One heart that never ached

Contents

Chapter

I. A Strange Mission to the Everglades 1

II. Caught up by Flames 8

Preface

The heroine of this book, a real character, has been rightly named ''One Heart That Never Ached,'' the Third Wonder of the World born of Woman, The Incomparable Jesus, Joan of Arc, Joan Allgaits. Most indulgent reader, do not think the above remark sacrilege; remember the divine nature becomes every member of the race of man. Made a little lower than the angels, but through their immortal nature capable of attaining the plane of a God. Among such is this book sent forth for its Weal or its Woe.

The Author.

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CHAPTER I. A Strange Mission to the Everglades

In the year A. D. 1886 I was called to make a trip to Southwestern Florida. I had no objections to visiting the country of mosquitoes, tadpoles, frogs, turtles, big snakes, alligators, jack-o’-lanterns and will-o’-the-wisps, but I disliked the mission I was to go on. However, I had been selected to make the trip and there was no alternative. After due preparation, on December 17th, in a heavy sleet and snow, with a keen Northeast wind, I took the train at Chicago on the C. & E. I. for Evansville, Ind. Here I changed to the L. & N. via Birmingham for Montgomery, Ala. There I changed to the A. T. L. Coast Line to Valdosta, Ga., and there I took the A. C. I. down to Punta Gorda, Fla. This last named railroad runs down Peas River, crossing it twice, the mouth of which is Charlotte Harbor, ‘'hard by” Punta Gorda. One peculiar feature of Punta Gorda is, the houses are all built on the same pattern and near the same size; also, the people look so much alike you would think them all akin.

I found the hotel by the idle crowd lounging around the front. I called for rooms and was shown into a little dingy back room opening on the garden. I changed my traveling garb for something like a wood-chopper’s attire, more suited to the climate. I came out and asked the proprietor where I could get a job.

‘‘There is nothing much going on here now, but if you were over on Big Cypress Swamp you might get a job.”

“How far is that?” said I.

“Thirty miles, when you can go through and cross Caloosahatchee, and about seventy-five around by water. But, as it is uncertain about getting a job over there, if you can rive pickets I will give you a job that you can make your keep, if you want to stop over awhile.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I told him I could rive pickets all right, so we closed the bargain. I was to rive four thousand pickets for a month’s keep. I still knew nothing about what I had agreed to do, but it was necessary for me in some way to get in sympathy with those tallow-faced idlers, if I made a success of my mission. One clause of the contract required the employer to furnish the tools and timber cut. He loaded the tools into a wheelbarrow, a poleax, a wooden maul, a hand mallet, an iron wedge, three dogwood “gluts” and a froe. Now, the last named tool looked to me more like a grub hoe with the edge on the side and the handle put in the wrong way, than any thing I could think of. How it was to be used I had not the faintest idea.

My employer led the way and I followed.

wrestling with the wheelbarrow. We passed around a small field into a cypress grove. Here he showed me some logs about five feet long and a foot and a half through, which he called “cuts.’’

“This,” said he, “is the timber; the pickets are to be made three inches wide and threequarters thick.” He then left me to my ignorance of how to begin. Having seen a few poplar trees split into furnace wood, I supposed that was what he called riving.

I took my ax and tried to start it as I had seen wood-choppers do, but it was no start. Then I took the iron wedge and with the maul drove it up. The wood was lockey and stringy. I drove in all my wooden wedges, then the ax and last the froe. The stick was still hard fast together and so were all my tools. I was as wet as if I had fallen into the creek. The gong sounded for dinner and I had not made a picket. My hands were blistered; my shoulders ached, and my wrists cramped.

I started to dinner. As I began to cool off every joint in my body became stiff and sore. When I came in sight of the loungers they began to quiz,

“How many pickets did you make?”

“Was the timber good?”

“I’ll bet four bits he made three hundred,” said one fellow.

“In good timber I can make four hundred a day,” said another.

