"To go to New York, Milly----"
"Is to turn back."
"Then we had better go forward to Texas."
"It seems the only road open to us."
So Robert took passage for us on _The Lone Star_, bound for Galveston, and I had a singular failure of heart and hope. I had longed so to go to Boston, but that prayer had fallen from out my prayers and had come to nothing. Chicago had been our first station on a wrong road; all it promised had turned to failure, and it had taken the hand of God to lift us out of the ruth and ruin we met in places to which we were not sent. Yellow fever and cholera had driven us down that dreary, steaming, terrible river. Would Texas indeed give a future to our mistaken past? Then my eyes fell upon my children playing with such careless sweet content in the cool, dusky room. They had no fear as to where their father and I were going to take them. They believed in our love and wisdom. Would God be less kind to us than we were to them?
Impossible! Then why not give Him the same child-like confidence and affection? For, if I did not know where we were going, I did know
"We could not drift, Beyond God's love and care."
That surely was sufficient.
CHAPTER XII
A PLEASANT JOURNEY
"... all that is most beauteous imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams In ampler ether, a diviner air, And fields invested with purpureal gleams."
We left New Orleans that evening, and, on the second morning thereafter, we were far out on the Gulf of Mexico. The blessed north wind was gently rocking _The Lone Star_. I could smell the sea, and hear the beating of its great heart, as deep called unto deep. Then, raising myself in my berth, I could see the white horses chasing each other over the blue waters. The port hole being open, I had been drinking oxygen all night, and I was a new woman, fit for anything, and afraid of nothing that could come to me.
I dressed myself and the children as quickly as possible, and we went to the saloon for breakfast. Then I sent for Robert to join us, but he had breakfasted with the captain; so we ate the good meal leisurely, and then went on deck. Oh, what a joy it was! How the children ran and played in the cool, fresh breeze! How happy, and how well Robert looked! And how heavenly it was, just to lie on the mattress the captain had placed for me in a snug corner, and shut my eyes, and let the wind, and the sea, and the sun revivify and remake me. I could hear my soul laugh low within me, and, when I was a little more rested, I knew it would break into song. In the meantime, I slept, and slept, and the wind and the waves sung me some lullaby of my fathers--some ancient song of love and courage, such as I used to hear Tom Huddleston sing in the Huddleston quarter in Whitehaven. It seemed years and years ago; though, when I tried to count them, I could only make out that it might be six or seven, since I heard the gay sailor lad singing to me,
"Round the world and home again, That is the sailor's way."
_The Lone Star_ was a slow ship, and the wind was a little contrary, but we were not troubled by delay. For a short space it was good to be out of the world, and away from all its cares and obligations; we were growing younger and stronger with every hour's respite. The passengers were few in number, and consisted mainly of a respectable party of German emigrants bound for the beautiful colony of New Braunfels. They kept to themselves, but, in the still moonlit evenings, sung the folk songs of their native land in the most delightful manner.
This pleasant journeying soon came to an end. One morning when I awoke, the ship was as still as "a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
We were lying at anchor off Galveston bar, and, after breakfast, the captain told us if we wished to land at Galveston we had better get all our trunks ready. I was in favor of our landing at Galveston. From the sea the city had a tropical and most attractive appearance. "It is a city in a garden," I said to Robert, and he was equally pleased with its pretty white houses, and flowery beauty, for the perfume of its gardens was distinctly felt on the ship.
It was nearly noon ere our captain's signal received any attention, then a small boat arrived, and every man in it was dressed in white linen. They held a very serious conversation with our captain, and I was sure, from his air of annoyance and perplexity, that there was some trouble to be met; and, in a few minutes, we were made aware of its nature.
"Gentlemen," he said, to a little group of passengers, of which Robert and I were a part, "gentlemen, we are in an almighty fix. There is yellow fever in Galveston--plenty of it, already--and likely to be much more, and that's a fact. So none of us will be allowed to land there, unless we have homes in the city, and have been made immune by a previous attack."
The gentlemen in white then examined the passengers, and only four were permitted to land. Our case was hopeless: we were Europeans, and particularly liable to become infected, as were also the body of emigrants on board. What were we to do? There were two alternatives.
We could return to New Orleans on _The Lone Star_ for the chance of some ship going to New York, or we could continue our journey into the interior of Texas.
"How can the journey be continued?" asked Robert.
"A small steamer will be sent this afternoon," was the answer. "It will convey all wishing to go inland up the Buffalo Bayou to Harrisburg. The leader of the German emigrants tells me they will be met at Harrisburg with vehicles to carry them and their baggage to New Braunfels."
"But we are traveling alone," continued Robert, "and how can we proceed?"
"Where are you going to?"
"To Austin."
"Well, then, the railway goes some distance beyond Harrisburg--a few miles--and it may yet be in service. If so, you will take it to its terminus. There the mail coach for Austin and San Antonio will call for mail, and no doubt it will have room for you. Travel is not very lively at present."
"Do you know the days and hours when the mail coach is due at this terminus?" Robert asked.
"No, indeed!" was the smiling reply. "Bud Terry makes his own hours.
