"Cousin Donald! Colonel Clark!" She Called Sharply.
"I know not whose the fault," she added scornfully, "but each is less the knight and patriot, in my esteem, for this rash deed. You would kill each other and bring destruction upon your patriotic enterprise, and death to these men, whose lives are in your keeping? Bah! Men are children; their passions rule them! Father Gibault, will you stay with Colonel Clark and soothe his anger? You have hurt me grievously, Colonel Clark, and I thought you my friend—" and now was heard the break in Ellen's voice which tugged always at one's heartstrings.
"Forgive me, Miss Ellen!" stammered Clark; "I have no quarrel with your cousin; it was, as you say, foolish anger and rashness. But in justice I must confess that I forced this fight upon McElroy," and my generous comrade looked frankly at me.
"Nor have I just grounds of quarrel with you, Colonel Clark," I responded. "I was disrespectful in my words and manner. Will you accept my apology?" and I held out my hand.
Clark took and shook it warmly, while Ellen smiled upon us, and Father Gibault blessed us with low spoken benediction.
"Come with me, Cousin Donald!" commanded Ellen; "I have something I would say to you."
We walked together toward the town, for some time in silence, then Ellen said, blushing as she spoke:
"Father Gibault tells me that you and Colonel Clark quarreled about me, Cousin Donald. It was not kind, nor respectful, and it was very foolish, if jealousy prompted you, for I shall never marry."
"Never marry, Ellen, and why?" I asked in great astonishment.
"Did not I tell you, Cousin, that I had set before myself a high and holy purpose? I have sworn a vow of consecration. As soon as I have reached my majority, I shall take the veil, and pass the remainder of my life in prayer, and God's holy service. Will you tell Colonel Clark this for me? And neither of you, I beg, will ever again couple me, even in your thoughts with love and marriage. I shall be the bride of the Church, I trust, but never the bride of mortal. God saved me from an awful fate in answer to my vow of consecration. To choose a life of worldly pleasure would be in me dishonesty in its worst form. Help me to keep my vow, Cousin Donald; make me strong to do the right."
The touching appeal of her voice and manner as she spoke thus, it is not possible to describe. She seemed to throw herself upon my strength, to implore me to help her to sacrifice herself. I saw how strongly she felt all she said, how impossible it would be to make her see now the folly of her purpose, and the illogic of her thoughts. She wanted my sympathy and encouragement—yet how could I give it to her, at risk of forfeiting my happiness, and possibly hers! Yet I could not fail her.
"Dear Ellen," I said, with all the deep tenderness of my heart for her trembling in my words, "whatever you finally conclude is your duty, that I shall help you to do, with all the sympathy and courage I can give you. But take no step rashly, nor without consulting Father Gibault. Our heavenly Father has, I truly believe, guided you thus far; let us look to Him for further guidance."
CHAPTER XX
There was no lack of volunteers to convey Colonel Clark's dispatches to Virginia. More than half of the men it appeared were anxious to return to their homes at the expiration of their term of enlistment. In that case, but a handful of us would be left, after October, to hold the three forts, and keep down the Indians. Colonel Clark resorted to entreaties and promises, and at last induced about three hundred of the men to consent to reënlist for six months more. Thirty-five were determined to go, and even the prospect of being rewarded, by the gratitude of Virginia, with royal land grants in the new territory, could not keep them longer.
"If Virginia did not choose to send recruits to hold the territory, we had won for her," they argued, "she deserved to lose it. Meantime their own families might be suffering privation or danger, and their own lands be lapsing again into the state of wilderness from which they had so lately rescued them. They could risk no more, sacrifice no further—not even for Virginia." One was forced to admit there was reason in their excuses.
Thomas, to my small surprise, was one of those who could not be persuaded to remain. Clark asked me to remonstrate with him, and I did so but without success.
"I've nothing to stay for," he answered; "Ellen rejects my love, and it is only what I deserve for my stubborn following of my own will, and my disrespect to my mother. Since neither Ellen's death nor her misery lies at our door; since she has reached a safe and pleasant harborage among people of her own religion, and can take her choice between a nunnery in Quebec, or a husband—who may be either military hero, or French Catholic as she will—I feel that my responsibility is ended. I shall go home, Donald, beg my parents' pardon, renew my vows, and resume the work to which I was called, and upon which I wickedly turned my back to pursue a foolish course."
"I cannot understand your feelings, Thomas," I replied, out of patience with what sounded to me like spiteful cant; "you joined our expedition with two specific objects in view:—to regain your lost health, and possibly find trace of Ellen. You have accomplished both objects; besides, have done your share toward our fortunate achievement. To abandon us now, before our success is permanently assured, and Ellen safely settled, seems to me to be an act of childishness."
"Yours, Donald, is the soldier's point of view, and I cannot complain of your disapproval. I see it all differently, however. It was wrong of me to come, in the first place, with the motives that brought me; the only reparation I can make is to go back as soon as possible, confess humbly, and reconsecrate to God and duty all my future life."
I said no more, for I saw Thomas' will was set; his present state of mind was as unreasonable as that I had found him in eight months before. There are men to whom a medium course is not possible—they are born fanatics; Thomas was one of these, but, in justice to him, I must add here, that he grew saner as he grew older, and that, with the coming of maturity, what fanaticism was left took the form of humble service in God's name, to his fellow men.
Colonel Clark's force now numbered barely a hundred men, including officers. A score were left at Cahokia; the rest were with him at Kaskaskia. It seemed wise to preserve a show of strength at both places, since Indian deputations were coming to one or the other of the two forts, all through the fall, to tender to Colonel Clark the allegiance or submission of their tribes. Being but half a day's march apart, our force could quickly be massed at either of these points.
Captain Helm, backed chiefly by his high sounding title of "Governor-general of Indian Affairs on the Wabash," with a garrison of five, held Vincennes! Should an English force march against it there would be no chance for defense; for that reason, that Vincennes might be strongly garrisoned, it seemed imperative for us to have speedy reënforcements from Virginia. It was from Vincennes that Colonel Clark was planning to advance on Detroit, but I had never any hope of sufficient reënforcements to make such advance feasible, even in Clark's daring estimation, so gave myself no anxiety as to that rash project.
A rumor that Vincennes had been taken by the British reached us about the middle of December, but a few weeks after the thirty-six had departed for Virginia. The rumor lacked confirmation, however, and Colonel Clark eagerly awaited the confidently expected reënforcements.
After the cold autumn rains set in, visits from the Indian tribes were less frequent, and presently with the coming of winter they ceased. The arrival on Christmas eve, therefore, of a large deputation of much befeathered warriors, and their chief, caused some excitement,—the more so as they were reported to be Miamis from Lake Michigan. This tribe so far had held aloof from us, and was said to be faithful to the English. They demanded an interview with the white chief, Long-Knife, and asked that he bring only his most trusted warriors to the council chamber, since they had secret matters of weight and importance to discuss.
Colonel Clark summoned his officers, and five others, and the conference began in the large room of the fort—where Clark and I had indulged in our sword play some days before. The chief was, I thought, not past middle age, though it is difficult to guess the age of a redskin. He had a countenance of unusual cruelty and subtlety. His tall frame was powerfully built, and his tongue was both eloquent and cunning.
"Long-Knife and his warriors had come," he said, "as strangers to the land of the Algonquins; they had come to bid the great tribes of the red men, whose fathers had owned the plains washed by the fresh seas, and the great Father-of-Waters, from the beginning, to declare war against their powerful English father, who had given them their guns, and had protected them against their hereditary enemies, the Hurons and the Iroquois. It was said that the warriors of the white chief, Big-Knife, were about to conquer the warriors of the great English father, but were willing to protect the Miamis, and to leave them in peaceful possession of their lands. He and his braves had come to ask if these things were true, and if the Big-Knives sought peace and friendship with the tribes of the Miami."
Colonel Clark responded in his usual way, mixing adroitly with his parade of cool arrogance, and entire indifference, a tone of gracious condescension. "The Miamis might choose for themselves; he had no quarrel with the red man—did they wish the redoubtable warriors of Long-Knife, and the great and war-like nation they came from, on the shore of the eastern ocean, for their friends and brothers—did they wish, as so many of their brethren had done, to make alliance with us, it would be well with them, but we were used to war and liked it—if the Miamis preferred war—good; it was theirs to choose. But they must decide once for all, and war once begun the Long-Knives would not be the first to sue for peace."
A long silence followed Clark's speech, during which the Indians gazed fixedly before them, while the air grew dense with the strong tobacco smoke they exhaled, in great deliberate puffs. We also smoked stolidly on; and the chief's face was not more a mask than Clark's. In the midst of this silent ring of grim smokers—as an angelic apparition floats into the vision of a dream—glided Ellen. She came to my side with smiling countenance, on which was no other expression than that of idle curiosity, gazed calmly into the hideous faces of the savages, and pointing to the crimson aigrette among the head feathers of one, and the black heron quills worn by another asked me in English to buy them for her. Then without changing her expression, or looking again at me, she lowered her tones to a whisper, and scarcely moved her lips in saying,
"When I go out—wait—then follow," and even while she spoke thus, she was making gestures of admiration over the Indian's ornaments, continuing to do so, and to comment upon them to us, as a child might.
