<h2>CHAPTER XII.</h2>
<h4>In a fog—The Big Sandy—Rainy weather—Operatic
gypsies—An ancient tavern.</h4>
<p><span class="smcap">Ironton, O.</span>, Saturday, May 19th.—When
we turned in, last night, it was refreshingly
cool. Heavy clouds were scurrying across the
face of the moon. By midnight, a copious
rain was falling, wind-gusts were flapping our
roof, and a sudden drop in temperature rendered
sadly inadequate all the clothing we
could muster into service. We slept late, in
consequence, and, after rigging a wind-break
with the rubber blankets, during breakfast
huddled around the stove which had been
brought in to replace Pilgrim under the fly.
When, at half-past nine, we pushed off, our
houseboat neighbors thrust their heads from
the window and waved us farewell.</p>
<p>A dense fog hung like a cloud over land and
river. There was a stiff north-east wind,
which we avoided by seeking the Ohio shore,
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page140" id="page140"></SPAN></span>
where the high hills formed a break; there
too, the current was swift, and carried us
down right merrily. Shattered by the wind,
great banks of fog rolled up stream, sometimes
enveloping us so as to narrow our view to a
radius of a dozen rods,—again, through the
rifts, giving us momentary glimpses on the
right, of rich green hills, towering dark and
steep above us, iridescent with browns, and
grays, and many shades of green; of whitewashed
cabins, single or in groups, standing
out with startling distinctness from sombre
backgrounds; of houseboats, many-hued,
moored to willowed banks or bolstered high
upon shaly beaches; of the opposite bottom,
with its corrugated cliff of clay; and, now and
then, a slowly-puffing steamboat cautiously
feeling its way through the chilling gloom—a
monster to be avoided by little Pilgrim and her
crew, for the possibility of being run down in
a fog is not pleasant to contemplate. On
board one of these steamers was a sorry company—apparently
a Sunday-school excursion.
Children in gala dress huddled in swarms on
the lee of the great smoke-stacks, and in imagination
we heard their teeth chatter as they
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page141" id="page141"></SPAN></span>
glided by us and in another moment were engulfed
in the mist.</p>
<p>We catch sight for a moment, through a
cloud crevasse, of Ceredo, the last town in
West Virginia—a small saw-milling community
stuck upon the edge of the clay cliff, with
the broad level bottom stretching out behind
like a prairie. A giant railway bridge here
spans the Ohio—a weird, impressive thing, as
we sweep under it in the swirling current, and
crane our necks to see the great stone piers
lose themselves in the cloud. But the Big
Sandy River (315 miles), which divides West
Virginia and Kentucky, was wholly lost to
view. In an opening a few moments later,
however, we had a glimpse of the dark line of
her valley, below which the hills again descend
to the Ohio's bank.</p>
<p>Catlettsburg, the first Kentucky town, is at
the junction, and extends along the foot of
the ridge for a mile or two, apparently not
over two blocks wide, with a few outlying
shanties on the shoulders of the uplands.
Washington was surveying here, on the Big
Sandy, in 1770, and entered for one John Fry
2,084 acres round the site of Louisa, a dozen
miles up the river; this was the first survey
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page142" id="page142"></SPAN></span>
made in Kentucky—but a few months later
than Boone's first advent as a hunter on the
"dark and bloody ground," and five years
before the first permanent settlement in the
State. Washington deserves to be remembered
as a Kentucky pioneer.</p>
<p>We have not only steamers to avoid,—they
appear to be unusually numerous about here,—but
snags as well. With care, the whereabouts
of a steamer can be distinguished as it steals
upon us, from the superior whiteness of its column
of "exhaust," penetrating the bank of
dark gray fog; and occasionally the echoes
are awakened by the burly roar of its whistle,
which, in times like this, acts as a fog-horn.