I passed through the crowd, my clothes dripping with perspiration. I bathed my hands and face and went to the mirror to dress my hair. My face was as red as a beet; my clothes so soiled I was ashamed to go in the dining room.

During the meal I was asked where I came from. I answered, ‘‘Chicago.’’ At this a quiet young man said:

“My name is Weber; what is yours?”

I replied, “My name is Joe Turpin.”

“Are you the man making the pickets?” said Weber.

“Yes. I contracted to make four thousand,” said I.

“That’s queer,” said he, “about fifteen years ago a fellow by the name of Allgaits came here from Chicago and took a job to make four thousand pickets, but he never split one cut open.”

“Had he any family?” said I.

“He had one little girl, the queerest thing in the world. She was three years old when he came down here,” said he.

“Where are they now,” said I.

“They are somewhere over on the Everglades,” said he. I was more interested in this dim trail of the object of my mission than I was about getting my tools out of that cypress log.

“Do you ever work at making pickets ?” said I.

“Sometimes^ if the price is good,” said he.

“How much will you charge to help me this afternoon?” said I.

‘‘A dollar and a half/’ said he. So I employed him, not so much for what he could do, as for what he might say. When we got to the log with all the tools mauled into it I thought the fellow would have a fit. He simply rolled on the ground and bellowed like a dying calf. As he got up trying to straighten his face, he said,

‘Ts that all you did this morning?”

‘"Yes,” said I. ‘Tt was late when I got out this morning.” He roared out again, reeled and staggered around and said:

‘'You cannot split cypress that way; you have to split it basket fashion.”

He mauled and pestled around until he got the ax out, then chopped and mauled the froe out, and with the maul, ax, and froe finally loosened the iron wedge. Then he took the ax and maul and cut a straight line with the grain of the wood and full length of the log. Three inches from this he cut another. He then set the iron wedge with the grain of the wood and started a slab one inch thick, including the bark. Then he ran the froe under the slab, and working the handle up and down split the slab off the same size from end to end. This process he continued until only the heart of the log was left. In this way he rived about one hundred and fifty, and we started to the hotel.

On the way I asked him to tell me about that queer little girl of Allgaits’.

“Well,” he said, “she had the hardest time of any mortal I ever heard of, and she was the happiest being I ever met in my life. She sang like a bird and had a glad look on her face all the time.’’

‘'Was she pretty?”

“Well now,” said he, “you cannot think about how she looks when you are where she is. It is like looking at a jackdaw and listening to a nightengale. You know she is grown now, but she still has a child’s heart. Well, now, I just cannot describe her ; you have to see her to know any thing about her, she is so queer.” By this time I had decided to throw up my job and start for the Everglades, and said:

“How would you like to take a trip over to that watery country?”

“I wll go anywhere for money enough,” said he.

“If we should be over there a month how much wages would you ask?” said I.

“If you furnish the keep and cartage I want twenty-five dollars,” said he. I closed the deal with him and called the proprietor and said:

“I shall have to throw up my job.”

“I cannot let you off ; I must have the pickets,” he said.

“I cannot make them, so that is the end of the matter.”

“Then you must have them made, or I will sue you and put you to the cost and damage.” Weber came to my relief and said:

“If you don’t mind paying a little premium I will take the job off your hands.”

‘‘How much do you ask?’’ said I.

‘‘Twenty dollars,” said Weber. I paid him on the spot and he settled with the proprietor by paying him ten dollars. Then the old skin-flint charged me three dollars board. When I remonstrated he said:

“If you had filled your contract you would be a regular boarder; if you quit you are a transient.”

Next morning we had our luggage carted down to the landing where we found a little sailing craft, “Louise,” ready to make a trip down to Naples, a small burg on the coast at the edge of Big Cypress Swamp. After higgle-haggling with the skipper about the fare and overplus of baggage we were off for the Everglades.

CHAPTER 11.

Caught up by Flames.