Presently the chief began again to speak. Ellen listened gravely for a few moments, shook her head, smiled, and passed out. In doing so she walked behind Clark, and uttered a whisper like a sigh. "Beware! Be on your guard!"
Clark gave no sign to indicate that she had spoken, and after lingering at the door for a moment, Ellen went out, and we heard her singing gayly, on her way back to the town.
But for her words to me, I should have thought, as evidently the Indians did, that she had wandered into the council chamber, prompted by idle curiosity alone, and finding small amusement there, had wandered out again. The free customs among their own squaws, in regard to their comings and goings, made the incident seem natural to the Indians.
A meaning look from Clark, the barest glance of significance, made known to me that he too had been spoken to, and was on the watch for something unusual. Ellen was not found until I had gone all the way to her house, where she was walking the floor in the greatest excitement, awaiting my arrival.
"Cousin Donald," she whispered, as if the walls had really ears,—"the fort is surrounded by armed savages, they are lurking in the bushes and in the chimney corners, crouching under the steps, and behind trees—they are everywhere. Without doubt they await the signal for an attack; meantime the soldiers are scattered about the village, and ten went this morning, as you know, to carry the powder to Cahokia."
"We must take measures at once to collect the men. You have already warned Colonel Clark?"
"Yes; and I have sent Angélique to seek every soldier she can find loitering about the village, and to bid them all come here."
"Well done, Ellen! I shall muster them as quietly as possible and lead them to the fort. Have you thought of anything else that should be done?"
"M. Légère, who was walking on the bluff with me when I saw the Indians, with Colonel Clark's spy glass, has already started to Cahokia, mounted on the fleetest horse in the village. If only you can, by some strategy, delay the signal until the men from Cahokia can get here."
"They will, I imagine, wait for twilight. The savages seem to rely much upon the aid of surprise and confusion. If Légère's horse is fleet, and they have boats in readiness at Cahokia, reënforcements should reach us by midnight; but that will be too late, I fear. It will hardly be possible to divert the Indians from their purpose so long. But, now that we are warned, we may find a way to outwit them."
Having disposed my men in the neighborhood of the fort, in a convenient clump of trees, I told them to wait in absolute silence for the sound of my turkey call within the fort and then to surround the council chamber with a rush, making, as they did so, all the hideous noises possible.
The chief was still speaking when I returned to the council chamber, but his manner and his words were less conciliatory and his warriors were scowling ominously.
"Let my friend, and brother chief, speak for the great American father, General Washington, since you profess to doubt my word," said Colonel Clark, as, a moment later, the chief concluded his second wordy and pointless harangue. "Tell the chief, Captain McElroy, since you were present on the day it happened, how the warriors of Chief Washington defeated the warriors of the English father, on the great battlefield west of the Alleghanies, and how you took prisoners a whole tribe of them at Saratoga."
Stepping into the midst of the circle, I told them of the surrender of Saratoga, vaunting much the courage of my tribe, and the war-like skill of our chiefs, and ending thus: "Before many more moons have waxed and waned, the English will mount again their white winged birds, their great ships, and sail back across the wide waters to their own land, leaving all this country subject to the great confederation of the white American tribes. And when the English are gone, and our great chief Washington shall march his armies against the still hostile Indians, woe to those who have refused our friendship! They shall be shaken as ripe fruit from the boughs; scattered to the four corners of the earth, as fruit blossoms by the wind of an April storm."
The Indians listened to me at first with solemn stolidity, then began to utter low grunts of unbelief, or anger, and at last to exchange black looks, and to scowl at me threateningly. Still they smoked on; still Colonel Clark and his councilors smoked silently, paying no sort of heed to the angry demonstrations of the savages.
The sun set, meanwhile, and what with the fast-coming winter's twilight without, and the thick fog of smoke within, one could scarcely see the faces about him well enough to distinguish white face from red, friend from foe.
As I sat down, the chief laid aside his pipe, with the utmost deliberation, and rose to his feet, towering in the midst of his warriors, who closely copied all his expressions and actions. We rose, also, and the two half circles faced each other grimly, while the murky redness of the sun's last rays cast a momentary lurid illumination over the scene.
With a quick gesture the chief drew from his long robe of white bear's skin two wampum belts—the peace and war belts—and flung them with haughty and insulting air upon the table.
"There are two belts of wampum," he said, and the Indians crowded closer about him; "you know what they mean. Choose which you will!"
There was awesome silence for a moment. For the second time in my life I knew the feeling of subtle, unreasoning terror, such as must precede a panic; but again with a tremendous effort of will I controlled the impulse, and looked calmly from one to another of the scowling, cruel faces—watching, as beasts do, for a chance to spring.
Clark gave each a calm, undaunted stare, then fixed his deliberate, scornful gaze upon the chief, picked up the wampum belts on the point of his sword, took them in his right hand, and drawing himself to his utmost height, flung them full into the face of the chief, as he said in tones of contempt:
"Begone, ye dogs! Back to your squaws, and your beaver traps!"
Upon this instant I blew my turkey call, long, and shrilly. From without came the sound as of a rushing multitude, mingled with yells, whoops, and howls. The Indians seemed suddenly cowed and gathered together in a huddled group.
"We are trapped!" called the chief, and made a leap for the door, followed by the rest. The savages without were fleeing also. Clark called out in loud and positive commands that they should be neither killed nor hindered.
"Let them run like the coward dogs they are," he said, "we care neither to capture their living nor to bury their dead carcasses."
In the midst of the excitement, reënforcements arrived from Cahokia, Légère having met a squad on their way to Kaskaskia. Clark now stationed guards all around the fort and the town, and ordered that the soldiers hold themselves in readiness to repulse a night attack. The Indians loitered all night in the bushes about the fort, and we could hear them arguing hotly. When morning came, they sent in a deputation of three to sue for peace, after which they hastily departed.
I shall not now relate an incident which happened later that night when some of the loitering Indians attempted to take terrible revenge on Ellen, whose warning to Clark they afterwards suspected, and from which it was my very good fortune to save her. Thus repaying twice over, since her life was twice as valuable as mine, the debt I owed her, and proving that I counted my own naught, as weighed against her safety and her honor.
CHAPTER XXI
For four days, a fine, thick rain had been descending persistently from the low, gray-blanketed sky, and a wet mist rose from the sodden earth to meet it. The soil reeked with dampness; it oozed from the walls of the stone or stuccoed houses, dripped from the sloping roofs of rambling porches, saturated one's clothes, and permeated one's blood. The Kaskaskia River, pushed out of its banks by its swollen tributaries, had overflowed all the bottoms, and banked the waters of the bayous up into the hills. The village was surrounded by water on three sides, and from the fort one could see nothing save the dreary waste of still, dull water. Even the reeds, canes, and grasses which ordinarily fringed the bayous, adding something of life and grace, were now submerged.
In all the village there was but one cheerful, wooing spot:—the room in the late Commandant's house, made bright by the presence of Ellen, and kept warm and cheery by the crackling logs piled high in the wide fireplace. Here Ellen gave gracious welcome to officer and private, priest and native, coureur de bois from Canada, trader from New Orleans, and scout from the eastern settlements—whoever might chance our way, so he deport himself gentlemanwise. And now, since the winter and the rains had settled upon us, since the Indian deputations had ceased to trouble us, and traders were rare, the town afforded the officers no other diversion than a twice daily visit to Queen Eleanor's audience chamber.
Colonel Clark, Captains Bowman, Montgomery, Harrod and I, with Légère and Dr. Lafonte occupied usually the inner circle around the fire, Ellen throned in our midst. My quill falls from my hand and I lose myself in the scenes which my memory recalls so vividly that almost I live them over again. Ellen's graceful head, outlined by dark ringlets, rests against the white bear skin which covers her chair; her slender hands are crossed in her lap, and her arched feet, in their gay moccasins, are half buried in the panther's skin thrown over her foot rest. The fire, of seasoned logs three feet in length, lights the low-ceiled stone room with a vivid glow and suffuses the atmosphere with a fragrant warmth. This glow of the flames plays becomingly on Ellen's rich, soft coloring, and even brings out the shadows made by the long lashes upon her cheeks. Also it shows plainly the varied colors and markings of the wild skins hung thick upon the wall, and the gay stripes in the heavy Indian mats upon the floor.
Better still than the cheerful scene was the pleasant talk that filled the room, the bright, earnest discussions which did more to keep us keyed to our otherwise dreary task than all the promises that we could make ourselves of future fortune and renown. Who can gauge the value of woman's social tact and sympathy? In all ages they have been magnets around which great thoughts and noble deeds have focused. Some of the conversations held in the long, stone room at Kaskaskia seem to me to have been worthy the most brilliant salons in Paris, or the most famous of London coffee-houses. Ellen was never one of those chattering women—though she could express herself pithily and gracefully when she had anything to say—but she was the most inspiring listener I have ever seen.
