Read Ebook: Silas Strong Emperor of the Woods by Bacheller Irving

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Ebook has 1960 lines and 66193 words, and 40 pages

At sunrise of the twenty-eighth day after leaving London, having passed through the "summer voyage of the world," we sighted the long, flat-topped mountain which has given its name to the bay that lies at its foot.

When we first sighted it, it appeared like a huge solitary rock standing in the midst of the ocean, but as we gradually steamed up to the arms of Table Bay, which opens to the north-west, the town nestling at the foot of the mountain became visible, and as we brought up to allow the port captain and health officer to come on board, the scene came more clearly into view. The mountains outlined clearly against the sky, the mauve and golden-tinted clouds, the deep blue water of the bay, edged with a white and curving shore of singular beauty, surmounted by bold, rocky mountain ranges, combined to form one of the most striking views we had ever seen.

We will never lose the impression of South African scenery received that morning. We had bidden farewell to the smoky fogs of London, and had changed them for a country that was rich and brilliant, where the atmosphere was surprisingly bright and clear, and the scenery bold, spacious, and grand.

The long range of mountains which completely separates the Peninsula of the Cape of Good Hope from the mainland, though at a distance of seventy miles, stood out with a sharply defined outline in the morning air, the ravines, water courses, and terraced heights appearing with almost supernatural clearness. The characteristic beauty of light, which distinguishes South Africa, was seen in the full and even splendour with which every object, near and remote, became visible. Small boulders, cavernous hollows in the rocks, patches of brush at the head of the kloofs, at an elevation of two thousand feet, could be seen without difficulty. We gazed spellbound at the distant mountain, seemingly so near that we could have seen a human figure were it climbing the heights, or heard a human voice if it broke the silence of the kloofs. And it was not until the revolving of the screw warned us that we were to enter the docks that we awoke from the reverie into which the first view of the country had thrown us. Hastening below, we made preparations for leaving the ship which had been our home for four pleasant, all too fleeting weeks, and on emerging on deck we found the vessel had already entered the well-built stone docks, and was then being made fast to the quay. Shaking hands with Captain Lamar and our other friends on the ship whom we should meet later on in our journey up the country, we told the Malay porter where to find our belongings amongst the luggage of the two hundred passengers aboard, took one last look at the good ship, walked down the gangway, and found ourselves fairly on South African soil, ten thousand miles from the "Old Folks at Home."

One of the first things that attracted our attention on landing was the motley appearance of the people on the quay.

There were the Europeans, some in black frock coat and pot hat--a ridiculous costume for a hot climate--others more sensibly clad in white linen suits and pith helmets. But when we turned to the coloured people who formed the larger proportion of the loiterers, we found ourselves at a loss to say how many different nationalities they represented, and certainly did not know which to pick out as the representatives of the native African.

They were of all colours and all garbs, from the simple costume of rags which distinguishes the Hottentot loafer to the gorgeous silk robes of the Malay priest. It was not till we had been in the colony some time that we were able to distinguish from one another the Kafir and the negro from the west coast and the Hottentot and the Malay.

Having passed our baggage through the custom-house at the entrance to the dock, we took a cab, a regular London hansom with a Malay driver, and drove along a white dusty road to the town, distant a mile from the docks. As is the case on going behind the scenes of a theatre, much of the beauty that had impressed us from the sea disappeared when we came to the town itself. The houses, which had looked spotlessly white and very pretty from the steamer, we found to be little, old-fashioned, square, tumbledown edifices, evidently some of the original Dutch homesteads.

Presently, however, we came to a handsome street of fine stores, and an imposing railroad station, and, rounding the market square, a large rectangular piece of open land in the middle of the town, drove up to the Royal Hotel, where we were received by the proprietor and wife, who were Germans, and made very comfortable. As soon as we had rested, Eva and I sallied forth to view the town.

Our first impression of Cape Town, with its sixty thousand inhabitants, black and white, was that it was composed principally of old-fashioned Dutch houses with individual steps, so that the pedestrian had the choice of either dancing up and down the steps or walking in the middle of the road. We found that although the older houses preponderated, there were several streets of handsome residences. The streets were actually dirtier than those of New York.