While Joe Turpin and Dick Weber make the sail down to Naples we will drop back to Chicago, A. D. 1869. In that year an old couple by the name of Coastmyre came to Chicago and bought a large property fronting on the river, from which you could see every boat that passed or landed. It was known to their neighbors that Mr. Coastmyre met every large vessel and watched the landing of all passengers, but was never known to make an inquiry. When returning from these seemingly fruitless visits the good wife would be standing in the door until he came in sight and silently shook his head. Then she would go sorrowfully about her cares.

Thus time passed for two years, and the neighbors knew no more of the Coastmyre’s than at first. On April 6th, 1871, an old rickety stern-wheeler landed and the first passenger ashore was a brawny, weatherbeaten sailor. In one hand he lugged a great seaman’s bag; in the other he carried a weasly little child. The old man eyed him carefully until he was in a few feet of him, then with a groan, he said :

‘‘Allgaits, where is our daughter?”

Allgaits dropped his bag and sank to his knees and cried:

‘'Oh my God, is it you? We thought you were all dead!’’

“Where is Isedora?” said the old man.

“She was buried at sea four days ago,” said Allgaits. At this the old man bowed to the ground and moaned like one dying. Allgaits placed the little one’s bony arms around his neck and said:

“Grandpa, take this dear child. I am not fit to keep it one minute longer. I am too rough to handle a tender little thing like this; besides, she is starving to death. I do not know what to feed it, or how to feed it; but she never cries or makes any noise.”

Mr. Coastmyre raised up and pulled the little claws from around his neck and looked into the little pinched face. The baby smiled and reached for his neck again. When he looked into those little eyes, sparkling with love and gladness, his heart melted, and he put his great arms around the tiny form and kissed its smiling lips. The little wonder was now shaking with innocent laughter, clinging to his neck like the very essence of affection.

With his eyes brimming with tears and his heart gushing over with love he started for the cottage. Allgaits took up his heavy bag and followed, feeling great relief from the care of the tender, precious charge. The good old mother met them at the door and was speechless for she recognized Allgaits, and seeing the old man carrying the little one, she knew something was wrong. Mr. Coastmyre approached his dear old wife, unable to speak. He placed the little one in her arms. At first she seemed to shrink from it, but when the little creature smiled and hooked its little arms around her neck, her heart yearned; she kissed it and started in the house. Allgaits cleared his throat and said:

“Dear Grandma, Isedora was buried at sea four days ago, and the little one hasn't eaten a thimble full since. I knew not what to feed it or how to feed it: in God’s name give it something to eat.”

Mrs. Coastmyre got some fresh milk and light toast and the little one ate like a starved cat. When she had eaten what the Grandmother thought good for her she put away the dish. The little one watched the dish wistfully until it was covered up. Then she began cheerfully to chatter and jabber, apparently the only happy being on the place. Finally she fell asleep, the peaceful slumber of the innocent and the good.

Then Allgaits began and told the sad story of how he lost his money gambling. Then how he lost his job, was turned out of doors for want of rent. How his brave wife worked and suffered for shelter, food and clothes. When their clothes were worn out, how she mended and patched their frail threadbare garments. How she tried to make preparations for the little stranger; how tenderly she cared for it, and under trials not to be mentioned until the old skipper, through pure pity, offered free passage on the ‘‘Jayhawker.’’ How happy she was aboard the creaky old vessel ; how she ministered to the wretched passengers when fever broke out, and finally, when the voyage was most over, she was suddenly stricken and died. Here he broke down and could tell no more. And the old couple were glad of it for they could hear no more.

This was the last conversation ever held between the parties of this sad story. The good old mother, without further understanding, took full charge of the queer little child. The old gentleman never afterward seemed to know that Allgaits was on the place. He moped about and tried to see that the old lady and babe had every necessary. While Allgaits drummed the town every day for something to do.