Colonel Clark was a bold and brilliant talker, though sometimes arrogant and boastful. Légère, who had been bred and educated in Paris, had culture, and a keen tongue. Bowman was a man of careful observation, shrewd thinking, and close reasoning; and my own love of mental exercise made me an ambitious aspirant in these conversational bouts, over which Ellen presided with inspiring guidance.
The future of America was the subject we oftenest discussed, perhaps, and the one upon which we diverged, too, most widely. Colonel Clark favored the organization of thirteen free states, confederated as loosely as possible. I was for a close federation with a strong central government. All the delays and difficulties of our war were due to the lack of a central authority, it seemed to me. And even after our independence should be achieved we must fall to pieces, I argued, or become the prey of European powers unless we sought strength in a firmly cemented union.
"But Virginia," argued Clark, "had everything to lose, and nothing to gain by union. With the Illinois territory added to her possessions she would be the largest, richest, and strongest, of the States, and could dominate the rest. No union would be agreed to by the other States which did not provide for the territorial reduction of the Old Dominion—for her relinquishment, doubtless, of all we had won for her, and that we would never consent to. Why should Virginia voluntarily weaken herself in order to strengthen a union which would control all her resources?"
To this Ellen responded, taking sides with me: "A course of unselfish patriotism was the only course worthy of Virginia, and the only one consistent with her admirable policy so far. The building of a free, mighty, and glorious republic in America which might become a pattern for future democracies was the object for which all true Virginians and all enlightened patriots should be willing to sacrifice everything."
Légère agreed with Clark, Bowman with me, and our argument waxed warm—always to be quieted or diverted by Ellen's skillful management. One day, however, Clark was more arrogant than usual, and I more vehement, so that at last we quarreled like school boys.
Ellen's sarcasm, as she rebuked us, seemed directed at me rather than at Clark, and I left the room in an unseemly rage, being for several days too sore, and too much ashamed of myself, to return.
No loafing place was left me, now, save the large room in the barracks, where the men were accustomed to assemble. On a certain afternoon it became unbearable. The chimney smoked, the damp logs burned grudgingly, the soldiers, who were now in the town, slept snoring on the floor, wrapped in their blankets, or sprawled on the benches, and smoked strong pipes. My heart ached with home longing; for but an hour with the dear circle around the cheerful hearth, in the big room, I would at that moment have resigned all the prospects of my life—save only my hope of winning Ellen. I could stand it within no longer, and wrapping my cloak around me, and pulling my bearskin cap over my ears, set out to walk to the boat landing. It would afford me a moment's diversion to see how far the water had risen since yesterday. Then the lower end of the wharf was an inch under water.
Now it was completely submerged, and the ground all about it. If a boat should chance to come to Kaskaskia it must seek precarious landing upon a rock, which in dry weather, was half way up the low bluff on this side of the river, below the town. I made my way to this rock, and stood looking out on the formless waste of waters with a new sympathy for the victims of the flood, and a sudden emotion of deep thankfulness for the rock-ribbed mountains, rolling hills, upland meadows and well restricted, gentle streams of our dear valley. He who would might come west to dwell in the rich alluvial valley of the Mississippi, and her tributaries—as for me, I wished no other heritage than one of the fertile, smiling farms in the valley of Virginia.
As I gazed thus, my mind upon my own land rather than upon this desolation, a moving speck appeared upon the waters, and rapidly approached. Yes, it was a boat, one of those long, deep, swift boats used by the coureurs, and the traders. The two men propelling it were standing, evidently looking for the wharf. I called and signaled to them to drift a little down stream, and land upon the rock; then I clambered to its lower edge, and stood in readiness to help them. I had by this time recognized Colonel Vigo and his servant. A month before they had stopped with us on their way to the Illinois country, when Colonel Vigo had offered to spy out for Colonel Clark the real condition of affairs at Vincennes, and to send or to bring him word. His coming back so soon foreboded ill news; he would hardly have returned at such inclement season, but to warn us. We had hardly counted on such friendship from him, though we knew that he wished well to the cause of America. Moreover, he had seemed to conceive a strong friendship both for Colonel Clark and myself.
Sardinian by birth, soldier of fortune by profession, Spanish officer by rank won in Spanish wars, he was to me a most interesting character. Bold, yet cautious, rash yet diplomatic, shrewd yet daring, accomplished gentleman yet reckless adventurer, Indian by mode of life, but in manner and preferred tongue French—he was a type of that age and that civilization, which alone could have produced his like.
"Ah, McElroy," he called to me, as I gave him my hand to help him spring ashore, speaking in what he called English tongue, but which was really an impossible dialect, composed of a conglomerate of English, French, Italian, Spanish and Indian words, so that I do not attempt to reproduce it, but give only the substance of his utterances, "It is you then, and where is the Colonel?"
"Visiting," I answered, rather curtly; "do you come from Vincennes?"
"So the Colonel is courting the fair Americaness, eh?—and you, mon ami, sulk upon the rock! Is it that you have surrendered? I thought it not possible for a stubborn Scotchman to own defeat—but this is no time for banter. Yes, Captain McElroy, I come from Vincennes, and I have for the Colonel important news. He must arouse himself from the idle pleasure of paying court to beauty, and go back to the arduous work of a soldier would he hold his footing on the Wabash."
Meantime we had reached the village, and were soon before the Commandant's house. A panin summoned Clark for us, and together we walked toward the fort, while Colonel Vigo told how Vincennes had fallen, and outlined clearly the present state of affairs at that place. The fort had been repaired and restocked, and was garrisoned by a force of eighty mixed English and Canadians. The French inhabitants were over-awed, and the Wabash Indians were in sympathy with the English. The Miamis, who had recently made a pretended treaty with us, were really agents of Hamilton, having been hired by him to kill or capture Clark, and as many of his men as possible. Having been disappointed in their anticipations of big scalp money, they were awaiting surlily a chance of revenge. The French were, however, in heart, still loyal to us, and Father Gibault—who had been all the time with Captain Helm, as also had Scout Givens—was using all his diplomacy for us. It was due to his insistence that Colonel Vigo was released, and allowed to leave the town, even though he refused to swear that he would do nothing hostile to the British cause.
Clark heard Colonel Vigo to the end, then asked two or three questions as to General Hamilton's expectation of reënforcements, or apparent apprehension lest he be attacked by the Americans. Colonel Vigo answered that he seemed to anticipate neither the one nor the other, whereupon Clark turned to his officers, now gathered about him, and said in the tone of a man promulgating some joyful news.
"Men, we march at once to Vincennes! We are too near success to yield to the first reverse. Have the drum beat for roll call, McElroy!"
When all the men, and many of the villagers, were assembled on the parade ground before the fort, Clark clambered upon the body of a calèche and made them one of his stirring speeches, recalling the treachery of General Hamilton and the successful stratagem of Captain Helm.
At its conclusion, loud cheers rang forth, and the men crowded about the calèche.
"Right, Colonel," called one of the men, "we must thrash this 'hair-buyer' General; he has been needing a lesson for some time."
"We'll thrash him, Colonel, never doubt it!" called another.
"If the Kaskaskians wish to help us—if they have found us true allies and kind friends, we promise them full recognition and reward with our regular soldiers," added Clark. "Wish any of you to enlist with us?"
"I! I! I!" came from a dozen throats, in chorus.
"Légère shall captain you, if as many as twenty-five enlist," added Clark. "Will you take down their names, Légère, and organize your company?" turning to that Frenchman, who accepted both the honor and the task with enthusiasm.
The commons now presented a lively and almost a cheerful scene; the men gathered in groups here and there, talking excitedly; drums were beating, and the villagers chattering and gesticulating. Suddenly, too, the western sun broke through environing mist and cloud, and poured over the scene a crimson glow, which might have been a word of promise spoken from Heaven, so much it cheered them.
"McElroy," said Clark in my ear, "I would like a word apart with you, please"; then as we walked off together: "It is time this rivalry between us were somehow put an end to; there are too few of us pledged to this dangerous enterprise to risk personal bitterness, especially among the officers, who should be in entire accord. You love your cousin, Ellen O'Neil, and so do I. You wish to marry her, so do I. Which one of us she prefers I defy angel, devil, or man to determine. But she must decide between us, and quickly. If it is you she loves, she must say so, and I will resign all claim, and cease to trouble either of you. If it is I, can you agree to do the same?"
"Yes," I answered a little reluctantly. "If she loves you, Colonel Clark, I promise to withdraw my suit. Only as her cousin and present guardian, I would have a right, I think, to exact one promise of you, and that is that you will forswear a single habit, and promise to settle down when this war is over. Can a man who loves adventure, as you do, resign it for the love of a woman—Colonel Clark—to say nothing of that other passion which sometimes overmasters you?"
