XII. DICK M’COY’S SKETCHES OF HIS NEIGHBOURS.

Last summer, I determined to visit the battle-ground of the Horse-Shoe, to see if any vestiges remained of Old Hickory’s great fight with the Indians of the Tallapoosa. Fond of all sorts of aquatic diversion, I concluded to take the river four or five miles above, and descend to the “Shoe,” and I therefore employed an old crony of mine, Dick M’Coy, to take me down in a canoe. Dick lives on the bank, and has all the qualifications of an otter, for river explorations.

For some miles above the battle-ground, the river is a succession of shallows, broken every mile or two by lovely patches of smooth, still water, generally bedecked with a green islet or two, around which the trout love to play. The banks are generally large, irregular hills, that look as if they were struggling to pitch themselves, with their huge pines, into the stream; but, once in a while, you find a level strip of alluvial in cultivation, or a beautiful and fertile declivity, shaded by magnificent poplars, beech-trees, and walnut. Now and then you may see the cabin of a squatter, stuck to the side of a hill, like a fungus against a wall; but, generally, the Tallapoosa retains the wild, pristine features of the days when the Creek hunted on its banks, or disported himself upon its waters. A little way out from the river, on either side, among the “hollows” formed by little creeks and smaller streams, live a people, half-agricultural, half-piscatorial—a sinewy, yellow-headed, whiskey-loving set. Those south of the river, are the inhabitants of “ ’Possum-Trot,” while those on the north are the citizens of “Turpentine.” Dick M’Coy is a ’Possum-Trotter, a fishing fellow, fishy in his stories, but always au fait in regard to matters of settlement gossip.

Seated on a clap-board, a little aft of the centre of the boat, and facing Dick, I was amused for several hours with his conversation, as we threaded the intricate passages of the shoals, now whizzing by and barely touching an ugly rock, now spinning round in a little whirlpool, like a tee-totum. The skill of my Palinurus, however, seemed equal to any emergency; and we alternately twisted and tumbled along, at the rate of two miles and a half an hour.

As we came into a small, deep sheet of water, Dick pointed with his paddle to a smoke issuing from among the trees, on the “Turpentine” side of the river, and remarked:

“Thar’s whar our lazy man lives—Seaborn Brown.”

“Ah! is he lazy much?”

“Powerful.”

“As how?”

“Onct he went out huntin’, and he was so lazy he ’cluded he wouldn’t. So he laid down in the sand, close to the aidge of the water. It come on to rain like the devil, and I, seen him from t’other side, tho’t he was asleep, and hollered to him.

“Ses I, ‘it’s rainin’ like wrath, Seab, and why don’t you git up?’

“Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘I’m wet any how, and thar’s no use.’

“After a little, the river begun to rise about five foot an hour, and I hollers to him agin.

“Ses I, ‘Seaborn, the river’s a-risin’ on to your gun; the but’s half way in the water now.’

“Ses he, hollerin’ back, ‘The water ain’t gwine to hurt the wood part.’

“I waited a few minutes, and sung out:

“ ‘Seaborn, you’re half under water yourself, and your gun-lock is in the river!’

“Ses he, ‘I never ketches cold, and thar’s no load in the gun, and besides, she needs a washin’ out.’

“And Squire,” continued Dick, “the last I seen of him that day, he tuck a flask out of his pocket, as he lay, drinkt, ketcht some water in the flask, and drinkt again, as he lay; and then throw’d his face back, this way, like, to keep the river out of his mouth and nose!”

Amused at Dick’s anecdote of his lazy neighbour, I solicited some information about the occupant of a cabin nearly in the water, on the ’Possum Trot side.

At the very door of the dwelling commenced a fish-trap dam; and on the trap stood a stalwart fellow in a red flannel shirt, and pantaloons that were merely breeches—the legs being torn off entirely.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Wait till we pass him, and I’ll tell you.”

We tumbled onward a few yards.

“That’s Jim Ed’ards; he loves cat-fish, some! Well, he does! Don’t do nothin’ but ketch ’em. Some of the boys says he’s got slimy all over, like unto a cat—don’t know about that; all I know is, we ketcht one in the seine, that weighed over forty pounds. Thar was a mocassin tuk out of it longer than my arm. And nobody wouldn’t have it then, but Jim. As we was goin’ home, Jim a totin’ the fish—ses I, ‘Jim, you ain’t agwine to eat that cat, surely!’