But the snag is an insidious enemy, not revealing
itself until we are within a rod or two,
and then there is a quick cry of warning from
the stern sheets—"Hard a-port!" or "Starboard,
quick!" and only a strong side-pull,
aided by W——'s paddle, sends us free from the
jagged, branching mass which might readily
have swamped poor Pilgrim had she taken it
at full tilt.</p>
<p>At Ashland, Ky. (320 miles), we stopped
for supplies. There are six thousand inhabitants
here, with some good buildings and a
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page143" id="page143"></SPAN></span>
fine, broad, stone wharf, but it is rather a dingy
place. The steamer "Bonanza" had just
landed. On the double row of flaggings leading
up to the summit of the bank, were two
ant-like processions of Kentucky folk—one,
leisurely climbing townward with their bags
and bundles, the other hurrying down with
theirs to the boat, which was ringing its bell,
blowing off steam, and in other ways creating
an uproar which seemed to turn the heads of
the negro roustabouts and draymen, who
bustled around with a great chatter and much
false motion. The railway may be doing the
bulk of the business, but it does it unostentatiously;
the steamboat makes far more disturbance
in the world, and is a finer spectacle.
Dozens of boys are lounging at the wharf
foot, watching the lively scene with fascinated
eyes, probably every one of them stoutly possessed
of an ambition akin to that of my
young friend in the Cheshire Bottom.</p>
<p>A rain-storm broke the fog—a cold, raw,
miserable rain. No clothing we could don
appeared to suffice against the chill; and so at
last we pitched camp upon the Ohio shore,
three miles above the Ironton wharf (325
miles). It is a muddy, dreary nest up here,
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page144" id="page144"></SPAN></span>
among the dripping willows. Just behind us
on the slope, is the inclined track of the Norfolk
& Western railway-transfer, down which
trains are slid to a huge slip, and thence ferried
over the river into Kentucky; above that, on a
narrow terrace, is an ordinary railway line; and
still higher, up a slippery clay bank, lies the
cottage-strewn bottom which stretches on into
Ironton (13,000 inhabitants).</p>
<p>We were a sorry-looking party, at lunch this
noon, hovering over the smoking stove which
was set in the tent door, with a wind-screen
in front, and moist bedding hung all about in
the vain hope of drying it in the feeble heat.
And sorrier still, through the long afternoon,
as, each encased in a sleeping-bag, we sat upon
our cots circling around the stove, W—— reading
to us between chattering teeth from Barrie's
<i>When a Man's Single</i>. 'Tis good Scottish
weather we're having; but somehow our
thoughts could not rest on Thrums, and we
were, for the nonce, a wee bit miserable.</p>
<p>Dinner degenerated into a smoky bite, and
then at dusk there was a council of war. The
air hangs thick with moisture, our possessions
are in various stages from damp to sopping
wet, and efforts at drying over the little stove
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page145" id="page145"></SPAN></span>
are futile under such conditions. It was demonstrated
that there was not bed-clothing
enough, in such an emergency as this; indeed,
an inspection of that which was merely damp,
revealed the fact that but one person could
be made comfortable to-night. Our bachelor
Doctor volunteered to be that one. So we
bade him God-speed, and with toilet bag in
hand I led my little family up a tortuous path,
so slippery in the rain that we were obliged in
our muddy climb to cling to grass-clumps and
bushes. And thus, wet and bedraggled, did
we sally forth upon the Ironton Bottom, seeking
shelter for the night.</p>
<p>Fortunately we had not far to seek. A
kindly family took us in, despite our gruesome
aspect and our unlikely story—for what manner
of folk are we, that go trapesing about in
a skiff, in such weather as this, coming from
nobody knows where and camping o' nights in
the muddy river bottoms? Instead of sending
us on, in the drenching rain, to a hotel, three
miles down the road, or offering us a ticket on
the Associated Charities, these blessed people
open their hearts and their beds to us, without
question, and what more can weary pilgrims
pray for?</p>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page146" id="page146"></SPAN></span>
<hr />
<p><span class="smcap">Sciotoville, O.</span>, Sunday, May 20th.—After
breakfast, and settling our modest score, we
rejoined the Doctor, and at ten o'clock pulled
out again; being bidden good-bye at the landing,
by the children of our hostess, who had
sent us by them a bottle of fresh milk as a
parting gift.</p>
<p>It had rained almost continuously, throughout
the night. To-day we have a dark gray
sky, with fickle winds. A charming color
study, all along our path; the reds and grays
and yellows of the high clay-banks which edge
the reciprocating bottoms, the browns and
yellows of hillside fields, the deep greens of
forest verdure, the vivid white of bankside
cabins, and, in the background of each new
vista, bold headlands veiled in blue. W——
and the Boy are in the stern sheets, wrapped
in blankets, for there is a smart chill in the air,
and we at the oars pull lively for warmth. In
our twisting course, sometimes we have a
favoring breeze, and the Doctor rears the sail;
but it is a brief delight, for the next turn brings
the wind in our teeth, and we set to the blades
with renewed energy. In the main, we make
good time. The sugar-loaf hills, with their
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page147" id="page147"></SPAN></span>
castellated escarpments, go marching by with
stately sweep.</p>
<p>Greenup Court House (334 miles) is a bright
little Kentucky county-seat, well-built at the
feet of thickly-forested uplands. At the lower
end of the village, the Little Sandy enters
through a wooded dale, which near the mouth
opens into a broad meadow. Not many miles
below, is a high sloping beach, picturesquely
bestrewn with gigantic boulders which have in
ages past rolled down from the hill-tops above.
