The Ol’ Settler of Deep Hole

On the local lunker, non-believers and the integrity of sport

By Irving Bacheller

Uncle Eb was a born lover of fun. But he had a solemn way of shing that was no credit to a cheerful man. It was the same when he played the bass violin, but that was also a kind of shing at which he tried his luck in a roaring torrent of sound. Both forms of dissipation gave him a serious look and manner, that came near severity. ey brought on his face only the light of hope and anticipation or the shadow of disappointment.

We had nished our stent early the day of which I am writing. When we had dug our worms and were on our way to the brook with pole and line, a squint of elation had hold of Uncle Eb’s face. Long wrinkles deepened as he looked into the sky for a sign of the weather, and then relaxed a bit as he turned his eyes upon the smooth sward. It was no time for idle talk. We tiptoed over the leafy carpet of the woods. Soon as I spoke he lifted his hand with a warning “Sh-h!” e murmur of the stream was in our ears. Kneeling on a mossy knoll we baited the hooks; then Uncle Eb beckoned to me.

I came to him on tiptoe.

“See thet there foam ’long side o’ the big log?” he whispered, pointing with his nger.

I nodded.

“Cre-e-ep up jest as ca-a-areful as ye can,” he went on whispering. “Drop in a leetle above an’ let’er oat down.” en he went on below me, lifting his feet in slow and stealthy strides.

He halted by a bit of drift wood and cautiously threw in, his arm extended, his gure alert. e squint on his face took a rmer grip. Suddenly his pole gave a leap, the water splashed, his line sang in the air and a sh went up like a rocket. As we were looking into the tree tops, it thumped the shore beside him, quivered a moment and opped down the bank. He scrambled after it and went to his knees in the brook coming up empty handed. e water was slopping out of his boot legs.

“Whew!”said he, panting with excitement as I came over to him. “Reg’lar ol’ he one,” he added, looking down at his boots. “Got away from me—consarn him! Hed a leetle too much power in the arm.”

He emptied his boots, baited up and went back to his shing. As I looked up at him he stood leaning over the stream, jiggling his hook. In a moment I saw a tug at the line. e end of his pole went under water like a ash. It bent double as Uncle Eb gave it a lift. e sh began to dive and rush. e line cut the water in a broad semicircle and then went far and near with long, quick slashes. e pole nodded and writhed like a thing of life. en Uncle Eb had a look on him that is one of the treasures of my memory. In a moment the sh went away with such a violent rush, to save him, he had to throw his pole into the water.

“Heavens an’ airth!” he shouted, “the ol’ settler!” e pole turned quickly and went lengthwise into the rapids. He ran down the bank and I after him. e pole was speeding through the swift water. We scrambled over logs and through bushes, but the pole went faster than we. Presently it stopped and swung around. Uncle Eb went splashing into the brook. Almost within reach of the pole he dashed his foot upon a stone, falling headlong in the current. I was close upon his heels and gave him a hand. He rose hatless, dripping from head to foot and pressed on. He lifted his pole. e line clung to a snag and then gave way; the tackle was missing. He looked at it silently, tilting his head. We walked slowly to the shore. Neither spoke for a moment.

“Must have been a big sh,” I remarked.

“Powerful!” said he, chewing vigorously on his quid of tobacco as he shook his head and looked down at his wet clothing. “In a desp’rit x, ain’t I?”

“Too bad!” I exclaimed.

“Seldom ever hed sech a disapp’intment,” he said. “Ruther counted on ketchin’ thet sh—he was s’well hooked!”

He looked longingly at the water a moment. “If I don’t go hum,” said he, “an’ keep my mouth shet, I’ll say sumthin’ I’ll be sorry fer.”