Thus, time dragged on till October 9th, 1871, when that awful fire reached this strange home. After the fire had raged all day the 8th, in early morning of the 9th, the wind had shifted and a fresh gale sprang up. With lightning speed that awful cloud of black smoke and lurid flame rushed like an avalanche upon the Coastmyre home. Allgaits, in the midst of rescuers and fire fighters, trying to save the city that had refused him work, heard the roar and crash of the furious outbreak of fresh flames. With a great pike hook in hand he bolted for the Coastmyre home.

When he came in sight the house was literally baptized in swirling flame and smoke. As he leaped over the garden wall at the rear of the house he heard an agonizing shriek and the flames stooped over and licked up the shrubbery in the yard. He saw a little bundle drop over the garden wall. The flames lapped back over and sheared the garden clean of vegetation, singeing his clothes, hair and eyebrows. As the flames reared and bent over the other way the smoke lifted and he saw the little bundle huddling against the garden wall. He dashed forward and clasped it in his arms. It was still breathing and trying to smile, with its little shriveled face crisped and discolored with fire, hair singed off and clothes scorched. When he reached safety the little one screeched out:

'‘Grandpa and Grandmamma went up in a chariot of fire, like the old prophet.”

As she wailed out this strange expression Allgaits shuddered and pressed her closer to his heart. When the fire died out the skeletons of the old couple were found hugged in each other’s arms by the side of the garden wall where the little one was dropped over.

She was not allowed to see these grewsome remains, or to hear anything of the awful fate of her grandparents, hence she retained that strange delusion through childhood and youth. And even when reason began to assert control of her mind she gave it up as large children give up the reality of "Santa Claus.” And it is believed she secretly retained it through life. She has been known several times to take great delight in telling it to juvenile audiences. When she was in proper mood and had opportunity she told it like this:

^'Papa was gone out to look for work and Grandpapa and Grandmamma were singing and praying, and as the great fiery chariot came up they started out to meet it, and Grandpapa picked me up to take me to heaven with them, but he saw papa coming and dropped me over the garden wall for papa. Grandmamma was shouting and Grandpapa was laughing, and they went sailing up into the skies. And there were ten thousand angels flying around them, singing and playing harps of gold.”

How this awful tragedy photographed such a scene on the mind of this queer child no one knows. It is barely possible she was so near the border of the glorious realm that she saw in reality what seems to our coarser natures to be a delusion.

Allgaits took the little suffering mite to the nearest hospital and had its burns dressed, and then disappeared, and it was supposed the child died. The only thing on record was that the child was rescued from the Coastmyre home and all other occupants perished, and that she was brought there by Allgaits, her father, and the Coastmyres were the grandparents.

All trace of Allgaits and the little burnt child ended at the hospital record until May 4th, 1886, in that terrible tragedy afterwards called ‘‘The hay-market riot.” During the excitement that followed the slaughter of seven policemen and the wounding of sixty others by a bomb supposed to have been thrown by Schnaubelt. One

Denis Waynwell was arrested as a suspect. From papers found on his person it was apparent that he was a kind of a jackleg lawyer. Among the papers was a letter postmarked at Punta Gorda, Florida, and signed Conway Allgaits.

This letter was in reference to the Coastmyre property, claiming Joan Allgaits as sole heir, being now about eighteen years old. Another paper was found indicating that Waynwell had received hush money from parties in possession of the Coastmyre property.

About this time the “Chicago drainage canal” was being agitated, and an engineer had been employed to make a preliminary survey. When he encountered the Coastmyre property he was estopped by a Mr. J. Loophold. This brought the matter into court and it was evident that Mr. J. Loophold’s title was fictitious.

The attorney for the commissioners secured the letter taken from Waynwell and copied the records at the hospital. With this data he called on the Pinkertons and closed a bargain with them to present Miss Joan Allgaits at court in Chicago identified as grand-daughter and heir of the Coastmyres. For this service he agreed to pay five thousand dollars and expenses.

The chief called a council of his force and after deliberating, deputed one of the keenest young men on the list to the task, charging him to proceed with all possible speed. And thus on the 17th of December, 1886, Joe Turpin started for Punta Gorda, Florida.

