The world is but a huge playground, after all; and just as the sympathy of those who witness a fight between two boys—one of whom is a big fellow and a reputed bully, while the other is a plucky youngster but one-half his opponent’s size—invariably goes with the smaller and weaker combatant, so it is even amongst nations.
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Though the Indians of New England were for many years vastly superior in numbers to the white men, they were never wholly united, and their cowardice and lack of discipline were weaknesses for which their treachery and deceit could not compensate. The long conflict between the races culminated in 1675 in King Philip’s War, when the wily Wampanoag sachem succeeded in forming a confederation, embracing nearly all the New England tribes, for a final desperate struggle.
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Morning dawned brightly upon our bivouac among a cluster of dark firs in the mountain corridor, opened by an ancient glacier of King’s River in the heart of the Sierras. It dawned a trifle sooner than we could have wished, but Professor Brewer and Hoffman had breakfasted before sunrise, and were off with barometer and theodolite upon their shoulders, proposing to ascend our amphitheatre to its head and climb a great pyramidal peak which swelled up against the eastern sky, closing the view in that direction.
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In the mean time it began to rain; and, settling my accounts with the señora, thanking her for her kindness, leaving an order to have some bread baked for the next day, and taking with me an umbrella and a blue bag, contents unknown, belonging to Mr. Catherwood, which he had particularly requested me to bring, I set out on my return.
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Among the Soldiers of Fortune whose stories have been told in this book were men who are no longer living, men who, to the United States, are strangers, and men who were of interest chiefly because in what they attempted they failed.
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It is safe to say that to members of the younger generation the name of William Walker conveys absolutely nothing. To them, as a name, “William Walker” awakens no pride of race or country. It certainly does not suggest poetry and adventure. To obtain a place in even this group of Soldiers of Fortune, William Walker, the most distinguished of all American Soldiers of Fortune, the one who but for his own countrymen would have single-handed attained the most far-reaching results, had to wait his turn behind adventurers of other lands and boy officers of his own.
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In the Chinese-Japanese War the battle of the Yalu was the first battle fought between warships of modern make, and, except on paper, neither the men who made them nor the men who fought them knew what the ships could do, or what they might not do.
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This is an attempt to tell the story of Baron Harden-Hickey, the Man Who Made Himself King, the man who was born after his time.
If the reader, knowing something of the strange career of Harden-Hickey, wonders why one writes of him appreciatively rather than in amusement, he is asked not to judge Harden-Hickey as one judges a contemporary.
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It is reported that the last words of Charles Frohman before he went down on the ill-starred “Lusitania” were: “Why should we fear death? It is the most beautiful adventure of life.”
It was a great heart said that, holding it-self a bit aloof from the game, not too entangled with earth’s interests. For the fine soul is always above his pleasures, above his pains.
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Any sunny afternoon, on Fifth Avenue, or at night in the table d’hote restaurants of University Place, you may meet the soldier of fortune who of all his brothers in arms now living say is the most remarkable. You may have noticed him; a stiffly erect, distinguished-looking man, with gray hair, an imperial of the fashion of Louis Napoleon, fierce blue eyes, and across his forehead a sabre cut.
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When L’Olonnois arrived at Tortuga he caused great astonishment among his old associates; that he had come back a comparative pauper surprised no one, for this was a common thing to happen to a pirate, but the wonder was that he got back at all.
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“In Denmark,” said the man of ideas, coming into the smoking room, “I see that they have original ideas on the subject of advertising. According to the usually well-informed Daily Lyre, all ‘bombastic’ advertising is punished with a fine. The advertiser is expected to describe his wares in restrained, modest language. In case this idea should be introduced into England, I have drawn up a few specimen advertisements which, in my opinion, combine attractiveness with a shrinking modesty at which no censor could cavil.”
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[This is the story of a young frontiersman, whom I knew, myself.]
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Jackson’s Hole, Wyoming, was named after one Jackson, a pioneer, explorer, ranchman, and horseman. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of horse thieves who, gathering up their captured steeds, would run them into this peaceful valley to feed them on the rich, natural hay until they could be driven out at a different angle and sold to some one who knew nothing of their former ownership. Jackson’s Hole was also the home of desperadoes who had fled from justice. Jackson’s Hole was the place that I was going to in the summer of 1899.
