"The Last of the Boatmen" has not become altogether a mythic personage. There be around us those who still remember him as one of flesh and blood, as well as of proportions simply human, albeit he lacked not somewhat of the heroic in stature, as well as in being a "perfect terror" to people!
As regards Mike, it has not yet become that favourite question of doubt- "Did such a being really live?" Nor have we heard the skeptic inquiry- "Did such a being really die?" But his death in half a dozen different ways and places has been asserted, and this, we take it, is the first gathering of the mythic haze-that shadowy and indistinct enlargement of outline, which, deepening through long ages, invests distinguished mortality with the sublimer attributes of the hero and the demi-god. Had Mike lived in "early Greece," his flat-boat feats would, doubtless, in poetry, have rivalled those of Jason, in his ship; while in Scandinavian legends, he would have been a rivergod, to a certainty! The Sea-kings would have sacrificed to hirn every time they "crossed the bar," on their return; and as for Odin, himself, he would be duly advised, as far as any interference went, to "lay low and keep dark, or, pre-haps," &c.
The story of Mike Fink, including a death, has been beautifully told by the late Morgan Neville, of Cincinnati, a gentleman of the highest literary taste, as well as of the most amiable and polished manners. "The Last of the Boatmen," as his sketch is entitled, is unexceptionable in style, and, we believe, in fact, with one exception, and that is, the statement as to the manner and place of Fink's death. He did not die on the Arkansas, but at Fort Henry, near the mouth of the Yellow Stone. Our informant is Mr. Chas. Keemle of this paper, who held a command in the neighbourhood, at the time, and to whom every circumstance connected with the affair is most familiar. We give the story as it is told by himself.
In the year I822, steamboats having left the "keels" and "broadhorns" entirely "out of sight," and Mike having, in consequence, fallen from his high estate- that of being "a little bit the almightiest man on the river, any how"-after a term of idleness, frolic and desperate rowdyism, along the different towns, he, at St. Louis, entered the service of the Mountain Fur Company, raised by our late fellow-citizen Gen. W. H. Ashley, as a trapper and hunter; and in that capacity was he employed by Major Henry, in command of the fort at the mouth of Yellow Stone river, when the occurrence took place of which we write.
Mike, with many generous qualities, was always a reckless dare-devil; but, at this time, advancing in years and decayed in influence, above all become a victim of whisky, he was morose and desperate in the extreme. There was a government regulation which forbade the free use of alcohol at the trading posts on the Missouri river, and this was a continual source of quarrel between the men and the commandant, Major Henry,- on the part of Fink, particularly. One of his freaks was to march with his rifle into the fort, and demand a supply of spirits. Argument was fruitless, force not to be thought of, and when, on being positively denied, Mike drew up his rifle and sent a ball through the cask, deliberately walked up and filled his can, while his particular "boys" followed his example, all that could be done was to look upon the matter as one of his "queer ways," and that was the end of it.
This state of things continued for some time; Mike's temper and exactions growing more unbearable every day, until, finally, a "split" took place, not only between himself and the commandant, but many others in the fort, and the unruly boatman swore he would not live among them. Followed only by a youth named Carpenter, whom he had brought up, and for whom he felt a rude but strong attachment, he prepared a sort of cave in the river's bank, furnished it with a supply of whisky, and, with his companion, turned in to pass the winter, which was then closing upon them. In this place he buried himself, sometimes unseen for weeks, his protege providing what else was necessary beyond the whisky. At length attempts were used, on the part of those in the fort, to withdraw Carpenter from Fink; foul insinuations were made as to the nature of their connection; the youth was twitted with being a mere slave, &c., all which (Fink heard of it in spite of his retirement) served to breed distrust between the two, and though they did not separate, much of their cordiality ceased.
The winter wore away in this sullen state of torpor; spring came with its reviving influences, and to celebrate the season, a supply of alcohol was procured, and a number of his acquaintances from the fort coming to &4rouse out" Mike, a desperate "frolic," of course, ensued.
There were river yarns, and boatmen songs, and "nigger breakdowns,'5 interspersed with wrestling-matches, jumping, laugh, and yell, the can circulating freely, until Mike became somewhat mollified.
"I tell you what it is, boys," he cried, "the fort's a skunk-hole, and I rather live with the bars than stay in it. Some on ye's bin trying to part me and my boy, that I love like my own cub-but no matter. Maybe he's pisoned against me; but, Carpenter, (striking the youth heavily on the shoulder,) I took you by the hand when it had forgotten the touch of a father's or a mother's-you know me to be a man, and you ain't a going to turn out a dog!"