Clark's face darkened and flushed, but with an effort he controlled himself. "As her kinsman, McElroy, you doubtless have a right to speak thus to me. You refer to my love for strong drink, and speak of my passion for adventure. The one I could easily resign for Ellen's sake; the other—'tis embedded in my nature, yet even adventure, methinks, might be well exchanged for the love of such a woman; for domestic joys with her to share them; for friends, home and children. Yes, McElroy, I can imagine myself a quiet, respectable, church-going citizen—and yet content."
"Then the decision rests with Ellen alone. Should she choose you, I promise to give my sanction to her choice. But I fear there is small hope for either of us. Have you not heard her say that she intends to take the veil, to be a nun?"
"Yes, but I have never believed that she meant it in her heart of hearts, though she has deceived herself into thinking she does, by telling herself that it is her holy duty."
"She does not seem to me called to the vocation of a nun." I was smiling at the mere thought of the brilliant Ellen in a nunnery.
"Surely she is not, McElroy; could she be happy, think you, shut out from a world which interests her so fully? Your quiet valley, with its dull routine of duty and religion made her rebellious, then how would she endure life in a convent? No, she greatly misunderstands herself. I should rather, by far, see her your wife, McElroy, than to know that all her brilliancy and charms were hidden behind the chill walls of a convent."
"And I would far rather see her your wife than a nun."
"Then let us pledge mutual aid, thus far—that we will both use all the influence we may have with her to keep her from a convent. Shall we go now to see her, and bid her choose between us?"
"It does not seem to me to be the wisest course. Suppose she should absolutely refuse both of us? or even in case we can persuade her that she is not called to a convent life, and can induce her to make choice, suppose one of us should be killed in this attack upon Vincennes, and he the one she had chosen? Might she not afterwards feel it disloyal to the memory of that one to listen to the addresses of the other, and so be more than ever disposed to think herself set apart to virgin consecration? Let us leave the matter undecided until one or both of us return from Vincennes. I can trust you to take no less interest in my safety on that account, and you, I think, can likewise trust me. Should I fall, my rights in Ellen, such as they are, become yours. Should you be killed, I inherit your claim to her. Meantime both are pledged to use our utmost endeavors to keep her out of a convent—even though to do so, we must help the other to win her."
"Shrewdly said, McElroy," replied the Colonel, with a hearty laugh. "It is a true Scotch-Irishman's bargain you propose—many chances to win, few to lose. Your hand on it. Once more we are good friends, and loyal comrades, pledged together and twice over to two noble causes: one—the independence of the United States of America and the saving of the world for democracy, and the other—to preserve to the world the beauty, the wit, and the spirit of Ellen O'Neil."
CHAPTER XXII
I shall pass over the details of our arduous midwinter march of one hundred and sixty miles to Vincennes across swamps and flooded plains. Also any account of the three separate mutinies of our French recruits and the almost irreparable loss of our boat, the Willing, and consequent lack of food and rest while we worked feverishly, knee deep in water, building canoes.
The timely capture, after we had crossed the swollen river and reached firmer ground, of an Indian canoe loaded with buffalo meat, corn, and (strange circumstance) several large kettles, alone saved our men from starving and our hazardous attempt from total disaster. On the afternoon of the eighteenth day we reached Vincennes, and with our numerous flags, which through all the suffering of the march we had never relinquished, mounted on long poles, Clark disposed his little band in squads, and ordered them to march some distance apart and to follow the winding road (easily seen from the village, though hidden from the fort) to the town.
Not only did we meet with no resistance from the townspeople, but numbers of them offered to assist us in storming the fort. Tabac and his hundred Indians, who were camping near the town, likewise offered their services as allies.
When the firing upon Fort Sackville began, General Hamilton was in Captain Helm's quarters playing piquet with his prisoner, while the latter brewed upon the hearth his favorite beverage—a spiced apple toddy. Helm's room had been pointed out to us, and we aimed at his chimney. Soot and plaster came tumbling down, half filled the kettle and ruined the smoking drink. The players sprang to their feet.
"I'll wager it's Clark, and his riflemen, General," said the jovial Helm. "They'll take the fort, for they are the finest marksmen in the world. Meantime they've spoiled our toddy, d—— 'em, and with malicious intent you may be sure; some villager has indicated my quarters to McElroy, I dare say, and he pays his respects to me, and announces their presence this way. D—— their sure bullets and their rude jokes; wish we had drunk that toddy sooner. Now look at it!" and he held out a ladle full, gritty with dried mud, and black with soot.
"You are cool ones, you Americans," said Hamilton, with an uneasy laugh. "Pray, how do you suppose Clark would get his men here through these floods?"
"They swam, maybe—oh, Clark and his riflemen are equal to anything. Might as well run up your white flag, General, and be done the sooner with this unpleasant business; we can finish our game then, and have Clark in to help drink my second brewing—he's good at that as at fighting; we'll make a jolly party."
"Curse your impudence, Helm! I'll not surrender the fort while there's a man to the guns!" and Hamilton departed, sputtering with angry excitement.
All night brisk firing was kept up on both sides; at the same time detachments of us worked like beavers to make a trench about a hundred yards in front of the main gate. Early next morning Clark sent in a flag with a bold demand for surrender, and during the respite afforded by its reception the men ate a hearty breakfast, provided by the well disposed townspeople. It was the first meal they had had in five days. This was the message sent by Clark under his flag of truce, and it is so characteristic of the man that I quote it verbatim:
"Sir—In order to save yourself from the impending storm that now threatens you, I order you immediately to surrender yourself with all your garrison, stores, etc., etc. For if I am obliged to storm, you may depend on such treatment as is justly due a murderer. Beware of destroying stores of any kind, or any papers or letters that are in your possession, for, by Heaven, if you do, there shall be no mercy shown you.
"G. R. Clark."
An angry and scornful refusal was returned by General Hamilton to this stern demand, and the firing was renewed. Wherever a port-hole was open, a dozen rifles were aimed upon it, and the bullets poured through like hail; the gunners were killed as fast as they were sent to the guns. Even the cracks in the walls afforded targets to the death-dealing bullets of the riflemen, and more than one of the garrison fell pierced through the eye.
The afternoon of the second day brought a flag of truce from General Hamilton, asking for a cessation of hostilities for three days, and a conference with Colonel Clark at the fort. Clark refused the terms offered by Hamilton, but agreed to a conference in the village church. At this conference Clark's bold determination again won, and next morning Fort Sackville was surrendered, with all its stores and supplies, and General Hamilton and his garrison became prisoners of war.
This was on the twenty-fifth day of February, 1779. It is a date deserving enrollment among eventful days of American history. Henceforth the Northwest was Virginia territory, until ceded by her to the Union. In the negotiations which preceded the final treaty with England, it was this fact—that Virginia troops had fought for, and conquered the right bank of the Mississippi—which gave potency to the claim of our commissioners, that the Father of Waters and not the Alleghanies, or the Ohio, was our rightful boundary line on the west.
Among our Revolutionary heroes, George Rogers Clark should stand high, not only because of his daring and his achievements, but because of the important and far-reaching results of his conquest.
In the last few years, observing the rapidity with which our vast Western territory is being settled and civilized, noting the rapid increase of its population and prosperity, I begin to set a true value upon the importance of this territory to the republic. Not only has it given us room for necessary expansion, but it has quickened all our energies, kindled our imaginations, and furnished a safe outlet for the vigorous, throbbing life of our young nation. Moreover, there is no way to calculate the important part this common territory has played in uniting, into a firm and reasonable union, the several States of America. It gave us a common interest, at a time when we thought our state interests divergent; furnished us a means of satisfying with land grants our discontented and unpaid soldiers; and is teaching us, through experience learned in governing a joint possession, broad principles of democratic government. In truth, the more I think upon it, the more highly I rate the achievement of George Rogers Clark—in which those of my race bore a worthy part.
"Since fate has not ended our rivalry for us, McElroy," said Clark—when affairs had been satisfactorily settled at Vincennes, Helm reinstated with a somewhat larger garrison, and the other troops ready to return to Kaskaskia—"the decision rests still with Queen Eleanor. We must force her to a choice, somehow, and certainty is preferable to this suspense."
"The sooner we know her decision the better I shall be suited," I responded, "for, now that my year's parole has expired, I am eager to get back to the regular service, especially as reënforcements from Virginia can now be counted upon. Moreover, you are not likely to need a large force to enable you to hold what we have won."
"I agree with you," replied Clark. "You have stood by me and the enterprise, like a brave man, and a true comrade, McElroy, and I am glad our business is finished before your duty calls you back to Virginia. You have been my right hand, though all my officers and men have alike acquitted themselves nobly, from first to last."
"With a leader such as we have had, only worthy conduct is possible," I said, my eyes suddenly dim.
"Thank you for that word, McElroy. That worthy men should deem me a worthy leader, is all the praise I ask. And whatever may come between us in the future, comrade, let us not forget that we have stood together in peril and in suffering, have shared risks and dangers in a cause dear to the hearts of both—not even the love of woman should separate comrades such as we have been."
