Chapter IV Leaving the Old Home
It was on the morning of May 15, 1856, that Joe Peniman awoke as the first grey streaks of morning were coming in the sky. In the yard beneath his window he could hear the sound of voices, footsteps going to and fro. Inside there was the sound of bumping and thumping of furniture, of much talking, the hurried noises of preparation for some great event.
He started up and glanced at the window. Day was coming! The Day! The day he had been dreaming of and hoping for and longing for for months!
He leaped out of bed with a shrill yip of joy and pulled the bedclothes off his slumbering brother.
“Hi, Lige,” he shouted, “wake up! It’s to-morrow—I mean it’s to-day—it’s The Day at last!”
Lige raised a sleepy face from the pillows, blinked once or twice, rubbed his nose, then sat up with a jerk.
“Jerusalem, is it morning?” he ejaculated. “Why, I never slept a wink all night. Couldn’t, I was too excited. Oh, golly, this is to-morrow, isn’t it? No, it’s to-day now—and we’re going to start right after breakfast! Ki-yi, ain’t I glad!”
He did an extemporaneous war-dance around the room, then brought up beside the bed where Joe was hastily getting into the new gingham shirt, the dark suit, and strong copper-toed shoes that had been laid out upon it.
Outside in the yard they could hear the sound of talking, of men going to and fro. There was the sound of rumbling wheels, the regular strokes of a hammer, and many directions given in the mild but decisive voice of their father.
It was very early still. In the shadows it was still dark, and over the whole earth there lay that hush, that sense of mystery and silence that comes with the early dawn. The sky above the east pasture showed faint streaks of pink and mauve, and the fragrance of the apple and peach and plum and cherry blossoms in the old orchard came up to them, mingled with the scent of wet grass and clover, the lowing of the cows in the pasture, the crowing of the roosters in the barnyard. It was with something like a pang that Joe recognized the shrill and strident voice of little Dicky, his favorite bantam rooster.
Under the old elm-trees two heavy new wagons were drawn up, and their father, mounted on the dash-board of one of them was fastening in place the white canvas cover, stretching it taut over strong ash bows that were bent from side to side of the wagon.
A thrill passed through the hearts of the boys as they leaned half-dressed out of the window.
The Prairie Schooners!
The romantic craft in which they were to embark that day on the most wonderful adventures of their lives!
They had talked of and dreamed about and anticipated the coming of this day for many months. Now it seemed almost too good to be true that it was really here at last.
It seemed to the boys as they hung out of the window that the yard was full of men, and that they all seemed in a great hurry and bustle of preparation, going to and fro between the barn and the house and the wagons carrying boxes and bundles and bedding and furniture and stowing it away in the wagons beneath the canvas covers.
They recognized their Uncle Jonathan among them, and sent forth a loud and triumphant hail to their Cousin Fred, who was standing about wistfully watching the loading of the wagons. Bill Hale, the “hired man,” was there, and Uncle Charles, and Friend Robinson, and neighbor Hines, and many more. A queer sort of a sinking sensation seized the pit of Joe’s stomach as he saw Friend Robinson carry out his mother’s old rocking-chair and the baby’s cradle and put them into the wagon.
Through the trees across the creek he could see the red roof of his grandmother’s house, the old Quaker homestead where his mother was born and had grown to womanhood, and nearer the woods and stream and lanes where his brothers and sisters and himself had played all their lives.
In the tree outside the window he caught a glimpse of the robin that had nested in that same crotch of a branch for five summers. She was sitting now. The young birds would be out in a few days. Joe turned his eyes hastily away from the bright glance of the little mother as she peered up at him.
“Come, boys—come, Joseph, will thee stand staring out of that window all day?” a voice cried behind him, and he withdrew his head quickly and turned around to see his mother standing in the doorway. She was all dressed and ready for the journey, in a dark grey worsted dress with a white collar, her brown hair neat and shining, her face a little pale, and her sweet blue eyes reddened by recent tears.
“Come, come, boys, thee must hurry,” she cried. “Thy father has been afoot for an hour or more, and breakfast is nearly ready. Elijah, did thee put on the new stockings I laid out for thee? Tie thy necktie neatly, Joseph. And hurry, now, the day that thee has been looking forward to so long has come at last, and thee must begin right now to be brave young pioneers.”