He was never quite the same after that. He told often of his struggle with this unseen, mysterious sh and I imagined he was a bit more given to re ection. He had had hold of the “ol’ settler of Deep Hole,”—a sh of great in uence and renown there in Faraway. Most of the local shermen had felt him tug at the line one time or another. No man had ever seen him for the water was black in Deep Hole. No sh had ever exerted a greater in uence on the thought, the imagination, the manners, or the moral character of his contemporaries. Tip Taylor always took o his hat and sighed when he spoke of the “ol’ settler.” Ransom Walker said he had once seen his top n and thought it longer than a razor. Ransom took to idleness and chewing tobacco immediately after his encounter with the big sh and both vices stuck to him as long as he lived. Everyone had his theory of the “ol’ settler.” Most agreed he was a very heavy trout. Tip Taylor used to say that in his opinion, “’Twas nuthin’ more ’n a plain, overgrown, common sucker,” but Tip came from the Sucker Brook country where suckers lived in colder water and were more entitled to respect.

Mose Tupper had never had his hook in the “ol’ settler” and would believe none of the many stories of adventure at Deep Hole that had thrilled the township.

“ et sh, hes made s’ many liars ’round here ye dunno who t’ b’lieve,” he had said at the corners one day, after Uncle Eb had told his story of the big sh. “Somebody t’ knows how t’ sh hed oughter go ’n ketch him fer the good o’ the town—thet’s what I think.”

Now Mr. Tupper was an excellent man but his incredulity was always too bluntly put. It had even led to some ill feeling.

He came in at our place one evening with a big hook and line from “down east”—the kind of tackle used in salt water.

“What ye goin’ t’ dew with it?” Uncle Eb inquired.

“Ketch thet sh ye talk s’ much about—goin’ t’ put him out o’ the way.”

“’Taint fair,” said Uncle Eb. “It’s reedic’lous. Like leading a pup with a log chain.”

“Don’t care,” said Mose. “I’m goin t’ go shin’ t’morrer. If there reely is any sech sh—which I don’t believe there is I’m goin’ t’ rassle with him an mebbe tek him out o’ the river. et sh is sp’ilin the moral character o’ this town. He oughter be rode out on a rail—thet sh hed.”

How he would punish a trout in that manner, Mr. Tupper failed to explain, but his metaphor was always a worse t than his trousers and that was bad enough.

It was just before haying and there being little to do, we had also planned to try our luck in the morning. When at sunrise we were walking down the cow path to the woods, I saw Uncle Eb had a coil of bed cord on his shoulder.

“What’s that for?” I asked.

“Wall,” said he, “goin’ t’ hev fun anyway. If we can’t ketch one thing, we’ll try another.”

We had great luck that morning and when our basket was near full, we came to Deep Hole and I made ready for a swim in the water above it. Uncle Eb had looped an end of the bed cord and tied a few pebbles on it with bits of string.

“Now,” said he presently, “I want t’ sink this loop t’ the bottom an’ pass the end o’ the cord under the drift wood so t’ we can fetch it ’crost under water.” ere was a big stump just opposite with roots running down the bank into the stream. I shoved the line under the drift with a pole and then hauled it across where Uncle Eb drew it up the bank under the stump roots.

“In ’bout half an hour I calculate Mose Tupper’ll be along,” he whispered. “Wisht ye’d put on yer clo’s an’ lay here back o’ the stump an’ hold on t’ the cord. When ye feel a bite give a yank er two an’ then haul in like Sam Hill— fteen feet er more quicker ’n scat. Snatch his pole right away from him. en lay still.”

Uncle Eb left me shortly, going upstream. It was near an hour before I heard them coming. Uncle Eb was talking in a low tone, as they came down the other bank.

“Drop right in there,” he was saying, “an’ let her drag down through the deep water deliberate like. Git clus t’ the bottom.”

Peering through a screen of bushes, I could see an eager look on the unlovely face of Mose. He stood leaning toward the water and jiggling his hook along the bottom. Suddenly I saw Mose jerk and felt the cord move. I gave it a double twitch and began to pull. He held hard for a ji y and then stumbled and let go, yelling like mad. e pole hit the water with a splash and went out of sight like a diving frog. I brought it well under the foam and drift wood. Deep Hole resumed its calm, unru ed aspect. Mose went running toward Uncle Eb.