"Nor shall it," I answered earnestly. "God bear me witness, Clark, that I shall feel no malice should Ellen's heart answer to yours. I shall wish you both happiness in all sincerity, and seek solace in my duty."
"No fear, McElroy; you have the sturdiest and best traits of a noble people. I have some of them, doubtless, as my Saxon blood gives me right, but mixed, I fear, with a strain of wildness. I doubt if the anchors of duty are strong enough to hold me to a wise, sane life—unless Ellen's love shall help to weight them. As you have said, comrade, an adventurous, reckless life has strong temptation for me; therefore, if Ellen's love is not for me—and I forebode it is not, though I'm not yet ready to resign all hope—I shall take it for a sign that a kind fate is sparing her the woeful doom of a drunkard's wife." He added, after a brief pause, during which a deep melancholy settled upon his face, "Sometimes a man is doomed from his birth; from the beginning he moves on to a prefixed destiny, and all his struggles to save himself from the end he fears, avail nothing."
My reply combatted Clark's fatalism with all the arguments I could command, but I soon saw that his views on the subject of his destiny were fixed; that with all his cheerful courage, and calculating boldness, there was in his nature that strange vein of superstition or fatalism which has marked so many military heroes:—Hannibal, Alexander, Cæsar, Robert Bruce, Frederick the Great, and others less renowned. Nor can one lay the fatalistic views Clark held to the charge of his religion. Though Scotch-Irish by birth, he knew no more of Presbyterian doctrines than did Father Gibault, and he had no religious principles.
Clark, as I have said, was a fatalist, though he had no religion. I was and am a Presbyterian, yet I have always believed in cause and effect, the working of natural laws to natural ends. Nevertheless, though it be apparently a contradiction, I believe in an overruling Providence, and the care of God over the most insignificant of His creatures. Therefore, when I knew myself to be ill, on that last day of our return march, and said to Clark, "It seems, after all, comrade, as if fate meant to settle this matter of rivalry between us," I meant it not as it was said, but as Clark might look upon it. My future lay, I knew, in God's hands, and even in that hour of evil apprehension—for I realized that my illness would be a long and serious one—I felt satisfied to leave it there, and to trust my life and Ellen's to His guidance.
A faith that can sustain a man, and leave him calm and undismayed in each crisis of his life, is worth much to him—call it by what name or sect, distinguish it by whatsoever creed, you will. And these small variations of our small minds, are, I conceive, little taken into account by the Infinite, who knows we are but children, in mental and spiritual development, and values our faith and our honest striving without regard to the creeds with which we confuse ourselves.
CHAPTER XXIII
Beyond this comforting assurance of my religion, there was but one idea floating through my confused and fever-consumed brain, and that was a longing vision rather than an idea—a vision of my mother's downy, rose-scented beds; and then, as next best, of the heaps of feathers, covered with gay Indian blankets, which constituted the pride of the Kaskaskian homes. Oh, to feel a thick pillow under my head, to stretch my aching limbs on the yielding feathers! It was the one thing in life I wanted. I longed for rest as a tired infant longs for his mother's soft breast, and tender arms. The hope of it alone gave me courage to drag my weighted feet over the last two miles of our way.
It was a little strange that the realization of the bliss of repose was my first conscious thought after an illness of many days, so that I could never realize that more than a night had intervened between the longing and the realization, the agony and the relief. My first conscious moment lasted just long enough for me to appreciate the comfort of my couch; almost immediately I sank again into sleep or unconsciousness. The next time I came to myself I was not only wide awake, but alert and curious as I opened my eyes to note my surroundings. They were rough limed walls with a low sloping ceiling; bright-hued Indian rugs were upon the floor, and half-burned logs on heavy dog-irons, with sputtering candle ends, burning upon a round stand, in the farthest corner. In the shadow of the corner sat a figure, its head against the wall. Some one had been good enough to sit up all the night with me, and now that day was breaking, his eyes could be kept open no longer, and he had fallen into a doze. I would be very quiet and not wake him.
Presently the figure stirred, rose and came to the bedside. I recognized Clark, even in the dimness of the gray dawn.
"You have been watching me, my Colonel?" I questioned, trying to smile, and to put out the hand that was too feeble to answer to my will. Clark came closer, saw my purpose, gave my hand a warm pressure, and lifted me a little higher on my pillows.
"Have I been very ill?" I asked.
"You have been near enough the happy hunting ground to know the way, my lad. But, thank God, you are better, and will live long enough, I trust, to forget the route before you take another journey in that direction."
"Where are we?"
"In Kaskaskia, in one of the loft rooms of the Commandant's house."
"Is Ellen below?"
"Yes, and asleep, I hope; she and Angélique tend you by day, Légère, Givens and I by night; but you must not talk yet a while; that's Dr. Lafonte's orders. Drink this and go to sleep."
I obeyed like a child, settling myself deeper in the feathers, with a sigh of content.
Upon my third awaking, I recognized Ellen's voice, and felt her soft hand upon my brow.
"Ellen!" I whispered, and opened my eyes to look at the face bending above mine with the rapture a saint might feel upon seeing some beatific vision, long prayed for.
"Do not talk, Cousin Donald," she said, beaming a smile of cheerful affection upon me; "Dr. Lafonte says you must be very quiet for a few days more."
I managed, despite my weakness, to get hold of her hand, and clung to it feebly. "I will be perfectly quiet," I answered in tones so weak that I wondered if it could be really I who was speaking, "if you will sit beside me and hold my hand."
She smiled, flushed a little, and as she held a glass of cordial to my lips said coaxingly, "If you'll drink this and go to sleep, I will." Then she sat down beside me, and held my nerveless fingers in her warm, soft clasp, till I was dreaming an odd jumble of pleasant visions through all of which flitted Ellen's face and form.
This sort of half dream life went on I know not how long. I only remember an incident here and there—floating faces, cups held to my lips, and then the pleasant drifting off into long periods of dreamless rest. At last I was strong enough to sit part of each day in a high-backed chair, and after that I saw little of Ellen. She came twice each day for a brief visit, but Angélique brought my broth and wine, helped me from bed to chair, smoothed my pillows, and sometimes sang me to sleep with wild, sweet Acadian ballads. Clark came in and out with cheery presence, and encouraging words—but now that summer had come again he had more affairs to administer, and so less time to give me. Givens would linger, though, when he came on his daily visit, to tell me the gossip of the village, of which the half wild, half drowsy life suited him well. Légère and others visited me almost daily, and my monotonous life was not a lonely one, though forced inaction grew more and more irksome as my strength returned.
"Clark," I said to him one day, "I can't stand this suspense any longer. I want to know all, even if it be the worst. Since I am better, Ellen comes in only when others are here, and makes prompt excuses to get away. Her kindness is barely cousinly. And you too seem to avoid being left alone with me. Have you spoken to Ellen?"
"Yes, I have spoken—though to do so, comported not fairly with our compact. But my feelings overmastered me. I have avoided telling you till you should be stronger."
"I am strong enough now," I answered, though I trembled from head to foot; "tell me all—and quickly."
"It was one evening when we thought you dying. I followed her from the room, and was moved to tell her your last words to me—when you left her to my care, and bade me give her perfect freedom in the disposition of her life, but left us your blessing could she love me enough to link her fate with mine. She wept afresh at the recital of your words; and then with friendly candor there was no mistaking, thanked me for my love, and accepted my offer of protection, even while she told me that whether you lived or died there was no hope for me. Her quiet decision awed me, and forced back all the protestations I had formulated against her vow of nunnery. She declared it was no rash or hasty one, made to be repented of, but that she held it to be more sacred and binding than any other claim upon her heart and life, and that she waited only for your restoration to health to go, under Father Gibault's escort, and yours, if you would, to the convent at Quebec."
"Comrade," I said, putting out my shaking hand to clasp his, "that is not the news I expected—but it is much more distressing to me."
"Perhaps I am wrong to tell you, and am but making the harder for you the final disappointment," continued Clark after a silence of some moments, during which he seemed to be thinking deeply, "but I am not convinced that Ellen looks forward to the life of a nun. I believe she once made a foolish vow and thinks it sacrilege to break it. And if I can read a woman's heart through her face, McElroy, Ellen O'Neil feels for you a tenderness that is neither usual nor natural for a woman to feel towards one she regards only as a distant kinsman. I believe she loves you—yet I cannot honestly say I think you will win her. Her will is strong, and her religion has so far been the dominant principle of her life. One side of her nature is fitted to the martyr's role, the other side is strongly human—throbs with the full current of youth, loves daring and doing, experiencing and enjoying, even as you and I. Which part of her complex nature will triumph I cannot foresee. This I can say honestly, comrade," and Clark laid a hand upon my knee, and his truth-speaking eyes looked straight into mine, "even with my own grievous disappointment fresh upon me, I would see Ellen the happy and joy-giving wife of my true-hearted friend with delight, compared to the feeling with which I shall see her the self-immolated 'bride of the church'—which is, in my opinion, but another name for victim to superstition and priestly tyranny. The fates grant that you may win her, McElroy."