Whether it was that the youth fancied something insulting in the manner of the appeal, or not, we can't say; but it was not responded to very warmly, and a reproach followed from Mike. However, they drank together, and the frolic went on, until Mike, filling his can, walked off some forty yards, placed it upon his head, and called to Carpenter to take his rifle.
This wild feat of shooting cans off each other's head was a favourite one with Mike-himself and "boy" generally winding up a hard frolic with this savage, but deeply-meaning proof of continued confidence;-as for risk, their eagle eyes and iron nerves defied the might of whisky. After their recent alienation, a doubly generous impulse, without doubt, had induced Fink to propose and subject himself to the test.
Carpenter had been drinking wildly, and with a boisterous laugh snatched up his rifle. All present had seen the parties "shoot," and this desperate aim, instead of alarming, was merely made a matter of wild jest.
"Your grog is spilt, for ever, Mike!"
"Kill the old varmint, young'un!"
"What'll his skin bring in St. Louis?" &c. &c.
Amid a loud laugh, Carpenter raised his piece-even the jesters remarked that he was unsteady,-"crack! "-the can fell,-a loud shout,but, instead of a smile of pleasure, a dark frown settled upon the face of Fink! He made no motion except to clutch his rifle as though he would have crushed it, and there he stood, gazing at the youth strangely! Various shades of passion crossed his features-surprise, rage, suspicion-but at length they composed themselves into a sad expression; the ball had grazed the top of his head, cutting the scalp, and the thought of treachery had set his heart on fire.
There was a loud call upon Mike to know what he was waiting for, in which Carpenter joined, pointing to the can upon his head and bidding him fire, if he knew how!
"Carpenter, my son," said the boatman, I taught you to shoot differently from that last shot! You've missed once, but you won't again!"
He fired, and his ball, crashing through the forehead of the youth, laid him a corpse amid his, as suddenly hushed, companions!
Time wore on-many at the fort spoke darkly of the deed. Mike Fink had never been known to miss his aim-he had grown afraid of Carpenter-he had murdered him! While this feeling was gathering against him, the unhappy boatman lay in his cave, shunning both sympathy and sustenance. He spoke to none-when he did come forth, 'twas as a spectre, and only to haunt the grave of his "boy," or, if he did break silence, 'twas to burst into a paroxysm of rage against the enemies who had "turned his boy's heart from him!"
At the fort was a man by the name of Talbott, the gunsmith of the station: he was very loud and bitter in his denunciations of the "murderer," as he called Fink, which, finally, reaching the ears of the latter, filled him with the most violent passion, and he swore that he would take the life of his defamer. This threat was almost forgotten, when one day, Talbott, who was at work in his shop, saw Fink enter the fort, his first visit since the death of Carpenter. Fink approached; he was careworn, sick, and wasted; there was no anger in his bearing, but he carried his rifle, (had he ever gone without W) and the gunsmith was not a coolly brave man; moreover, his life had been threatened.
"Fink," cried he, snatching up a pair of pistols from his bench, "don't approach me-if you do, you're a dead man!"
"Talbott," said the boatman, in a sad voice, "you needn't be afraid; you've done me wrong-I'm come to talk to you about-Carpentermy boy!"
He continued to advance, and the gunsmith again called to him:
"Fink! I know you; if you come three steps nearer, I'll fire, by -!"
Mike carried his rifle across his arm, and made no hostile demonstration, except in gradually getting nearer-if hostile his aim was.
"Talbott, you've accused me of murdering-my boy-Carpenter-that I raised from a child-that I loved like a son-that I can't live without! I'm not mad with you now, but you must let me show you that I couldn't do it-that I'd rather died than done it-that you've wronged me-"
By this time he was within a few steps of the door, and Talbott's agitation became extreme. Both pistols were pointed at Fink's breast, in expectation of a spring from the latter.
"By the Almighty above us, Fink, I'll fire-I don't want to speak to you now-don't put your foot on that step-don't."
Fink did put his foot on the step, and the same moment fell heavily within it, receiving the contents of both barrels in his breast! His last and only words were,
"I didn't mean to kill my boy!"
Poor Mike! we are satisfied with our senior's conviction that you did not mean to kill him. Suspicion of treachery, doubtless, entered his mind, but cowardice and murder never dwelt there.
A few weeks after this event, Talbott himself perished in an attempt to cross the Missouri river in a skiff.