Wild western scenes: a narrative of adventures in the western wilderness
By John Beauchamp Jones
John Beauchamp Jones (1810–1866) was a novelist, literary editor and political journalist whose books were very popular during the mid-19th century. During the Civil War, he served as a senior clerk in the Confederate War Department and is today remembered for his diary, published as “A Rebel War Clerk’s Diary at the Confederate States Capital.”
In 1849, Grigg, Elliot & Company of Philadelphia published his book “Wild western scenes: a narrative of adventures in the western wilderness” under the pen name, Luke Shortfield. Although it was pure fiction, this tome was extremely popular with men of the day because it was advertised to include “the exploits of Daniel Boone, the great American pioneer” and “accounts of bear, deer and buffalo hunts—desperate conflicts with the savages—wolf hunts—fishing and fowling adventures—encounters with serpents, etc.”
Also included is one of our favorite accounts of a battle with a giant catfish. It’s the story of two friends—Joe and Glenn—who go to the river to try and catch a “whapper” that Joe has seen in his dreams. As the battle rages, one wonders who might win—man or fish?
“I’ve got a bite!” exclaimed Joe, bending over the verge of the bank and stretching his arms as far as possible over the water, while his line moved about in various directions, indicating truly that a fish had taken the hook.
“Hold fast to the rod this time, Joe,” remarked Glenn, who became interested in the scene.
“Won’t I? Its tied fast to my wrist.”
“Is it not time to pull him up?” asked Glenn, seeing that the fish, so far from being conscious of peril, inclined towards the shore with the line in quest of more food.
“Here goes I,” said Joe, jerking the rod up violently with both hands. No sooner did the fish feel the piercing hook in his mouth than he rose to the surface, and splashing the water several feet round in every direction, darted quickly downwards, in spite of the strenuous efforts of Joe to the contrary.
Nevertheless, Joe entertained no fears about the result; and the fish, as if apprized of the impossibility of capturing the rod, ran along parallel with the shore, gradually approaching the brink of the water, and seemingly with the intention to surrender himself at the feet of the piscator. But this was not his purpose. When Joe made another strong pull, in the endeavor to strand him in the shallow water, the fish again threw up the spray (some of which reached his adversary’s face,) and, turning his head outwards, ran directly away from the shore.
“Pull him back, Joe!,” said Glenn.”
“I am trying with all my might,” replied Joe, “but he’s so plaguy strong he won’t come, hang him!”
“He’ll get away if you don’t mind!” continued Glenn, evincing much animation in his tones and gestures.
“I’ll be drenched if he does,” said Joe, with his arm, to which the rod was lashed, stretched out, while he endeavored to plant his feet firmly in the sand.
“He’ll have you in the water. Cut the rod loose from your wrist!” cried Glenn, as Joe’s foothold gave way and he was truly drawn into the water.
“Oh, good gracious! I’ve got no knife! Give me your hand!” cried Joe, vainly striving to untie the cord.
“Help me! Oh, St. Peter!” he continued, imploringly, as the fish drew him on in the water, in quick but reluctant strides.
“Oh! I’m gone!” he cried, when the water was midway to his chin, and the fish pulling him along with increasing rapidity.
“You are a good swimmer, Joe. Be not alarmed, and you will not be hurt,” said Glenn, half inclined to laugh at his man’s indescribable contortions and grimaces, and apprehending no serious result.
“Ugh!” cried Joe, the water now up to his chin, and the next moment, when in the act of making a hasty and piteous entreaty, his head quickly dipped under the turbid surface and disappeared entirely. Glenn now became alarmed; but, when in the act of divesting himself of his clothing for the purpose of plunging in to his rescue, Joe rose again some forty paces out in the current, and by the exertion of the arm that was free, he was enabled to keep his head above the water. The current was very strong, and the fish, in endeavoring to run up the stream with his prize in tow, made but little headway, and a very few minutes sufficed to prove that it was altogether unequal to the attempt.
After having progressed about six rods, Joe’s head became quite stationary like a buoy, or a cork at anchor, and then, by degrees, was carried downward by the strong flow as the fish at length became quite exhausted.
“Now for it, Joe. Swim towards the shore with him!” cried Glenn.
“He’s almost got my shoulder out of place!” replied Joe, blowing a large quantity of water out of his mouth.
“I see his fin above the water,” said Glenn. “Struggle manfully, Joe, and you will capture him yet!”
“I’ll die, but I’ll have him now —after such a ducking as this!” said Joe, approaching the shore with the almost inanimate fish, that was no longer able to contend against his superior strength. When he drew near enough to touch the bottom, he turned his head and beheld his prize boating close behind, and obedient to his will.
It required the strength of both Glenn and Joe to drag the immense catfish (for such it proved to be) from its native element. It was about the length and weight of Joe, and had a mouth of sufficient dimensions to have swallowed a man’s head. It was given to the ferrymen, who had witnessed the immersion and were attracted thither to render assistance.
“I suppose you have now had enough of the fish?” remarked Glenn, as they retraced their steps homeward.
“I’ll acknowledge that I’m satisfied for the present; but I was resolved to have satisfaction!” replied Joe.
“Yes, but you have had it with a vengeance; and I doubt not that your apparent contentment is but cold comfort,” continued Glenn.
“I’m not a bit cold. I shan’t change my clothes, and I’m ready for any other sport you like,” said Joe.