An hour I sat in deep thought—then I made my vow. If in Ellen's heart there dwelt but the weakest germ of love for me, it should grow on until it uprooted all other influences. I bade the whole Roman Church defiance. A girl's superstition to come between Ellen and her life's fulfillment? between me and lifelong happiness? I swore it should not be! She should love me more and more till love mastered her, choking superstition and conquering her will. Once convinced, she would see it all as I did, and be glad all her life that I had saved her from a fatal mistake. I girded myself afresh for the conflict, as it were, each hour of the days that followed, and planned my campaign against a maiden's heart as carefully as a general plans an advance into the enemy's country. My first move must be to keep her from reaching a final decision as long as possible; my second to take her, upon some pretext, back to the valley with me.
Meanwhile I hastened my recovery by every means possible, watching impatiently the summer moving on to autumn. From my window I could see the slow, gliding river, glancing in the sun's rays, and the stagnant, spreading bayous, gay with spotted lilies, and fringed with swaying grasses, while birds, as gayly colored as the blossoms, rode blithely upon the springy reeds. The meadows were green with waving corn, or yellow with the ripened grass, and the rich odor of the wild grapes came upon the breeze with other and more elusive fragrances. But gliding river, reed-fringed bayou, and luxuriant meadow, were not half so fair to my real vision as the dear valley to my imaginary one. I longed to see the undulating blue ranges, and the varied landscape, with the comfortable farmhouses dotted over it. I was eager to be off for home, to hear the late news from the war, and to bear Ellen away from Romish influences.
At last spirit could wait the body's leisure no longer, and though still weak and emaciated, I made a firm resolve to start for home within a week or two. Then I sent Angélique with a message to Ellen, demanding a private interview.
"Your message is earnest, almost peremptory, Cousin Donald," said Ellen, coming in with a playful smile on her lips; "am I to have another scolding, and for what? My conscience acquits me this time; I have stopped coquetting with the officers, or walking alone without the village; therefore I know not what wrong I have done to deserve a kinsman's reprimand."
"'Tis not to scold, but to entreat that I have sent for you, Ellen," I replied. "Will you sit down here before me, and give me your serious attention for a brief while?" Perhaps it was the tone of my voice, or it may have been that my face betrayed me, for Ellen flushed and dropped her lids an instant over her eyes, as she took the chair I had indicated, yet saying with an air of banter:
"My 'serious attention,' Cousin Donald? You plead for it as if 'twere a rare favor, and one most difficult to obtain;—am I so seldom serious?"
"Two weeks from to-day, Ellen, I start back to Virginia," ignoring her playful manner; "my duty calls me thither; but I cannot leave you here in Kaskaskia without lawful guardian or protector. You have long known, Ellen, that I love you with my whole being, that the dearest and most sacred wish of my heart is to make you my wife. Will you marry me, Ellen, and go back to Virginia to a home of your own, with the protection and constant devotion of one whose whole life shall be dedicated to your happiness?"
The flush on Ellen's cheeks leaped upward to her brow in a flame of crimson; her eyes grew darker; and upon her face came a look of mingled sorrow, yearning and resolve.
"Oh, my cousin, have I not said it often enough," with the sob-suggesting catch, vibrating like harp tones through her words—"that never can I be wife to any man? Do even you believe that all this time I have been jesting on a subject so sacred—that I have but used pretense of holy calling as a coquettish wile to lure men on? Yet how can I find fault with you for having thought so, since my life has so belied my words? I have been naught but a frivolous coquette these months past—as if I would get all of worldly triumph, and food for vanity possible out of my life, during the respite which circumstances have afforded me from the fulfillment of my vow. Mine has been lip service, only, not yet have I known true heart consecration. But I will know it, Donald, will possess the true nun's heart, if all of self must be immolated by hourly chastisement and self-denial to achieve it. I have solemnly pledged my life to prayer, and penance, and holy service. Will not you, Cousin Donald, my only friend and protector, my one source of human strength, help me to keep my vow to God?" and she clasped her hands in passionate entreaty, and lifted moist eyes and trembling lips to my serious gaze.
"Dear Ellen!" and I spoke with a new emotion of respect for the depth of her feeling, "I want more than aught else to help you, but I do not fully understand, nor see the reason for your being so determined, and feeling so strongly—will you not tell me all, so that I can better understand you? When was this vow you speak of made?"
"That bitter night I was lost upon the mountain, when, numb with cold, and shaken with terror of the wolves pursuing us, I fell from the rearing horse, frightened too by the wild beasts, and lay there in agony of fear and pain, through long hours, listening to the wolves, as they chased the poor horse, and each moment expecting to feel their fangs in my flesh. I prayed as never I had prayed before, to the Holy Virgin and her sacred Son, promising to consecrate all the rest of my life to prayer and humble service, in some rigorous convent, if they would send me deliverance from a violent death. Even as I prayed I fell into sleep, or unconsciousness, and awoke in Father Givens' house. He nursed me back to health, and I had it in my mind to induce him to take me to Baltimore to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, had you not come by with the message from Mr. Jefferson. I saw the scout's desire was to go with you, and I would not stand between him and his wish. Already he had done too much for a willful girl who had no claim upon his charities, save the claim of common humanity. I gave all my energies to persuading him that a life of adventure appealed to me even more strongly than the life of a convent retreat, and so fed his inclination to join in the adventure that he could not resist it. At last he consented to purchase for me the coveted disguise as his foster son, and when once he had seen me wear it, and watched my rifle practice, he grew interested in my plans, and made no further difficulty.
"For the first weeks I was buoyed by the spirit of excitement, and enjoyed the free, outdoor life I had been accustomed to as a child. Not until you and Thomas joined us did I realize the boldness of my deed. I dreaded to have you find me out, yet I could not bear to be left behind in Kentucky. What the result might be haunted my thoughts and my dreams. Again I added daily vows to daily prayers. Were I safely delivered once more, delivered from the coil of questionable circumstances with which I had rashly surrounded myself, I would without delay, find my way to some peaceful convent and atone for all my willful past by years of devout consecration. You know how wonderfully I was delivered—was spared even blame or question; how fortunately I have since been placed.
"Were not all my prayers heard and answered? Dare I then break my vows—lie to the holy Virgin and her sacred Son? Accept divine deliverance, and repay with broken promises, violated oaths? Could you love and trust a wife who would come to you with a sacrilege upon her conscience?"
"My dear one!" answering her solemnly, as she had spoken, and taking the fluttering fingers firmly in my own to still them; "I will not ask you to violate a vow you regard so sacredly. I will live all my life with an unsatisfied longing, an aching, hungry heart, rather than to say one word to urge you against your conscience. But I think you reason and feel morbidly. Is there no other life of consecration to God's service for a woman than that to be found behind convent walls? Think you the life of wife and mother less holy, less self-sacrificing, of less savory incense to God than that of a nun?
"What service can a nun render to God that a consecrated wife and mother may not offer Him? Prayer? Does not the wife pray with added fervor—for herself, that she may live a worthy exemplar to those she loves—for them, with more earnest zeal because love prompts each petition—and for all the world more fervently because those she lives for are a part of it. Deeds of unselfish charity? Are they less in God's sight, believe you, than the daily immolation of her own wishes which each true wife practices upon the altar of domestic duty. And what need we most in this new world? Is it not consecrated men and women to spend all the powers of their being for peace, purity and enlightenment? We hope to found in this virgin land a wondrous republic where freedom of conscience and equal opportunities will be offered to the downtrodden of all nations. But we may not hope to perpetuate such republic, unless there be noble women—women of the unusual intelligence and gifts with which God has honored you—to strive with us toward that ideal."
"There is truth in most you say, Donald," a glow answering mine on her face, her hands still and warm now in mine; "you move me always by your calm reasoning. Yet I am bound by my vow. Did I let my selfish inclinations plead, I might easily persuade myself that your logic is as true for me as it would be for another, not so solemnly pledged as I am. But the very leaning of desire warns me to guard my sacred promises the more sturdily against temptation." In her earnestness she did not realize the half confession she had made, but my heart leaped within me, and a quiver of joy thrilled to my finger tips.
"Tell me, Ellen," and I held her hands in a tighter clasp, and claimed the full gaze of her eyes, "had you never made this vow, could you consent to be my wife—would there have been hope of happiness for me?"
"Oh, Donald!" a cry of entreaty, following the blush that swam upward to the roots of her hair, "it is not fair to ask me—you have promised to help me—you should not make my duty so hard—so very hard for me."
