LIGHTS twinkled from every cabin as Clayton passed through the camp.Outside the kitchen doors,miners,bare to the waist,were bathing their blackened faces and bodies,with children,tattered and unclean,but healthful,playing about them;within,women in loose gowns,with sleeves unrolled and with disordered hair,moved like phantoms through clouds of savory smoke.The commissary was brilliantly lighted.At a window close by improvident miners were drawing the wages of the day,while their wives waited in the store with baskets unfilled.In front of the commissary a crowd of negroes were talking,laughing,singing,and playing pranks like children.Here two,with grinning faces,were squared off,not to spar,but to knock at each other's tattered hat;there two more,with legs and arms indistinguishable,were wrestling;close by was the sound of a mouth-harp,a circle of interested spectators,and,within,two dancers pitted against each other,and shuffling with a zest that labor seemed never to affect.
Immediately after supper Clayton went to his room,lighted his lamp,and sat down to a map he was tracing.His room was next the ground,and a path ran near the open window.As he worked,every passer-by would look curiously within.On the wall above his head a pair of fencing-foils were crossed under masks.Below these hung two pistols,such as courteous Claude Duval used for side-arms.Opposite were two old rifles,and beneath them two stone beer-mugs,and a German student's pipe absurdly long and richly ornamented.A mantel close by was filled with curiosities,and near it hung a banjo unstrung,a tennis-racket,and a blazer of startling colors.Plainly they were relics of German student life,and the odd contrast they made with the rough wall and ceiling suggested a sharp change in the fortunes of the young worker beneath.Scarcely six months since he had been suddenly summoned home from Germany.The reason was vague,but having read of recent American failures,notably in Wall Street,he knew what had happened.Reaching New York,he was startled by the fear that his mother was dead,so gloomy was the house,so subdued his sister's greeting,and so worn and sad his father's face.
The trouble,however,was what he had guessed,and he had accepted it with quiet resignation.The financial wreck seemed complete;but one resource,however,was left.Just after the war Clayton's father had purchased mineral lands in the South,and it was with the idea of developing these that he had encouraged the marked scientific tastes of his son,and had sent him to a German university.In view of his own disaster,and the fact that a financial tide was swelling southward,his forethought seemed an inspiration.To this resource Clayton turned eagerly;and after a few weeks at home,which were made intolerable by straitened circumstances,and the fancied coldness of friend and acquaintance,he was hard at work in the heart of the Kentucky mountains.
The transition from the careless life of a student was swift and bitter;it was like beginning a new life with a new identity,though Clayton suffered less than he anticipated.He had become interested from the first.There was nothing in the pretty glen,when he came,but a mountaineer's cabin and a few gnarled old apple-trees,the roots of which checked the musical flow of a little stream.Then the air was filled with the tense ring of hammer and saw,the mellow echoes of axes,and the shouts of ox-drivers from the forests,indignant groans from the mountains,and a little town sprang up before his eyes,and cars of shining coal wound slowly about the mountainside.
Activity like this stirred his blood.Busy from dawn to dark,he had no time to grow miserable.His work was hard,to be sure,but it made rest and sleep a luxury,and it had the new zest of independence;he even began to take in it no little pride when he found himself an essential part of the quick growth going on.
When leisure came,he could take to woods filled with unknown birds,new forms of insect life,and strange plants and flowers.
With every day,too,he was more deeply stirred by the changing beauty of the mountains hidden at dawn with white mists,faintly veiled through the day with an atmosphere that made him think of Italy,and enriched by sunsets of startling beauty.But strongest of all was the interest he found in the odd human mixture about him-the simple,good-natured darkies who slouched past him,magnificent in physique and picturesque with rags;occasional foreigners just from Castle Garden,with the hope of the New World still in their faces;and now and then a gaunt mountaineer stalking awkwardly in the rear of the march toward civilization.
Gradually it had dawned upon him that this last,silent figure,traced through Virginia,was closely linked by blood and speech with the common people of England,and,moulded perhaps by the influences of feudalism,was still strikingly unchanged;that now it was the most distinctively national remnant on American soil,and symbolized the development of the continent,and that with it must go the last suggestions of the pioneers,with their hardy physiques,their speech,their manners and customs,their simple architecture and simple mode of life.It was soon plain to him,too,that a change was being wrought at last-the change of destruction.The older mountaineers,whose bewildered eyes watched the noisy signs of an unintelligible civilization,were passing away.Of the rest,some,sullen and restless,were selling their homesteads and following the spirit of their forefathers into a new wilderness;others,leaving their small farms in adjacent valleys to go to ruin,were gaping idly about the public works,caught up only too easily by the vicious current of the incoming tide.In a century the mountaineers must be swept away,and their ignorance of the tragic forces at work among them gave them an unconscious pathos that touched Clayton deeply.