The principal business streets run parallel with each other from the sea to the mountain, and are crossed at right angles by narrower streets.

They are situated in the midst of beautiful grounds overrun with tropical vines and flowers. Near by are the charming modern English villas and cottages. But the most beautiful and admired suburban houses are to be found at Rondebosch, Wynberg, and Constantia, on the east side of Table Mountain, connected by railway with Cape Town; they lie at an elevation from the town and are delightfully cool during the summer months. A drive through the groves of grand old pine and oak trees, with a glimpse of mountain, precipice and sea, beautiful houses on terraced heights, with vineyards beyond, is a delightful event; these features make it a veritable paradise, not imagined by the English traveller; instead of hot, dry, sandy Africa, we have here majestic scenery, dense forests with a wild beauty of their own, and an atmosphere so clear that every object is distinctly revealed. There is a quaint old castle down by the sea, originally erected by the Dutch, who founded the town about 1650. It is square and podgy, like the pictures we have seen of its founders. The Dutch built many forts along the base of the mountain, possibly to keep off the wild beasts that used to prowl about the back windows of His Excellency, the Governor; these forts lie in ruins.

At the upper end of the town are the Public Gardens, a kind of half park, half Botanical Gardens, and a very pleasant, shady, sleepy, restful place it is, in which to spend an hour on a hot afternoon. There is also a capim and lying back on his blanket.

For a long time he lay there thinking. He had been a man of some refinement, and nature had punished him, after an old fashion, for the abuse of it with extreme sensitiveness. He had come to the Adirondacks from a New England city and married and gone into business. At first he had prospered, and then he had begun to go down.

He had been a lover of music and a reader of the poets. As he lay thinking in the early dusk he heard the notes of the wood-thrush. That bird was like a welcoming trumpeter before the gate of a palace; it bade him be at home. Above all he could hear the water song of Fiddler's Falls--the tremulous, organ bass of rock caverns upon which the river drummed as it fell, the chorus of the on-rushing stream and great overtones in the timber.

Sound and rhythm seemed to be full of that familiar strain--so like a solemn warning:

A long time he sat hearing it. He began to feel ashamed of his folly and awakened to the inspiration of a new purpose. He rose and looked about him.

When you enter a house you begin to feel the heart of its owner. Something in the walls and furnishings, something in the air--is it a vibration which dead things have gathered from the living?--bids you welcome or warns you to depart. It is the true voice of the master. As Gordon came into the wilderness he felt like one returning to his father's house. In this great castle the heart of its Master seemed to speak to him with a tenderness fatherly and unmistakable.

A subtle force like that we find in houses built with hands now bade him welcome. "Lie down and rest, my son," it seemed to say. "Let not your heart be troubled. Here in your Father's house are forgiveness and plenty."

He put away the thought of death. He covered the sleeping boy and girl, pushed his canoe forward upon the sand, and lying back comfortably soon fell asleep.

He awoke refreshed at sunrise. The great, green fountain of life, in the midst of which he had rested, now seemed to fill his heart with its uplifting joy and energy and persistence.

He built a fire under the trees and broiled the meat and made toast and coffee. He lifted the children in his arms and kissed them with unusual tenderness.

"To-day we'll see Uncle Silas," Gordon assured them.

"My Uncle Silas!" said the boy, fondly.

"He's mine, too," Sue declared.

"He's both of our'n," Socky allowed, as they began to eat their breakfast.

SILAS STRONG, or "Panther Sile," as the hunters called him, spent every winter in the little forest hamlet of Pitkin and every summer in the woods.

Lawrence County was the world, and game, wood, and huckleberries the fulness thereof; all beyond was like the reaches of space unexplored and mysterious. God was only a word--one may almost say--and mostly part of a compound adjective; hell was Ogdensburg, to which he had once journeyed; and the devil was Colonel Jedson. This latter opinion, it should be said, grew out of an hour in which the Colonel had bullied him in the witness-chair, and not to any lasting resemblance.