I kissed the hands now cold and trembling again, not with passion, but with reverence on my lips, and laid them gently on her knee; then said, with a mighty effort at self-control—for I would have given the world to take her in my arms, and dared hope she would find it hard to resist me:
"Forgive me, Ellen; I will ask you nothing; you shall follow your duty as you see it. If you feel your promise binds you to the utmost self-sacrifice, I shall use no power your confidence has given me to persuade you from your duty. But why should you remain in this wilderness unprotected—for I must needs follow my soldier's duty back to Virginia—waiting the uncertain chance of safe convoy to Quebec, when you could go under my escort to the valley, stay there with your lawful protectors till the war is over, and then be escorted by them, with due consent and proper honor to your chosen retreat in Baltimore? There you will not only have wider sphere of usefulness among people of your own race and language, but you will be near your parents' graves and in reach of your relatives, should they need you, or you them. There I might even visit you sometimes—it would be a consolation and a joy had I only the happiness to hold your hand an instant, and to catch the old dear smile through the grating of convent bars.
"Moreover, Ellen, though I say this not in harshness, you would feel, I think, surer of God's blessing on your sacrifice if you were to enter your holy life at peace with all men—without bitterness in your heart toward the unfaithful guardians to whom your parents left you."
"That thought has troubled me," said Ellen, tears springing to her eyes, and making a soft film over their velvet blueness; "it does not seem meet for me to take the sacred veil with a spirit unforgiving and unforgiven. I would welcome the opportunity to beg Uncle Thomas' forgiveness, and to apologize to Aunt Martha for my willfulness. I had no wish, believe me, Donald, to cause them suffering. I thought to relieve Uncle Thomas of an obstacle to his domestic happiness, and Aunt Martha of a source of much annoyance. Remorse has pursued me since I knew of Thomas' following me, that he was willing to desert his parents and his religion for me. I made what reparation I could by sending him back to them, and his nature is not one to grieve long. If you, Cousin Donald, would but carry to them my repentance, and obtain their forgiveness, and their consent to my taking the veil, I might be able to do sufficient penance for my other sins."
"The truest reparation you can make them, Ellen, the one they would most value, and which will alone relieve them from the reproach of their consciences, and the odium of their neighbors, will be to go back with me, live in peace and amity with them for a time, and go from them in kindness to your convent seclusion."
"It is indeed a cup of humbling you would hold to my lips," said Ellen, paling suddenly—"yet doubtless I need to drink of that very cup. Pride, I think, is my besetting sin."
"Pride and love of your own will, Ellen,—unseemly faults for a fair and gentle woman—yet offset by rare virtues."
"Do not flatter me, Donald; let me face the truth; in showing me my real self, you are my truest friend. Pride and self-will! when I should possess 'a meek and quiet spirit,' and 'an humble and a contrite heart' before I shall be ready for my holy calling."
"May it not be, Ellen, that you are mistaking your determination to fulfill a rash vow, made under exciting circumstances, for a true call founded on real consecration of heart and spirit? Talk with Father Gibault; he is a holy man, yet a just and reasonable one; tell him all, and ask him to help you to determine your path of duty. Then come and tell me your decision—and with God's help, dear one, I will add to yours all my strength and courage, to enable you to follow where your conscience leads you. But oh, Ellen, will you not tell me once, just once, that you do love me, and would give yourself to me if you were free?"
"Donald! Donald! you must not disturb my soul by such entreaties!" she cried in pleading tones. "Do you not see that if once it were said, it could never again be unsaid?" and she left me hastily, her head drooping like a flower upon its stalk.
CHAPTER XXIV
What if Father Gibault's priestly zeal should prove stronger than the common sense, and sound humanity, I credited him with? What if he should conclude that the immolation of two lives was necessary to the saving of one soul? Should strengthen Ellen's superstition as to the sacred obligation of her impulsive vow? Well! in that case I should have two strong forces to war against, Ellen's superstition, and a priest's influence. But I had no thought of resigning Ellen until the authority of the Roman Church had put her forever beyond reach of my hopes. She had been created for love, and happiness, for the duties and ties of earth; once the fervor of self-sacrifice had exhausted itself, she would be miserable in a convent. I thought I knew her nature better than she understood it, and meant to save her from self-immolation for a happier life, and one, I truly believed, not less holy in God's sight. As impatient as I was to take once more my part in the struggle waging beyond the Alleghanies, I meant not to leave the Illinois Country until Ellen had consented to go with me, or was immured for life behind convent walls.
Father Gibault was with her when she came to me the next morning, and my heart beat fast with apprehension; his presence seemed to convey a hint of doom to my hopes. Ellen's face was very serious, but rigidly self-controlled, and about her was an air of unaccustomed meekness and humility.
"The Father has made my duty plain, Cousin Donald," she began; "I must go back to the guardians to whom my parents left me, and go from them to my seclusion, when, by meekness and obedience, I have won their forgiveness; I must shrive myself for the holy life by conquering will and pride," and she turned and left us, without having once lifted her eyes to mine. But my first point was gained, and my heart beat more calmly as I turned to Father Gibault, still standing by the window, looking pensively upon the landscape, to exclaim vehemently:
"And you think a rash vow, made by a child, under stress of fright and suffering, obligatory, Father Gibault? You will allow this girl to feel herself doomed to self-immolation because of an irresponsible promise to her own excited conscience? Cannot you foresee that she will live a long life of regret, and unavailing struggle against natural inclinations? And can you believe a half-hearted sacrifice, an immolation of the body only, is more likely to fit Ellen for Heaven, or more sure to do God's service, than the thrice holy calling of Christian wife and mother?"
"You are vehement in your argument beyond necessity, monsieur," answered the Father, in his soft precise English, and smiling calmly at me from the chair in which he had seated himself, while I strode up and down the room excitedly.
"The matter excuses vehemence," I answered. "Have you not guessed that I love my Cousin Ellen, that I wish her for my wife? And I would have good hope of winning her but for this absurd superstition of your cold and bigoted faith, that a fair and innocent young woman does honor to God by shutting herself up and doing penance—thus perpetuating a heathen custom, originating in the need of unprotected women for a place of refuge in a lawless age, to a more civilized time, which has greater need of the example and the inspiration of holy matrons, than for useless bead-counting nuns."
"You have unsuspected fluency of the tongue, Captain McElroy," and Father Gibault's habitual expression of gentle benevolence had given place to one of droll humorousness. "Priest though I be, and with mind, I trust, fixed usually on holier things, I could not easily have blinded myself to signs of earthly love so evident as those you have shown for your cousin. I guessed many things when the maiden lay ill of fever last autumn, and you haunted my steps for news of her. I wonder not that you love Ellen O'Neil. A maiden more sweet I have not known, nor one better worth a man's heart. When I learned of her vow, I thought first of you, with much sympathy, and fearing that her convictions were but the expression of extreme sensibility natural to girlhood, I was most careful not to say aught to fix them into resolve. Later, seeing that she took a maiden's natural pleasure in her small court, and that her influence over Colonel Clark and the rest of you was good, softening and restraining you, I soothed Ellen's unquiet conscience, and showed her that the holy God had given her a present work she could not wisely abandon until the way was opened to her. Moreover, I advised her to test farther her heart, and to be sure of full, free consecration before she should take the holy vows of a nun. Neither the Supreme God nor the holy church value half-hearted service, and such vow as Ellen made is binding only so long as conscience, will, and heart are in full accord. Ellen goes with you, Captain McElroy, free in conscience, unfettered by priestly admonition."
These words of Father Gibault's lifted a weight from my heart. I seized both his hands, and shook them gratefully, saying: "You are as honest and as true hearted as I thought you, Holy Father," calling him for the first time by the reverend title the Kaskaskians gave him. "I have not words sufficient to express my appreciation of your interest in my happiness and your regard for Ellen's welfare."
"I have advised you both as my conscience dictates," he answered, resuming the expression of benevolence, blended with worldly abstraction, and the tone of fatherly authority usual to him. "In doing so I have shifted my responsibility for Ellen O'Niel's future to you, until she is safe in her uncle's home; even then you must share jointly with her other kinsmen the trust which I, as her priestly guardian, have transmitted to you. Had I not full confidence in your honor, and your manly faith, Captain McElroy, I could not give you so delicate a charge with free conscience. You are to conduct this maiden in all safety and honor to her uncle's home; you are to leave her there in unmolested peace for at least one year—longer if she desires—and then allow her to choose, with absolute freedom, between your love and a nun's life. She is to choose, I repeat, freely, as her heart dictates and her conscience approves. Meantime, while she is under your sole guardianship you are to take no slightest advantage of her unprotected state, nor even of her new-found humility, to wring from her any promise or to exact any condition; you will not so much as trouble her with protestations, nor frighten her with appeals and entreaties."
"Most solemnly, I promise all, Holy Father," and I raised my eyes and hand to Heaven; "in no way will I trouble Ellen's peace for a full year; I will conduct her in honor and safety to the care of her lawful guardians, who shall in future be accountable to me for her happiness; and if she shall adhere to her resolutions to take nun's vows, my mother shall escort her to the convent she may choose."
"You leave for Virginia at once, Captain McElroy?"
"In ten days, if my cousin can be ready so soon."
"You will take all the brightness from Kaskaskia with Ellen, and leave many sad hearts behind. Others go with you?"
