­“We have view’d it,
          And measur’d it within all, by the scale
          The richest tract of land, love, in the kingdom! 
          There will be made seventeen or eighteeen millions,
          Or more, as’t may be handled!”
                              The Devil is an Ass.

Nobody dressed more like an engineer than Mr. Henry Brierly.  The completeness of his appointments was the envy of the corps, and the gay fellow himself was the admiration of the camp servants, axemen, teamsters and cooks.

“I reckon you didn’t git them boots no wher’s this side o’ Sent Louis?” queried the tall Missouri youth who acted as commissariy’s assistant.

“No, New York.”

“Yas, I’ve heern o’ New York,” continued the butternut lad, attentively studying each item of Harry’s dress, and endeavoring to cover his design with interesting conversation. “’N there’s Massachusetts.”,

“It’s not far off.”

“Massachusetts,” kindly replied Harry, “is in the state of Boston.”

“Abolish’n wan’t it?  They must a cost right smart,” referring to the boots.

Harry shouldered his rod and went to the field, tramped over the prairie by day, and figured up results at night, with the utmost cheerfulness and industry, and plotted the line on the profile paper, without, however, the least idea of engineering practical or theoretical.  Perhaps there was not a great deal of scientific knowledge in the entire corps, nor was very much needed.  They were making, what is called a preliminary survey, and the chief object of a preliminary survey was to get up an excitement about the road, to interest every town in that part of the state in it, under the belief that the road would run through it, and to get the aid of every planter upon the prospect that a station would be on his land.

Mr. Jeff Thompson was the most popular engineer who could be found for this work.  He did not bother himself much about details or practicabilities of location, but ran merrily along, sighting from the top of one divide to the top of another, and striking “plumb” every town site and big plantation within twenty or thirty miles of his route.  In his own language he “just went booming.”

This course gave Harry an opportunity, as he said, to learn the practical details of engineering, and it gave Philip a chance to see the country, and to judge for himself what prospect of a fortune it offered.  Both he and Harry got the “refusal” of more than one plantation as they went along, and wrote urgent letters to their eastern correspondents, upon the beauty of the land and the certainty that it would quadruple in value as soon as the road was finally located.  It seemed strange to them that capitalists did not flock out there and secure this land.

They had not been in the field over two weeks when Harry wrote to his friend Col.  Sellers that he’d better be on the move, for the line was certain to go to Stone’s Landing.  Any one who looked at the line on the map, as it was laid down from day to day, would have been uncertain which way it was going; but Jeff had declared that in his judgment the only practicable route from the point they then stood on was to follow the divide to Stone’s Landing, and it was generally understood that that town would be the next one hit.

“We’ll make it, boys,” said the chief, “if we have to go in a balloon.”

And make it they did In less than a week, this indomitable engineer had carried his moving caravan over slues and branches, across bottoms and along divides, and pitched his tents in the very heart of the city of Stone’s Landing.

“Well, I’ll be dashed,” was heard the cheery voice of Mr. Thompson, as he stepped outside the tent door at sunrise next morning.  “If this don’t get me.  I say, yon, Grayson, get out your sighting iron and see if you can find old Sellers’ town.  Blame me if we wouldn’t have run plumb by it if twilight had held on a little longer.  Oh!  Sterling, Brierly, get up and see the city.  There’s a steamboat just coming round the bend.”  And Jeff roared with laughter.  “The mayor’ll be round here to breakfast.”

The fellows turned out of the tents, rubbing their eyes, and stared about them.  They were camped on the second bench of the narrow bottom of a crooked, sluggish stream, that was some five rods wide in the present good stage of water.  Before them were a dozen log cabins, with stick and mud chimneys, irregularly disposed on either side of a not very well defined road, which did not seem to know its own mind exactly, and, after straggling through the town, wandered off over the rolling prairie in an uncertain way, as if it had started for nowhere and was quite likely to reach its destination.  Just as it left the town, however, it was cheered and assisted by a guide-board, upon which was the legend “10 Mils to Hawkeye.”

The road had never been made except by the travel over it, and at this season ­the rainy June ­it was a way of ruts cut in the black soil, and of fathomless mud-holes.  In the principal street of the city, it had received more attention; for hogs; great and small, rooted about in it and wallowed in it, turning the street into a liquid quagmire which could only be crossed on pieces of plank thrown here and there.

About the chief cabin, which was the store and grocery of this mart of trade, the mud was more liquid than elsewhere, and the rude platform in front of it and the dry-goods boxes mounted thereon were places of refuge for all the loafers of the place.  Down by the stream was a dilapidated building which served for a hemp warehouse, and a shaky wharf extended out from it, into the water.  In fact a flat-boat was there moored by it, it’s setting poles lying across the gunwales.  Above the town the stream was crossed by a crazy wooden bridge, the supports of which leaned all ways in the soggy soil; the absence of a plank here and there in the flooring made the crossing of the bridge faster than a walk an offense not necessary to be prohibited by law.

“This, gentlemen,” said Jeff, “is Columbus River, alias Goose Run.  If it was widened, and deepened, and straightened, and made, long enough, it would be one of the finest rivers in the western country.”

As the sun rose and sent his level beams along the stream, the thin stratum of mist, or malaria, rose also and dispersed, but the light was not able to enliven the dull water nor give any hint of its apparently fathomless depth.  Venerable mud-turtles crawled up and roosted upon the old logs in the stream, their backs glistening in the sun, the first inhabitants of the metropolis to begin the active business of the day.