CHAPTER III. A Night in the Everglades

The '‘Louise’’ was gliding over the ruffled water with a sharp breeze in her favor when Turpin and Weber began to discuss means of getting from Naples over to the Everglades. A swarthy looking passenger "butted in” and said :

"If you want to go from Naples across Big Cypress Swamp to the Everglades I am about the onliest one that’s got a rig for the trip this time of the year.”

"What will you charge to take us over there?” said Turpin.

"Ten or eleven dollars; it depends on the amount of luggage and the weather,” said the passenger.

"What does the weather have to do with the price,” said Turpin.

"Every thing, most. I ought to know; I’ve been carrying people over there about fifteen years,” said the passenger.

"How long does it take to make the trip?” said Turpin.

"Well, now, that depends more on the weather than anything else,” said the passenger.

"How is that?” said Turpin.

"Why, you see them sloughs get up, and you have to swim and wade slush and mire for miles, and sometimes carry your luggage on your back good distances,” said the passenger.

‘‘What sort of a rig have you?” said Turpin.

“Why I have the best steer you ever pulled a rope over and as good a sculler as ever slid across any swamp,” said the passenger.

“What do you mean? Do you call the oars a steer?” asked Turpin.

“Well, now, you must be from Chicago, the most outlandish place in the world; don’t know what a steer is? I reckon you are all foreigners of one sort or another. The first man I carried over there had an outlandish name ; he was from Chicago and didn’t know what a steer was. He called it an ox, and called the yoke harness,” said the passenger.

“What was his name?” said Turpin.

“Allgaits, he had the curiousest child I ever saw ; she didn’t look like a human, but she could sing like an angel,” said the passenger. At this another bloodless looking fellow stepped up and said :

“Talking about that girl of Allgaits, why she is the trump of the world. Nobody knows that she is human. She doesn’t look line one; she sings like an angel and talks like a prophetess. Last summer I was going across the Everglades to take Undertree’s runaway horse home and the sloughs were full and the mire was at its worst. The horse fagged. Dark came just as I crossed Alligator Slough and started up Crockodile

Bayou. The horned owls were hooting in the dense forest, and the screech owls were uttering their shrill quivering chirrup in the clumps of trees. A lone grey wolf set up a mournful howl in the distance. I could hear the crunching croak of the alligators over in Mud Lake, and occasionally the familiar note of the whippoorwill in the underbrush. Three or four large jack-o'lanterns were waltzing around over Snake Basin and a giant will-o’-the-wisp was shying around a great pile of drift wood. I was feeling like I had swallowed a pan full of live frogs and somebody poured a basketful of crawfish down my back.”

'‘That horse was so tired he could scarcely put one foot before the other. Just as I was passing around Canary Mound that queer girl of Allgaits’ broke out with one of the sweetest songs I ever heard. And then I knew for the first time why Paul never told how he felt in the seventh heaven. He just naturally couldn’t. I cannot even try to explain my feelings. Why, sirs, that horse was plum paralyzed ; not another step could I move him. When the song stopped Allgaits heard me thumping the critter and he came out and hailed me and said, 'Get down off that dead horse ; he looks to have been dead two hours. Get off of him and slue him around and bail a lot of wind out of him; get some ballast into him and anchor him for the night and he may be able to travel again.’

“I got off and turned his head towards the feed lot and then he moved. We took off the rig, fed him and went in. Well, now, I am not going to try to describe that guirl, but when she spoke I thought somebody had picked a harp string. Oh, no mistake, she is the trump of the world.’’

The interesting part of this story to Turpin was the part referring to the object of his trip. Another four hours’ sail landed them at Naples. As soon as their luggage was ashore, Jonas Reynolds, this was the name of the passenger who had the rig, went post haste for his outfit. They had not long to wait. He came driving up with one steer hitched to a conveyance. It might have been taken for either a wagon, a sleigh or a boat. It had wheels and shafts; it also had runners, and yet the shape and build of a boat.