Her voice quivered a little but she smiled at them bravely, then hurried away.
Out under the elm-trees the boys found preparations for the journey rapidly approaching completion. The great white canvas covers of the wagons were now in place, making a domed shelter for the interior of the wagons, and most of the household goods that the family were going to take with them to their far western home had already been stowed away inside.
As Joe stood watching these preparations something of the finality of the change was borne in upon him. Up to this moment he had thought of nothing but the wonderful journey across the plains, the romance, the adventure, the strange, novel, and interesting things he would see and do along the way. Now it suddenly came over him that he was leaving his childhood home forever.
He thought of the boys, the playmates of his whole life, whom he was leaving behind; of the swimming-hole down under the willows; the nest of young kittens under the barn; the sunfish and croppies in the stream. He thought of his playmates at old-fashioned “round ball,” and wondered, with just the suggestion of a pang, who would play in his place this summer.
Just below the house the creek murmured musically over its pebbly bottom, and near it was the old willow-tree in which he could see the platform of their playhouse—all that was left of it—most of it having been torn down and the lumber used for crating furniture and covering boxes.
His thoughts were beginning to grow a bit sombre when a call to breakfast interrupted them. He hurried into the big sunny kitchen, in which he had eaten his breakfast every morning of his life.
It did not look natural this morning. An extemporaneous table had been arranged of planks set on sawhorses, and upon it was spread the breakfast, with odds and ends of dishes and crockery that were to be left behind. About this board the family was gathered, while the kitchen was filled with relatives, neighbors, and friends.
Mrs. Peniman’s mother, Mrs. Jennings, sat at the head of the table, with little David in her lap, and her noble placid face looked withered, wan and pale, as if she had not slept for many nights. Mrs. Peniman sat beside her with baby Abigail on her knee, and Joe noticed with a queer constriction in his breast that her face was very pale and her white lips pressed together as if to keep them from trembling. Aunt Sue stood behind her, her handkerchief pressed to her eyes, and Aunt Jenny, his mother’s youngest sister, sat on the floor at her feet, her face hidden in baby Abigail’s dress, crying as if her heart would break.
Back of them against the wall Uncle Charles and Uncle Henry were biting their lips and surreptitiously blowing their noses, and Uncle Jonathan and Uncle Benjamin, while pretending to be very busy passing around trays of coffee, occasionally found time in a corner to mop their eyes with their handkerchiefs. Old friends and neighbors whom he had known all his life stood about the room looking grave and sober, while there were tears in all the women’s eyes.
Joe and Elijah stood in the doorway, loath to go in, but their father beckoned them to him. He was a tall, thin man, with a broad brow upon which waved thick dark hair just tinged with grey. His eyes were dark, with a keen yet very gentle expression, and the almost womanish beauty of his mouth and the square masculinity of his chin were lost in a heavy dark-brown beard which grew high on his cheeks and was trimmed square below the points of his collar.
The boys noticed as they came to him that his eyes were red, and the hand that he laid on Joe’s shoulder trembled slightly.
When the breakfast was over and the last preparations being made on the wagons Friend Robinson turned to Mr. Peniman with a heavy sigh. “I tell thee it is a pretty serious business, friend Joshua, to break up a home like this and go away into the wilderness with a family like thine. I don’t blame Hannah for feeling sad about it.”
“Blame her?” cried Joshua Peniman. “Who could blame her? She is the bravest woman in the world. Many women would be prostrated at leaving the home in which they were born and had lived all their lives, their mother, sisters, brothers and all the friends of a lifetime to go away into a wild and unknown country to encounter the dangers and hardships of the life of a pioneer. But she has been our inspiration, she has given courage to us all.” After a moment he cleared his throat and went on huskily, “I don’t know that any of us particularly enjoy the prospect before us.”