It was not long, however, before smoke began to issue from the city chimneys; and before the engineers, had finished their breakfast they were the object of the curious inspection of six or eight boys and men, who lounged into the camp and gazed about them with languid interest, their hands in their pockets every one.

“Good morning; gentlemen,” called out the chief engineer, from the table.

“Good mawning,” drawled out the spokesman of the party.  “I allow thish-yers the railroad, I heern it was a-comin’.”

“Yes, this is the railroad; all but the rails and the ironhorse.”

“I reckon you kin git all the rails you want oaten my white oak timber over, thar,” replied the first speaker, who appeared to be a man of property and willing to strike up a trade.

“You’ll have to negotiate with the contractors about the rails, sir,” said Jeff; “here’s Mr. Brierly, I’ve no doubt would like to buy your rails when the time comes.”

“O,” said the man, “I thought maybe you’d fetch the whole bilin along with you.  But if you want rails, I’ve got em, haint I Eph.”

“Heaps,” said Eph, without taking his eyes off the group at the table.

“Well,” said Mr. Thompson, rising from his seat and moving towards his tent, “the railroad has come to Stone’s Landing, sure; I move we take a drink on it all round.”

The proposal met with universal favor.  Jeff gave prosperity to Stone’s Landing and navigation to Goose Run, and the toast was washed down with gusto, in the simple fluid of corn; and with the return compliment that a rail road was a good thing, and that Jeff Thompson was no slouch.

About ten o’clock a horse and wagon was descried making a slow approach to the camp over the prairie.  As it drew near, the wagon was seen to contain a portly gentleman, who hitched impatiently forward on his seat, shook the reins and gently touched up his horse, in the vain attempt to communicate his own energy to that dull beast, and looked eagerly at the tents.  When the conveyance at length drew up to Mr. Thompson’s door, the gentleman descended with great deliberation, straightened himself up, rubbed his hands, and beaming satisfaction from every part of his radiant frame, advanced to the group that was gathered to welcome him, and which had saluted him by name as soon as he came within hearing.

“Welcome to Napoleon, gentlemen, welcome.  I am proud to see you here Mr. Thompson.  You are, looking well Mr. Sterling.  This is the country, sir.  Right glad to see you Mr. Brierly.  You got that basket of champagne?  No?  Those blasted river thieves!  I’ll never send anything more by ’em.  The best brand, Roederer.  The last I had in my cellar, from a lot sent me by Sir George Gore ­took him out on a buffalo hunt, when he visited our, country.  Is always sending me some trifle.  You haven’t looked about any yet, gentlemen?  It’s in the rough yet, in the rough.  Those buildings will all have to come down.  That’s the place for the public square, Court House, hotels, churches, jail ­all that sort of thing.  About where we stand, the deepo.  How does that strike your engineering eye, Mr. Thompson?  Down yonder the business streets, running to the wharves.  The University up there, on rising ground, sightly place, see the river for miles.  That’s Columbus river, only forty-nine miles to the Missouri.  You see what it is, placid, steady, no current to interfere with navigation, wants widening in places and dredging, dredge out the harbor and raise a levee in front of the town; made by nature on purpose for a mart.  Look at all this country, not another building within ten miles, no other navigable stream, lay of the land points right here; hemp, tobacco, corn, must come here.  The railroad will do it, Napoleon won’t know itself in a year.”

“Don’t now evidently,” said Philip aside to Harry.  “Have you breakfasted Colonel?”

“Hastily.  Cup of coffee.  Can’t trust any coffee I don’t import myself.  But I put up a basket of provisions, ­wife would put in a few delicacies, women always will, and a half dozen of that Burgundy, I was telling you of Mr. Briefly.  By the way, you never got to dine with me.”  And the Colonel strode away to the wagon and looked under the seat for the basket.

Apparently it was not there.  For the Colonel raised up the flap, looked in front and behind, and then exclaimed,

“Confound it.  That comes of not doing a thing yourself.  I trusted to the women folks to set that basket in the wagon, and it ain’t there.”

The camp cook speedily prepared a savory breakfast for the Colonel, broiled chicken, eggs, corn-bread, and coffee, to which he did ample justice, and topped off with a drop of Old Bourbon, from Mr. Thompson’s private store, a brand which he said he knew well, he should think it came from his own sideboard.

While the engineer corps went to the field, to run back a couple of miles and ascertain, approximately, if a road could ever get down to the Landing, and to sight ahead across the Run, and see if it could ever get out again, Col.  Sellers and Harry sat down and began to roughly map out the city of Napoleon on a large piece of drawing paper.

“I’ve got the refusal of a mile square here,” said the Colonel, “in our names, for a year, with a quarter interest reserved for the four owners.”

They laid out the town liberally, not lacking room, leaving space for the railroad to come in, and for the river as it was to be when improved.

The engineers reported that the railroad could come in, by taking a little sweep and crossing the stream on a high bridge, but the grades would be steep.  Col.  Sellers said he didn’t care so much about the grades, if the road could only be made to reach the elevators on the river.  The next day Mr. Thompson made a hasty survey of the stream for a mile or two, so that the Colonel and Harry were enabled to show on their map how nobly that would accommodate the city.  Jeff took a little writing from the Colonel and Harry for a prospective share but Philip declined to join in, saying that he had no money, and didn’t want to make engagements he couldn’t fulfill.

The next morning the camp moved on, followed till it was out of sight by the listless eyes of the group in front of the store, one of whom remarked that, “he’d be doggoned if he ever expected to see that railroad any mo’.”

Harry went with the Colonel to Hawkeye to complete their arrangements, a part of which was the preparation of a petition to congress for the improvement of the navigation of Columbus River.