“Ses he, ‘Pshaw! that mocassin warn’t nothin’.’

“Ses I, ‘Jim, enny man that’ll eat that cat, would eat a bull-frog.’

“And with that, he knocked me down and liked to a killed me: and that was the reason I didn’t want to tell you about him twell we’d passed him.”

As we neared a pretty little island, on which were a house and two or three acres in cultivation:

“Thar,” said Dick, “is Dock Norris’s settlement. I guess he won’t ‘play horse’ agin in a hurry. He claims ’Possum Trot for his beat, but we’d all rather he’d take Turpingtine.”

“What game was that he played?” I asked.

“Oh! playin’ horse. See, thar was a crowd of boys come down and kamped on Turpingtine side, to seine. They was but a little ways from the river—leastways thar camp-fire was—and between the river and it, is a pretty knoll, whar the river’s left a pretty bed of white sand as big as a garden spot, and right at it the water’s ten foot deep, and it’s about the same from the top of the bluff to the water.

“A big, one-eyed fellow named Ben Baker, was at the head of the town crowd, and as soon as they’d struck a camp, Ben and his fellers, except one (a lad like), tuck the seine and went away down the river, fishin’, and was gone a’most all day. Well, Dock bein’ of a sharp, splinter-legged, mink-face feller, gits some of his boys, and goes over in the time, and they drinks all Ben’s whiskey and most all his coffee, and eats up all his bacon-meat—’sides bein’ sassy to the boy. Arter a while here comes Ben and his kump’ny, back, wet and tired, and hungry. The boy told ’em Dock Norris and his crowd had eat and drunk up everything, and Ben’s one eye shined like the ev’ning star.

“ ‘Whar’s he?’ axed Ben; and then he turned round and seed Dock and his boys, on thar all-fours squealin’ and rearin’, playin’ horse, they called it, in that pretty sandy place. Ben went right in amongst ’em, and ses he, ‘I’ll play horse, too,’ and then he came down to his all-fours, and here they had it, round and round, rearin’, pitchin’, and cavortin’! Dock was might’ly pleased that Ben didn’t seem mad; but bimeby, Ben got him close to the bank, and then, in a minute, gethered him by the seat of his breeches and the har of the head and slung him twenty foot out in the current. About the time Dock ris, Ben had another of the crowd harnessed, and he throw’d him at Dock! Then he pitched another, and so on, twell he’d thrown ’em all in. You oughter ’a seen ’em swim to the shoals and take that bee-line for home!”

“Why didn’t they turn on him and thrash him?” I asked.

“Oh, you see he was a great big fellow, weighed two hundred, and was as strong as a yoke of oxen; and you know, ’squire, most of the people is mighty puny-like, in the Trot. Well, playin’ horse got broke up after that.”

When the next clearing came into view, I inquired of M’Coy, whose it was.

“Don’t you know, ’squire? Ain’t you never seen him? Why, it’s old Bill Wallis’s place, and he’s our ugly man! The whole livin’, breathin’ yeth ain’t got the match to his picter! His mouth is split every way, and turned wrong-side out, and when he opens it, it’s like spreadin’ an otter trap to set it. The skin’s constant a pealin’ from his nose, and his eyes looks like they was just stuck on to his face with pins! He’s got hardly any skin to shet his eyes with, and not a sign of har to that little! His years is like a wolf’s, and his tongue’s a’most allers hangin’ out of his mouth! His whole face looks like it was half-roasted! Why, he’s obleeged to stay ’bout home; the nabor women is afraid their babies ’ill be like him!”

Just after this last story, we reached a fall of two feet, over which Dick’s plan was to descend bow-foremost, with a “ca-souse,” as he expressed it. But we ran upon a rock, the current swayed us round, and over we went, broadside.

“This is an ugly scrape, Dick,” said I, as soon as we got ashore.

“Yes, ’squire, but not so ugly as old Wallis; thar’s nuthin but deth can eekal him. Howsever, less leave bailin’ the boat twell mornin’, and go and stay with old Billy to-night, and then you’ll see for yourself.”

So, instead of sleeping at the Horse-shoe, we spent the night with old Billy and his folks; and we had a rare time there, I assure you.