But he's sure to come along sooner or later. I did hear that Bud was down, but I don't take any stock in that report. There's a deal of business just now between Washington and Austin, and Bud knows his duty, and, gen'rally speaking, does it."
All this was very uncertain consolation, and Robert looked at me in bewildered anxiety. I had a singular satisfaction in the affair. It had been taken out of our hands. We were shut up to one road, and, unless we were willing to go back, and gaze after our life and work and will sailed by, we must take it. If we refused, I did not dare to search through what hopeless, desultory ways our path might lie; for so it happeneth to those who fear to follow the one road open to them.
"You see, Robert," I said with a smile, "there is nothing left for us to do, but to go to Harrisburg. Have we sufficient money to return to New York?"
"No."
"Is it safe to return to New Orleans?"
"No; and the captain says he will not go back to New Orleans. He is going to Pensacola."
"Where is that?"
"In Florida, I think."
I did not then know where Florida was, but knew that it was an aggravating thing to question an anxious, undecided man about trifles, not relevant, so I checked my desire for information and remarked cheerfully, "Then, dear, it is Harrisburg. That far is certain. When we reach Harrisburg, the way will open, that also is certain. One of the German women emigrants told me, that there would be a number of wagons waiting for them at Harrisburg. If we can do no better, they will let us travel with them."
So we waited for the boat to take us to Harrisburg. It did not arrive until late in the afternoon. Then, with a little effort to be merry over our adventures, we were transferred to the small, very narrow steamer, that was to take us up the Buffalo Bayou. And, as soon as I was on her deck, I threw off all care and responsibility. I felt that we were in charge of some power, who knew all about our affairs, and who was quite able to manage them--especially as we were not.
That sail up the Buffalo Bayou was well worth while. No one taking it in those early days can ever forget it. Certainly it is part of my everlasting remembrances. We reached the Bayou shortly before dark, at least it was light enough to see the famous plain of San Jacinto, on which Houston and his eight hundred gentlemen, wiped out the Spanish army under Santa Anna, and gave to the American settlers in Texas that religious and civic liberty which was their right. I noticed that the captain bared his head as he passed it, and, during the evening, he told me the gallant, stirring story, which I have retold in my novel, "Remember the Alamo." It made a wonderful impression on me, and I thought how grand it would be to live among men who had at least once in their lives scorned the mean god Mammon, and, for the faith of their fathers, and the civil liberty without which life was of no value, offered themselves willingly for their God and their country.
"We are going to live among heroes," I said; "and, O Robert, after a life among weavers and traders, will not that be a great experience?"
Robert, who had been listening to the same story, answered, "I suppose it may, Milly, but there are heroes at the loom and at the counter both. I have known them."
Then we were actually in the dense shadows of the Buffalo Bayou, and no one felt like talking. It was a narrow, very narrow, still, black water. A thick growth of trees on both banks of it met above our heads, and shut out all light, but that from the pine flambeaus, burning not only on board, but at intervals along the shore, showing us, with lurid, smoky lights, that we were forging our way through a water full of alligators. Their ugly black eyes dotted it, and they lay along the banks of the stream, barking at us, as we passed. It was the most unearthly sail the imagination can picture, in no way made more human by the half-clothed negroes managing the flaming torches, and the hot, heavy atmosphere, sickly with the scent of magnolias.
Landing at Harrisburg, we found there was fever in every house. Under the very roof which sheltered us from the poisonous night air, a man was dying of the vomto. Though he was at the other end of the long building, we could only too distinctly hear the awful struggle of the suffering soul to escape from its tortured body. I know not how it was, but I had not then the slightest fear of the sickness. The children slept soundly, and Robert and I sat by them, talking in whispers, and praying silently for the poor soul crying out in its piteous extremity. Soon after midnight a dreadful silence stole through the house, and we fell asleep. For I knew, and was sure, that the agony of the strong man was over; that
"Pale from the Passion of Death, Cold from the cold, dark River, Staggering blind with Death, With trembling steps yet fleet, Over the stones of darkness, He had stumbled to _His feet_.
For day and night Christ standeth, Scanning each soul as it landeth, With a face that hath once been dead, With a mouth which once did cry From that River in agony,-- 'The waters go over my head.'"
In the morning we were awakened by a pale, sorrowful woman, barefooted, and in the simplest garment, bringing us fresh water, some biscuits just out of the oven and a cup of tea. But she brought us neither milk or butter. "They hev been in the way of it all night,"
she said; "they're full of death. Sure!"
She had wept till she had no tears left, and the worst was over. "He is gone," she added. "Jim, he's gone! Eat a mouthful and get away. It isn't safe here--and you be strangers, too."
We did as she advised, and found a queer little empty train ready to start for a terminus some twenty miles further inland. Here there was a rude shanty of unpainted wood, the last station of a line only just being built; but, to our great delight, we found a large coach drawn by four horses waiting for us. It was driven by a Mexican, beautifully dressed in black velvet, adorned with silver lace and silver buttons.
Moreover, he had the manners of a Spanish grandee, and his way of addressing us as _Senor_ and _Senorita_, and the nonchalant skill with which he managed those four wild mustangs, were things to see and to never forget. He asked me to take the box seat beside him, but Robert insisted on my going inside with the children. He did not believe in the safety of our charioteer.