“ ’S a whale!” he shouted. Ripped the pole away quicker ’n lightning.”

“Where is it?” Uncle Eb asked.

“Tuk it away f’n me,” said Mose. “Grabbed it jes’ like thet,” he added with a violent jerk of his hand.

“What d‘he dew with it?” Uncle Eb inquired.

Mose looked thoughtfully at the water and scratched his head, his features all a tremble.

“Dunno,” said he. “Swallered it mebbe.”

“Mean t’ say ye lost hook, line, sinker, ’n pole?”

“Hook, line, sinker, ’n pole,” he answered mournfully. “Come nigh haulin me in, tew.”

“’Taint possible,” said Uncle Eb.

Mose expectorated, his hands upon his hips. He looked down at the water.

“Wouldn’t eggzac’ly say ’twas possible,” he drawled, “but ’twas a fact.”

“Yer mistaken,” said Uncle Eb.

“No, I ain’t,” was the answer. “I tell ye I see it.” “ en if ye see it, the nex thing ye orter see ’s a doctor. ere’s sumthin’ wrong with you sumwheres.”

“Only one thing the matter o’ me,” said Mose, with a little twinge of remorse. “I’m jest a natural born, perfect durn fool. Never could believe there was any sech sh.”

“Nobody ever said there was any sech sh,” said Uncle Eb. “He’s done more t’ you ’n he ever done t’ me. Never served me no sech trick as thet. If I was you I’d never ask nobody t’ b’lieve it. ’S a leetle tew much.”

Mose bent slowly and picked up his hat. en he returned to the bank and looked regretfully at the water.

“Never see the beat o’ thet,” he went on. “Never see sech power ’n a sh. Knocks the spots o any sh I ever hearn of.”

“Ye riled him with that big tackle o’ yourn,” said Uncle Eb. “He wouldn’t stan’ it.”

“Feel jest as if I’d hed holt uv a wil’ cat,” said Mose. “Tuk the hull thing—pole an’ all—quicker n’ lightning. Nice a bit o’ hickory as a man ever see. Gol’ durned if I ever heern’ o’ the like o’ that, ever.” He sat down a moment on the bank.

“Got t’ resta minute,” he remarked. “Feel kind o’ wopsy after thet squabble.” ey soon went away. And when Mose told the story of the swallered pole, he got the same sort of reputation he had given to others. Only it was real and large and lasting.

“What d’ ye think uv it?” Mose asked, when he had nished.

“Wall,” said Ransom Walker, “wouldn’t want t’ say right out plain t’ yer face.”

“’Twouldn’t be p’lite,” said Uncle Eb soberly.

“Sound a leetle ha’sh,” Tip Taylor added.

“ et sh has jerked the fear o’ God out o’ ye, thet’s the way it looks t’ me,” said Carlyle Barber.

“Yer up ’n the air, Mose,” said another. “Need a sinker on ye.”

“Tell ye what I’ll do,” said Mose sheepishly. “I’ll b’lieve you fellers, if you’ll b’lieve me.”

“What, swop even? Not much!” said one, with emphasis. “’Twouldn’t be fair. Ye’ve ast us t’ b’lieve a genuwine out ’n out impossibility.” Mose lifted his hat and scratched his head thoughtfully. ere was a look of embarrassment in his face.

“Might a ben dreamin’,” said he slowly. “I swear it’s gittin’ so here ’n this town a feller can’t hardly b’lieve himself.”

“Fur’s my experience goes,” said Ransom Walker, “he’d be a fool ’f he did.

“’Minds me o’ the time I went shin’ with Ab omas,” said Uncle Eb. “He ketched an ol’ socker the fust thing. I went o by myself ’n got a goodsized sh but ’twant s’big ’s hisn. So I tuk ’n opened his mouth ’n poured in a lot o’ ne shot. When I come back, Ab looked at my sh ’n begun t’ brag. When we weighed ’em, mine was a leetle heavier.