Without knowing which they were to pay, ten or eleven dollars, the luggage was loaded in and a seat placed for the two passengers. With the driver in front, whip and rope in hand, they started for the Everglades. The steer, though a great lumbering animal, was eager to go and the road led right into the forest bordering Big Cypress Swamp. About the middle of the afternoon they came to the Bullbat Slough. At first the wheels sank down in the mire until the runners were flat on the ground, and they were sliding along as if the conveyance was made for that kind of road. Next the steer was halfside deep in water and the conveyance was floating like any boat. Soon the steer stuck out his nose and was swimming awkwardly along, but the wagon, sleigh, boat, floated along as evenly as ever. The steer began to pull at his feet and rise out of the water, the wheels began to turn and bring up mud; finally they were sliding along in mud.

At last the road became firmer and the wheels rose up, rolling as at first. Here they came to a patch of cypress knees. The road was crooked and narrow. The knees were too high for the axles to pass over them. Often they had to get out and pry the wagon up, and sometimes they had to chop down the tallest. By the time they were out of the knees the sun had disappeared behind a great cloud of tree tops. Dusk was coming on, owls were hooting, frogs croaking, wolves howling, mosquitoes humming and snakes hissing in every direction.

They came to a mound of some five acres in extent, comparatively dry ground but surrounded by a low flat marsh. Here the driver told them they must camp for the night. He took out the steer, hobbled and belled him and turned him loose to browse. He then got out his grub, kindled a fire and prepared supper. While eating supper Jonas Reynolds gave them the following story :

‘T suppose you knew we were on historic ground. This is Black Hawk Mound. Here Black Hawk, the mighty chief of the Sac and Fox Indians, assembled a thousand picked warriors and took a murderous oath over four hundred bloody scalps of pale faces to exterminate the white race. That took place in 1831 ; since then settlers and travelers have witnessed wondrous things around this mound.’’

At the close of this remark he pointed toward the nearest edge of the mound where numbers of great balls of phosphoric lights were fairly bubbling out of the ground. Some chased one another around in circles; others moved olf in straight lines for a distance and turned at right angles. At the further side of the mound, among other noises, could be distinctly heard the yaping of a grey fox. In another direction three monster will-o’-the-wisps were seesawing and bopeeping around the great forest trees. These weird sights quickened the superstitious chord of the imagination and shrieks, screams, moans and groans were mingled with the soughing of the wind in the tree tops, the buzz of mosquitoes, the croaking of a thousand frogs, making the night hideous.

To one not used to such surroundings this was an experience long to be remembered and never to be desired. The night literally wore away, and if such a state should be called sleep, that was filled with most horrid dreams of Indian attacks, sword thrusts, tomahawk wounds, scalping scenes, blood, cries of women and children for help and the war whoop of savages. When day came it was not light on account of a dense fog. The trees were dripping like a May shower.

Jonas prepared breakfast and after the meal caught the steer, hitched up, loaded in their bedewed bedding and baggage and again took up the journey.

On examination Turpin and Weber found themselves tatooed all over with mosquito bites. Every variety of mosquito thrives well here — the black legged, the speckled winged, the ball faced and the gallinipper. The black legged mosquito has the longest, keenest bill, and bites so slowly, skilfully and easily you never know he is about until he turns loose and then you think you are stung by a yellow jacket. The speckled winged makes his incision at one thrust and if not knocked off, fills himself instantly, and you never know he is gone until you see a bump with a speck of blood oozed out in the middle. But the ball faced has a coarser bill with larger saws, and you know where he is located all the time, and also when he turns loose. The gallinipper is three times the size of other mosquitoes. His bill is much longer in proportion, and he is generally biting you by the time you hear his wings and you think he is biting for the next hour. I think these pests were largely the cause of the ugly dreams of the night on Black Hawk Mound.