“Why does thee persist in going then, Joshua?” broke in his brother Henry. “There is time even yet to reconsider thy decision. It is a great undertaking, a great responsibility thou art laying on thyself. Think of Hannah—think of the children—think of the dangers and the hardships and privations that thee and thine will have to undergo in that desert country——”
“I have thought of nothing else for months, Henry,” replied Joshua Peniman solemnly. “I cannot tell thee the struggle I have been through. I fully realize what this breaking up of her lifelong home must mean to Hannah. I know what it will mean to the children—and,” with a sudden twitching of his gentle face, “what it will mean to myself. But I feel that it must be done. It is a duty we owe our little family. It is a duty I owe to my religion and my God. Thee knows the condition of the country, Henry. Thee knows that war is inevitable between the North and South. It will be a terrible war, a war of brother against brother, father against son, neighbor against neighbor; one kindred pitted against another. Thee knows our faith, our principles. Could I stay here with my five sons and have them brought up to human slaughter? Could I stay here and have them sent forth to shoot down their fellow-men?”
“But that is all nonsense, Joshua, thy boys are but children yet.”
“Joe is almost sixteen. In five years he will be twenty-one. Tell me, brothers, at the rate things are going in this country now how will things stand between the North and South in five years?”
“Well,” put in Bill Hale, “there ain’t no signs of war yit; the trouble between the North and South hain’t got no further than shootin’ off their mouths, an’ so long’s they confine themselves to that kind of warfare I reckon you an’ th’ boys would be middlin’ safe here.”
“It isn’t a question of safety,” retorted Joshua Peniman with as near to a flash of anger in his eyes as Joe had ever seen. “It is a question of principle. Suppose this country does get into war and there should be a draft. My boys are Quakers. How could they go? And how could they avoid going if they were drafted? Even should there be no real fighting for years to come still those boys would be brought up in an atmosphere of rancor, hostility, and controversy. Hannah and I do not want our children to grow up with hatred in their hearts. We want them to grow up in love and brotherly kindness to all men.”
“But thee could keep the children out of it all, Joshua,” put in Uncle Charles. “Here on the farm they would not come in touch with the political controversy to any great extent, and both thee and thy boys could keep thyselves entirely aloof from the trouble.”
Joshua Peniman shook his head. “No, brother Charles, thee knows that that would not be possible. Thy affectionate heart is speaking now, not thy reason. Thee knows how I stand on this matter of slavery. Thee knows that already I have embroiled myself, have made many and bitter enemies for myself by my connection with the underground railway. I have run off runaway slaves, and I will run them off again every chance I get; for I believe it to be a wicked and iniquitous business. No man has a right to own and control another human being. I am a man of peace, who loves my fellow-man, and yet”—he paused and turned his eyes upon Joe, who crimsoned under the scrutiny,—“no longer ago than yesterday I found my oldest son, an offshoot of good old Quaker stock, drilling a company of boys in the manoeuvres of war.”
“I didn’t mean any harm, Father,” burst forth Joe, “thee knows that I would not hurt any one! It is only that it is fun to drill. I love to march and counter-march my men about.”
His father nodded. “I know, my son. And therein lies the danger. Thou art breathing in the spirit of warfare with the very air. I do not blame thee, lad; how could it be otherwise? The minds of men are full of it. The papers are full of it, and people talk of little else. I tell thee, friends, war is inevitable, and I will not have my young lads filled with the spirit of it. Hannah thinks as I do, and long before the red carnival of blood-lust is let loose in the land we will be far away, out on the clean, wholesome prairies, where our boys and girls can grow up to noble man and womanhood untouched and untainted by the unholy slaughter.”
“But thee should think of the material prosperity of thy children as well as their spiritual good, brother Joshua,” argued Charles. “Thee knows that out there in that untrodden wilderness they will have little or no opportunity for education——”
“We are thinking of their material prosperity. What chance in life would our nine children have here? I would be a poor man all my life, and could do nothing to establish a future for them. With a big family like ours we need room, more opportunity for development, and that we will find in the new country. If we go west now, while the children and the country are both young they will have great opportunities. I will take up a homestead and make them a good home, and as the boys grow old enough they can take up timber-claims and homesteads so that by the time they reach manhood they will each have a valuable property, a good start in life, and a chance to make of themselves whatever they see fit.”
“Yes, but their education——” urged Charles, whose heart was sore at the thought of seeing his brother and his young family set forth for that strange, far land, and hoped even now at the last moment to turn him from the purpose.