“What!” says he. “’Taint possible thet leetle cuss uv a trout ’s heavier ’n mine.”

“’Tis sartin,” I said.

“Dummed deceivin’ business,” said he as he hefted ’em both. “Gittin’ so ye can’t hardly b’lieve the stillyurds.” S

Forthe record, “ e Ol’ Settler of Deep Hole” is a tale that almost never was. It appeared as chapter 10 in Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country, but Bacheller penned it after he’d completed most of the manuscript. His publisher had requested the addition of “a humorous shing adventure for Uncle Eb.” Exactly why, we’ll never know. e result is one of the great shing stories of the Gilded Age.

Actually, Bacheller hadn’t known how the publisher would respond to the manuscript draft, what he might request. But a shing chapter? at was cake to a young writer who had grown up in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains in the 1860s. A trout- lled brook twisted through the back elds and woodlots of the family farm and had provided Irving and his siblings with more adventures than they could count.

A rural childhood in the 19th century typically came with bleak conditions and general deprivation, but Bacheller remembered his boyhood as stable, if rustic. His father was a genial, hard-working farmer, his mother a lover of Shakespeare who encouraged Irving in his studies. Apprenticed to a storekeeper at 13, the honest and country-strong Bacheller, didn’t seem to possess the hard edges necessary for survival in the shark-infested waters of 19th century business. Twenty- rst century folks would have called him a dreamer, or maybe said that he spent too much time in his head. But back in Bacheller’s day, common wisdom would have echoed the narrator’s father in Eben Holden: “ et boy’ll have to be a minister. He can’t work.”

In truth, Bacheller was plenty ambitious. He just loved the life of the mind. He ourished as a student at St. Lawrence University in Canton, just a few miles from home. (Today, one of the St. Lawrence buildings is named “Eben Holden.”) After graduation, Bacheller moved to New York City, where he struggled to gain a toehold in the churning world of big-city reporting. When nally hired to write a newspaper column reviewing hotels, he insisted on 10 dollars per week. e editor laughed and explained that this was not the sticks and told him he had to accept 20. roughout his life, Bacheller saw duty in such callings. Two decades later, in his late 50s, he travelled to France to report on e Great War and later played an important role in the development of Rollins College in Florida. A man of unquestioned character, with sharp eyes and a bushy moustache, Bacheller continued writing

Bacheller proved a quick study. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, novels typically appeared rst as newspaper serials, and Bacheller realized that a fellow could make a nice chunk of change by brokering those deals for other novelists. Before long, he had started the rst newspaper syndicate in the United States. He brought works by Arthur Conan Doyle, Joseph Conrad and Rudyard Kipling to American audiences by selling their work to Sunday papers across the country. He befriended a young writer named Stephen Crane and published initial installments of a novel titled e Red Badge of Courage.

Bacheller also longed to write his own ction and began working on a manuscript based on his childhood in northern New York. Meanwhile his syndicate business had run aground and, recently married and needing money, he took a job under Joseph Pulitzer at the New York World. But Bacheller’s wife, Anna, who at the point believed in the book even more than he did, told him to keep going on the project—and he convinced Pulitzer to grant him a three-month leave. e result was Eben Holden: A Tale of the North Country.

It was the book that Bacheller was born to write, given his love of the woods of northern New York. As he recollected later in life, “[I] grew up hunting and shing and I might have been a guide and a timber cutter, the two occupations that paid best in that neighborhood. ree dollars cash a day was the wage of a guide.” He had become “citi ed” as an adult, but he had deep roots in St. Lawrence County, and between several siblings who had died young and his mother and other relatives who still lived up north, the attachments held the dearest of sentiments. For a young writer, they were stories waiting to be told.

Continued on page 90

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