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‘Adventures,’ said the gifted Mr. Disraeli, ‘are to the adventurous.’ Stevenson somewhere recommends the conception of life as a series of adventures, each morning witnessing as it were a new embarkation upon some treasure-quest or feat of arms. And I have often observed that my adventurous friends have a knack of reporting with all the flavor of genuine adventures, experiences which upon sober reflection seem rather to fade into the light of common day. It would appear, therefore, that it is they who put the adventurous into life, rather than that life is responsible.
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One day a young fellow was hunting deer near Pinto Creek, twelve miles from Fort Clark in Texas. His name was Henry Shane, and, although a German by birth, he had early emigrated to the Lone Star State, where he had joined the United States army and had fought in the more important battles of the Mexican War.
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It was the year 1840. Texas was still a wild country, but the white settlers were pressing forward to farm and to raise cattle and horses. The redskins did not like it.
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In 1781 was born in Frederick County, Maryland, a pioneer who was truly entitled to the name of “The Mighty Hunter.”
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“You will do, boy, I will need you!”
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Listen, young man! The cleverest man in the world is the man that tells the truth, and tells it all the time, not occasionally.
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When “Mad Anthony” Wayne was furiously battling with Little Turtle at Fallen Timbers, a daring adventurer was with him who was subsequently to play a most important part in the exploration of the then unconquered and unexplored West. Hardy, utterly fearless, and possessed of wonderful agility,—such was Robert McLellan, one of the most noted scouts that ever operated upon the border, and a rifleman whose aim was both quick and marvellously true.
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Having organized an expedition to the great Lake Okechobee, some thirty miles due west from the Indian River Inlet, we hired a wagon and pair of mules to carry our tents and necessary baggage, but, no other animals being attainable, only those of us who were fit for a tramp of nearly a hundred miles could go.
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We were trailing the ‘riders’ of P Ranch across the plains to a hollow in the hills called the ‘Troughs,’ where they were to round up a lot of cattle for a branding.
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“Boys, watch your mother and grandfather for a few hours, because I am going out fishing. There is no danger of attack from redskins, for none have been seen for six months. If, however, any one comes to our cabin with news of prowling bands, shoot off your rifles three times. This will warn me of any danger to you, and I will hasten home.”
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The ordinary story of the pirate, or the wicked man in general, no matter how successful he may have been in his criminal career, nearly always ends disastrously, and in that way points a moral which doubtless has a good effect on a large class of people, who would be very glad to do wrong, provided no harm was likely to come to them in consequence.
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Two red men paddled down the White River, far in the western portion of the state of Virginia, one bright morning in the month of May, 1765. As they rounded a bend in the stream, before them was a little trapper’s son, apparently with no one with him. He was throwing pebbles into the water and was laughing as they splashed upon the surface of the stream.
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In June, 1824, I embarked at Liverpool on board the Vibelia transport with the head-quarters of my regiment, which was proceeding to Halifax, Nova Scotia.
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The whole fourteen hundred—one might say two thousand—miles of coast extending from Puget’s Sound to Behring’s Strait is a succession of beautiful and picturesque archipelagoes, consisting of hundreds, if not thousands, of islands, through which there are countless water-caves, lakes, bays, inlets, as smooth as Lake George and the Hudson, and far more lovely.
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On the evening of December 23 word was brought into camp by one of the hands, who had been looking up the mules, that he had come across the tracks of some twenty-five turkeys, within five or six miles of camp. This was indeed great news. Hope dawned upon us. We should have the fat turkey for Christmas, at all events.
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It was the 18th of July before the aspects of the ice about us gave me the hope of progress. We had prepared ourselves for the new encounter with the sea and its trials by laying in a store of lumme [an Arctic bird], two hundred and fifty of which had been duly skinned, spread open, and dried on the rocks as the entremets of our bread-dust and tallow.
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After proceeding about two hours in a southerly direction, we emerged towards midday from the dreary belt of the Cross Timber, and to our infinite delight beheld “the great prairie,” stretching to the right and left before us.
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When the little fleet of Spanish vessels, including the one which had been captured by Bartholemy Portuguez and his men, were on their way to Campeachy, they met with very stormy weather so that they were separated, and the ship which contained Bartholemy and his companions arrived first at the port for which they were bound.
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Patagonia as it offered itself to my observation more than answered the descriptions of geographers,—bleak, barren, desolate, beyond description or conception,—only to be appreciated by being seen.
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