores.
You said something about paying, Frank said.
But of course! Of course. Fair, not to say generous, remumutation for all provision and amenity. One has yet to enjoy such, however, so logic—and we must all obey the dictions of logic, must we not?—logic propounds that no payment be yet forth-proceeding.
Huh, said George.
The Prince stepped aboard, pulled up a crate, and sat down, fussing with the tattered tails of h
is claw-hammer suit and primping his snarled collar; combed fingers through his dirty white beard, slicked ample white hair back under his hat.
To be sure, he said, one amenity that might be offered a guest would be a fit supper.
A gold dollar appeared between his fingertips. He flipped it into the air, caught it, slipped it back wherever it came from.
Huh, said Frank.
They cast off. George set to kindling a fire.
Afterwards, fingers and chin greasy (the Kings and Queens of Olde England had dined royally with but thumbs and fingers, he told them), the Prince stretched out his legs, leaned back against the crate, pillowed his head against interlocked fingers, and, looking back and forth between the two boys, sighed deeply.
George pointed at an orange glow behind the eastern ridge.
What’s that over yonder? he asked.
Ah, my dear boys, thereon lies a tale indeed.
The Prince licked his lips.
I propose now to fiddle for my vittles, as our forebears used to say, with an entertainment like unto those of the bards of yore. You know what bards are? Poets, like.
A True Tale
Told By A Prince-In-Exile (Alas!)
To A Pair Of Beggarly Paupers
Well, he began, all this hereabouts is the Oil Country, wealth and richness buried underground, and for many long years aslumber. One day, that being August 28th, 1859, a fellow name of Colonel Drake came to Venango and he said:
—Let there be drilling!
And it was even so. And the wells were named: McClintock Number One, Fox, Queen of the Bluff, Fox (again), John Buchanan Reserve (at the mighty boomtown called Tarr Farm, the richest part of a rich tract), Swamp Angel, Dry Hole Well Number 154 (now, that speaks to perseverancy!), Equator, Hap-Hazard, The Western Union Telegraph (not a made-up name, mind), Cold Water Number Three—ownership, my boys. Ownership! The key to happiness.
So! One fine Saturday morning, namely September 2nd, 1865, at or about ten o’clock, workers struck a wondrous flowing well. They’d reached a depth of five hundred feet when a column of gas hurled the drilling equipment sky-high. A spark ignited the gas and the new well exploded with an earthquake, shaking every house around, and an immense sheet of flame shot heavenwards. All the works was soon burnt up.
O, the spectacle was grand and awful! Flames darted with lightning speed! The earth vomited flame, a sea of fire! A fiery flood overran neighboring wells! As the great poet said, “The lightnings, barbed, red with wrath, Sent from the quiver of Omnipotence, Cross and recross the fiery gloom.”
Beneath Ceaseless Skies #207 Page 3