Here, among the rocks, we again set up a rude
screen from the still piercing wind; and, each
wrapped in a gay blanket, lunch as operatic
gypsies might, in a romantic glen, enjoying
mightily our steaming chocolate, and the
warmth of our friendly stove—for dessert,
taking a merry scamper for flowers, over the
ragged ascent from whence the boulders came.
Everywhere about is the trumpet creeper, but
not yet in bloom. The Indian turnip is in
blossom here, and so the smaller Solomon's
seal, yellow spikes of toad-flax, blue and pink
phlox, glossy May apple; high up on the hillside,
the fire pink and wintergreen; and, down
by the sandy shore, great beds of blue wild
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page148" id="page148"></SPAN></span>
lupin, and occasionally stately spikes of the
familiar moth mullein.</p>
<p>With the temperature falling rapidly, and a
drizzling rain taking the starch out of our enthusiasm,
we early sought a camping ground.
For miles along here, springs ooze from the
base of the high clay bank walling in the wide
and rocky Ohio beach, and dry spots are few
and far between. We found one, however, a
half mile above Little Scioto River (346
miles),<SPAN name="footnotetag9" name="footnotetag9"></SPAN><SPAN href="#footnote9"><sup>A</sup></SPAN> with drift-wood enough to furnish us
for years, and the beach thick-strewn with fossils
of a considerable variety of small bivalves,
which latter greatly delighted the Doctor and
the Boy, who have brought enough specimens
to the tent door to stock a college museum.</p>
<p>Dinner over, the crew hauled Pilgrim under
cover, and within prepared for her sailing-master
a cosy bed, with the entire ship's stock
of sleeping-bags and blankets. W——, the Boy,
and I then started off to find quarters in Sciotoville
(1,000 inhabitants), which lies just
below the river's mouth, here a dozen rods
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page149" id="page149"></SPAN></span>
wide. Scrambling up the slimy bank, through
a maze of thorn trees, brambles, and sycamore
scrubs, we gained the fertile bottom above, all
luscious with tall grasses bespangled with wild
red roses and the showy pentstemon. The
country road leading into the village is some
distance inland, but at last we found it just
beyond a patch of Indian corn waist high, and
followed it, through a covered bridge, and
down to a little hotel at the lower end of town.</p>
<p>A quaint, old-fashioned house, the Sciotoville
tavern, with an inner gallery looking out
into a small garden of peaches, apples, pears,
plums, and grapes—a famous grape country
this, by the way. In our room, opening from
the gallery, is an antique high-post bedstead;
everywhere about are similar relics of an early
day. In keeping with the air of serene old
age, which pervades the hostelry, is the white-haired
landlady herself. In well-starched
apron, white cap, and gold-rimmed glasses,
she benignly sits rocking by the office stove,
her feet on the fender, reading Wallace's
<i>Prince of India</i>; and looking, for all the world,
as if she had just stepped out of some old
portrait of—well, of a tavern-keeping Martha
Washington.</p>
<blockquote class="footnote"><SPAN name="footnote9" name="footnote9"></SPAN><b>Footnote A:</b><SPAN href="#footnotetag9"> (return) </SPAN><p>Two miles up the Little Scioto, Pine Creek enters. Perhaps
a mile and a half up this creek was, in 1771, a Mingo
town called Horse Head Bottom, which cuts some figure in
border history as a nest of Indian marauders.</p>
</blockquote>
<span class="pagenum"><SPAN name="page150" id="page150"></SPAN></span>
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