Chapter II

MY FIRST VISIT TO FRENCH LICK

The first time I visited French Lick was more that sixty years ago. In company with some boys on a beautiful Sunday we decided to visit the Lick, as it was then called. We were all farmer's boys, mounted on horses we rode down the old Vincennes road as far as Pittsburg. Pittsburg was a small townat the junction of Lick Creek with Lost River, at a point known as Bob Lambdin farm.

The town was born about seventy-five years ago; it never had a boom and never became famous for anything, save the supersition that on account of a murder having been committed there at an early date, the place was haunted. Strange sounds were sometimes heard on dark nights, and occasionally the pale moon beams revealed a headless corpse slowly walking his linely beat near the spot where he was murdered. At the time of our visit, on the way to French Lick, the town consisted of a stone blacksmith shop and two or three unpainted residences. At Pittsburg we turned to the left and crossed Lick Creek at Aunt Polly Pinnick's ford. The ford, on account of the quicksand, was considered dangerous, but to risk crossing we saved several miles travel and avoided the fee always exacted by the man who poled the ferry boat across Lost River. We made a safe crossing at the dangerous ford, but I shall never forget the remains of a cow that had mired down and died near the north side of the creek.

One one ever dared in that fearful quicksand to even save the hide. The railroad now pauses near the fateful ford, and the sound of the strem whistle and the roar of the engine with its train of cars passes in safety over the quicksands supported on long timbers driven twenty to thirty feet in the soft fround to prevernt the cars from sinking beneath the sand that swallowed many hogs and cows in the long ago.

After crossing at the ford we followed a trial through the dark woods and over some hills emerging in the bottom lands east of West Baden. All that tract was then covered with a dense growth of sweet gum trees, not large but tall and straight, and would have been very beautiful had it not been for the swamps and slimy pools that covered the surface. Where now the green corn and golden grain entice the beholder was pools of water colored by the forest's leaves until one felt that here was nature's labratory for manufacturing ink. The murky waters were thickly populated by mosquitoes and large rusty black snakes with red bellies, distinguishing them from all other black snakes. About noon we reached the springs.

Pluto had a large gum, part of the thrunk of a hollow tree, sunk to protect the bubbling waters and bear them sakely above the ground of the swamp by which they were surrounded.

Proserphine was not so well provided, but was much easier to approach, as surrounding it was considerable broken stone that had been thrown there by men who bored for salt near this spot. Tradition tells us that salt water was found there, but the mineral water mingled with it, and the salt was dark and unfit for use. Much of this land was reserved by the State for the purpose of making salt. To the east of Pluto and the north of Proserphine was a small lake of mineral water that flowed from the spring.

In this inky pool many cattle had taken refuge from the buffalo flies, and stood in the sliny pool lashing their sides with their tails in desperate effort to defend themselves from the murderous flies. Long before we got near enough to get our first view of the famous water we were abundantly satisfied that we were soon to reach the object of our ten mile ride. The smell was so offensive that I would have been willing to return without tasting it had it not been for the older boys who determined that all must at least taste the water. I did take a swallow and was reminded of gunpowder and spoiled eggs. One of the company then related a traditional anecdote to the effect that an old German and his son traveled that way, and when nearing the springs the smell of the sulphur was so strong that the old man said to his son, "Drive on, John. Hell's not half a mile from this place." At the time of my first visit no buffaloes, deers or bears were in sight. Living near the place there was at that time some of the men who saw wild Indians who surrendered their homes to the pale faces and fled towards the setting sun. I have heard them tell of the abundance of game. Sometime they climbed the trees that surriynded the springs and shot down the unsuspecting derr that came to deast on nature;s bounty. Old Col. Pinnick, who lived three-quarters of a mile east of the springs, loved to relate his early adventires, and the good thinks enjoyed by the settlers. The venerable old man once told me of the days when the farmer made his own meal, pounding the corn in a wooden mortar with a wodden pestle. This converted his corn into hominy and meal. "As for meat," said he, "we had the best, and that in abundance." The creek was alive with the finest fish.

The turkeys got so fat on the beech mast that they were easily caught with the dogs. The wild pigeons had a roost just east of the springs in the bottom lands, now the property of L. S. Bowles. At this roosting place the pigeons came by thousands from every direction in the evening, and so numerous were they and so fat from the abundance of mast that they actually broke most of the limbs from the trees over seeral acres.

The settlers came at night from far and near with sacks and baskets and loaded themselves with pigeons. Deer were killed in sight of these primitive homes and bears were shot in huckleberry patches or chased into caves and caught with traps.