“That does not trouble us, Charles. Thee knows that I was once a teacher in a college, and that Hannah has also had a good education. There is nothing to prevent us from conducting a little school of our own for our children until such time as there will be good schools in that growing country for them to attend.”
“But what good’ll schoolin’ do ’em if they was all to get skulped by them bloody Injuns out there?” put in Bill Hale. “My wife’s sister-in-law’s cousin went out west onct, an’ he never come back. The Injuns got him. Like’s not they made soup of him. But I’m bound to say that if he was anything like the rest of that family he’d ‘a’ made dern poor soup, even fer a cannibal.”
Joshua Peniman did not join in the general laugh that followed Bill’s remark. He glanced uneasily at his watch, then at the house.
“Call thy mother, Joe,” he said; “it is growing late, the sun is up, and we should be on our way. Ah, here they come now!”
As he spoke Mrs. Peniman came down the steps, the baby in her arms, leading little David by the hand. Her sister Jenny followed with Mary, and Ruth and Sara walked on either side of their grandmother, their hands in hers, while Sam and Paul, with red noses and watery eyes, followed.
The powerful bay team, Jim and Charley, hitched to the big wagon, were prancing and fidgeting, and the sorrel team, Kit and Billy, hitched to the lighter wagon, which it had been decided that Joe should drive, were harnessed and ready, when Bill Hale came racing from the house waving a bundle in his hand.
“What’s the matter?” cried Joe, checking them up. “We must have left something behind!”
“Couldn’t have forgotten the baby, could we?” queried Sam.
By this time Bill Hale had reached them, carrying a large bundle tied up in a napkin in one hand, and in the other swinging a pair of squawking chickens by the legs.
“Ye ’most missed it, I tell ye,” he grinned. “Ol’ Mis’ Perkins brought ye over some things t’ take on your journey, an’ she never got here until jist now. I’ve et Ma Perkins’ pies an’ things an’ I couldn’t abear fer ye to miss ’em.”
He handed the package tied up in the napkin to Mr. Peniman.
“Mis’ Perkins ’lowed she wanted to send some chicken along fer yer lunch,” he went on, looking down at the squawking fowls in his hand, “but hearin’ that the Friends had cooked up s’ much fer ye she figgered she hadn’t better cook hern, but send ’em along on th’ hoof like, so’s ye could have ’em any time ye liked.”
The children all laughed, and even Mr. Peniman smiled.
“That was very kind of Friend Perkins,” he said. “Thank her for us, won’t you, Bill? But I declare I don’t see how we are going to take those live chickens! We’ve got about all the live stock we can handle now.”
“Oh, we must take them, Joshua,” said Mrs. Peniman. “It would never do to send them back when she was so kind. We can manage to take care of them somehow.”
“I’ve got a box in my wagon that hasn’t much in it, Father,” said Joe; “we could turn the things out and put them in that.”
“You can kill and eat them any time they get to be a bother, you know,” said Uncle Charles, who stood by.
Ruth, who loved every living creature, and who would have fed and mothered any number of pets, protested loudly.
“Oh, we will not kill them, Uncle Charles!” she cried. “Look at them, Father, aren’t they perfect darlings? Let’s take them along for pets, Father, I’ll take care of them!”
By this time Joe and Lige had cleared the box of its contents, and with Bill Hale’s help soon had the struggling fowls shut up in it, with slats nailed up in front to keep them in.
“Oh, aren’t they lovely chickies?” cooed Ruth, who had jumped out of the wagon to watch the operation. “We’ll call this one Dicky, and this one Mother Feathertop, to always remind us of our old Mother Feathertop at home.”
“All right; ready there?” called Mr. Peniman.
Cherry, the red cow, that was tied behind the big wagon, looked back and gave a mournful bellow, as if she knew that she was leaving her old home forever; Spotty, the collie dog, leaped forward with a bark, and the children scrambled to their places in the wagons.
Joe never liked to remember the few moments that followed, as relatives, friends, neighbors, chums, and playmates of a lifetime crowded close about the wagons to bid them good-bye. There were sobs and tears, close embraces, choked words of love and farewell; hands were shaken, tears shed, husky good-byes spoken. But it was soon over.
The boys sprang to their places, the reins were gathered up, the word of command spoken, and the prairie schooners drove slowly out of the farmyard, en route for the Golden West.