As to Ogdensburg itself, the hunter had based his judgment upon evidence which, to say the least, was inconclusive. When Sile and the city first met, they regarded each other with extreme curiosity. A famous hunter, as he moved along the street with rifle, pack, and panther-skin, Sile was trying to see everything, and everything seemed to be trying to see Sile. The city was amused while the watchful eye of Silas grew weary and his bosom filled with distrust. One tipsy man offered him a jack-knife as a compliment to the length of his nose, and before he could escape a new acquaintance had wrongfully borrowed his watch. His conclusions regarding the city were now fully formed. He broke with it suddenly, and struck out across country and tramped sixty miles without a rest. Ever after the thought of Ogdensburg revived memories of confusion, headache, and irreparable loss. So, it is said, when he heard the minister describing hell one Sunday at the little school-house in Pitkin, he had no doubt either of its existence or its location.

All this, however, relates to antecedent years of our history--years which may not be wholly neglected if one is to understand what follows them.

After the death of his sister--the late Mrs. Gordon--Strong began to read his Bible and to cut his trails of thought further and further towards his final destination. A deeper reverence and a more correct notion of the devil rewarded his labor.

It must be added that his meditations led him to one remarkable conclusion--namely, that all women were angels. His parents had left him nothing save a maiden sister named Cynthia, and characterized by some as "a reg'lar human panther."

"Wherever Sile is they's panthers," said a guide once, in the little store at Pitkin.

"Don't make no dif'er'nce whuther he's t' home er in the woods," said another, solemnly.

That was when God owned the wilderness and kept there a goodly number of his big cats, four of which had fallen before the rifle of Strong.

Cynthia, in his view, had a special sanctity, but there was another woman whom he regarded with great tenderness--a cheery-faced maiden lady of his own age and of the name of Annette.

To Silas she was always Lady Ann. He gave her this title without any thought or knowledge of foreign customs. "Miss Roice" would have been too formal, and "Ann" or "Annette" would have been too familiar. "Lady Ann" seemed to have the proper ring of respect, familiarity, and distinction. In his view a "lady" was a creature as near perfection as anything could be in this world.

When a girl of eighteen she had taught in the log school-house. Since the death of her mother the care of the little home had fallen upon her. She was a well-fed, cheerful, and comely creature with a genius for housekeeping.

June had come, and Silas was getting ready to go into camp. There was no longer any peace for him in the clearing. The odor of the forest and the sight of the new leaves gave him no rest. Had he not heard in his dreams the splash of leaping trout, and deer playing in the lily-pads? In the midst of his preparations, although a silent man, the tumult of joy in his breast came pouring out in the whistled refrain of "Yankee Doodle." It was a general and not a special sense of satisfaction which caused him to shake with laughter now and then as he made his way along the rough road. Sometimes he rubbed his long nose thoughtfully.

A nature-loving publisher, who often visited his camp, had printed some cards for him. They bore these modest words:

S. STRONG

GUIDE AND CONTRIVER

He was able in either capacity, but his great gift lay in tongue control--in his management of silence. He was what they called in that country "a one-word man." The phrase indicated that he was wont to express himself with all possible brevity. He never used more than one word if that could be made to satisfy the demands of politeness and perspicacity. Even though provocation might lift his feeling to high degrees of intensity, and well beyond the pale of Christian sentiment, he was never profuse.

His oaths would often hiss and hang fire a little, but they were in the end as brief and emphatic as the crack of a rifle. This trait of brevity was due, in some degree, to the fact that he stammered slightly, especially in moments of excitement, but more to his life in the silence of the deep woods.

Silas Strong had filled his great pack at the store and was nearing his winter home--a rude log-house in the little forest hamlet. He let the basket down from his broad back to the doorstep. His sister Cynthia, small, slim, sternfaced, black-eyed, heart and fancy free, stood looking down at him.

"Wal, what now?" she demanded, in a voice not unlike that of a pea-hen.

"T'-t'-morrer," he stammered, in a loud and cheerful tone.

"What time to-morrer?"

"D-daylight."

"I knew it," she snapped, sinking into a chair, the broom in her hands, and a woful look upon her. "You've got t' hankerin'."

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