"Captain Bowman and twenty of his company."
"You make the journey by water?"
"To the headwaters of the Alleghany; there I shall procure horses, and we will make our way to the valley by the nearest pass."
Givens, after much deliberation with himself and others, concluded to remain with Colonel Clark; there was strong possibility, indeed, that he would settle in Kaskaskia for the rest of his life. Only one thing seemed to mar his content—that he would have fewer opportunities in the Illinois country for killing Indians than in Kentucky, or almost anywhere else in our borders. Colonel Clark had concluded an alliance with all the tribes in that part of our territory, and was very positive in his instructions that no quarrel was to be stirred up among them, and no excuse whatever given them to molest the whites, and they seemed equally to desire to live in friendly relations with the Americans.
"Wut in ther name uv all ther saints en all ther holies," said Givens, who had been almost converted to the Catholic faith, "Cunnel Clark mout be hevin' en his mind I doan' know—but, ef he'd er listened ter me he'd never made no sich er terms with ther murderin' savages es ud lef no chance fur er man ter git his revenge on 'em fur injuries es is more an human flesh en blood ought ter be axed ter forgive."
Ellen parted with Givens, Father Gibault, and the faithful Angélique and her many friends in Kaskaskia, with heartfelt sorrow, and they from her with evident grief. It seemed, at the last, almost cruel to take her away from so much tenderness, and sympathy, to a cold, loveless atmosphere. I, too, bade them, and gay Majore Légère, and genial Dr. Lafonte, farewell, and took my leave of the pleasant village of Kaskaskia with genuine regret.
The parting with Clark was a real heart wrench. He had said good-by to Ellen cheerfully, even gayly,—for it was not his way to wear heart on sleeve—presenting her with a large Indian basket full of amulets, chains of shells, small totems, rugs, blankets, beaded moccasins, and other curious things of Indian workmanship, to remind her, he said, of a year's life among savages, red savages and white:
"The happiest year of my life," said Ellen, beaming gratitude upon him for his cheerful and unselfish God-speed to us; "and also the most glorious of Colonel Clark's. I go back to chant the victories, both in war and diplomacy, of our American Hannibal!"
"The comparison is too flattering, Queen Eleanor," said Clark, but I knew he was pleased. I thought of Hannibal's end, even as I saw the force of Ellen's comparison, and a sad premonition was borne in upon my mind, adding to my grief at parting with him.
"If our expedition has been successful, even beyond our hopes," added Clark, "most of the credit is due to my loyal officers and my brave men. Especially must I share any glory that is mine with this brave, true comrade," and he laid a hand upon my shoulder, and looked into my eyes with his own bold and piercing ones, softened to the tenderness of a woman's. I knew this generous speech was made to forward my cause with Ellen, and I choked in my throat as I grasped his hand again, and, when I had given him one look of thanks, must needs turn aside to regain control of my feelings.
"If you needed me, Clark, I could not leave you," I found voice, presently, to say; "I but go to fight for our cause beyond the Alleghanies. But never can I have a commander more honored, or more beloved."
"Success to you, McElroy, in war and peace!—in all things you may have at heart!" he answered me, also much moved; "and when you have won all you strive for I shall come to rejoice with you. Farewell, comrade!"
"Farewell, Queen Eleanor! A pleasant journey and a pleasant home-coming! Forget me not in your prayers, sweet saint!" and he bent and kissed her hand, then handed her into the boat with a courtly grace which well became him.
He was still standing upon the wharf, when we made the first bend in the river—his arms folded, his gaze fixed upon the receding boat, as if he saw it but as part of a vision. We waved to him, but he did not move. The virgin freshness of the early morning, and the roseate radiance of the newly risen sun brought out, with added force, the heroic proportions and carriage of the man, silhouetted like a carven statue, representing human will, against the far sweeping, luxuriant bluffs, crowned with the growth of centuries, marking that vast and opulent territory which his single purpose had won and held for his country.
Floating down the river through the soft October haze on our comfortably fitted flat boat was ideal journeying. Often now when I fall into reveries, I live over again those golden autumn days, and see the rich and varied landscape through which we drifted with the swift current of the majestic Mississippi.
Ellen spent the days and half the nights on deck, protected from sun and dew, by the overhanging roof of the little cabin in which she slept. She had her own chair which Clark had ordered conveyed on board from the commandant's house, and there were thick Indian mats for her feet. I sprawled on these, hour after hour, making talk to amuse her, or listening to her when she pleased to entertain me, and entirely content were she silent, or talkative, gay or pensive, so only there was no shadow of regret upon her face. But one thing was lacking,—a book or two to read from. In lieu of them we told each other stories we had read, or repeated passages, prose or poetry, as we could remember. Ellen gave me long extracts from Shakespeare. I recited parts from "The School for Scandal"—that being, in truth, all the poetry I had learned by heart since my schoolboy days, and, seeing Ellen was interested, described the costumes we wore at its playing in Philadelphia, and the appearance and air of the players. From that I was led on to talk of the society I had mingled with in Philadelphia, and then of the Bufords and their kindness to me. Ellen's questions and shrewd guessing brought me at last to narrate the whole story of my whilom infatuation for Miss Nelly, and the narrow escape I made from being led to play a traitor's part by her wiles.
"She must be loyal Tory, indeed," was Ellen's comment, "or else she knew you less than her opportunities permitted, for she risked her happiness most rashly."
"Her happiness was little at stake, I have thought since; had she truly loved me she would have prized my honor more."
"She is fair and very winsome, did you say?"
"Yes; her manner wins you whether you will or no, and her beauty is of a kind to bewitch—to lead a man on like a swamp light, till, before he realizes his danger, he is hopelessly entangled."
"Would she not resume her sway over you were you to see her again?"
A throb of joy set my blood bounding at this question. Did it not suggest a twinge of jealousy in Ellen's heart? And the thought modified my answer somewhat.
"Can a man ever measure the influence of a woman's beauty and fascination upon him? Miss Buford bewitched me once; she might be able to do so again—unless my heart had some firm anchor to hold by."
Ellen sighed lightly, "I wish you had been born a Catholic, Cousin Donald."
"Or you a Protestant, sweet Ellen."
Her eyes did not answer the playful smile in mine, nor did she, as usual, chide my endearment; instead, she sighed lightly again, and looked dreamily at the water, breaking about our boat in golden ripples under the slanting rays of a declining sun. "It were a difficult thing for a Catholic to be happy in the valley, Donald."
"When Mr. Jefferson has carried his statute of religious liberty it will not be. The persecuted become readily persecutors; but when we shall all enjoy complete religious freedom, such as this statute gives us, we shall be more liberal toward others. And when the war is ended, and we have formed a free government, we shall have ideals so lofty before us, and scope so broad for all our energies, that there'll be small time or inclination for narrow bickering about creed or doctrine."
"And this statute will be enacted?"
"Without doubt. It is one of Mr. Jefferson's cherished measures; and when peace is won, he with Mason, Henry and others, I among them, of divergent creeds, but a single ideal, are pledged to give all our energies to its enactment."
"The brave, I think, are ever liberal-minded," said Ellen, "yet they are stubborn too, fixed as adamantine in their principles." And then, as she was wont to do when the talk between us grew personal, she called Captain Bowman to her side and asked him laughingly, if he still thought a Catholic worse than an unbeliever, and priests monsters of superstition, now that he had lived among them, and had known good Father Gibault?
"If ever I have thought so I do no longer," replied Bowman. "The Kaskaskians are honest Christians, and have been faithful friends to us, while Father Gibault is, I must admit, the equal for piety and charitableness of any Presbyterian parson I have ever known."
"Then will you not tell them so in the valley?" pleaded Ellen; "cannot you, with good conscience, speak a kind word for a misunderstood and reviled sect?"
"But I have yet one serious objection to your church, Queen Eleanor, that it encourages the immuring behind convent walls such as you—women whom the world needs to leaven its sodden mass of selfishness and sin. Since you have relinquished your vow of nunnery, however, and are half willing to reward as he deserves this brave comrade of mine, I can heartily promise not only my tongue but my rifle also to your defense, and the defense of your religion—should there ever be need."
"But you misapprehend my cousin's purposes, Captain Bowman," I made haste to say; "she is not my promised wife; she but goes to her uncle's home under our protection, and from there, when she is fully ready, to a convent."
"Grant me your pardon for a soldier's bluntness," said Bowman with an embarrassed bow to Ellen; then followed my lead eagerly, as I broached another subject.
Fair weather attended us the entire route, with only summer showers now and then to drive us to the cabin's shelter; and placid currents made the rowing, when we came to ascend the Ohio and the Alleghany, easy work. More fatiguing was the landward journey, which Bowman, Ellen, and I continued, in company, across mountain range after mountain range, valley after valley. When the top of the last ridge was reached, and the fair land of the Shenandoah lay unrolled to my eager vision, I lifted my hat, and said aloud:
"Thank God! once more I am home!"
"Aye, thank God for this crowning mercy!" added Bowman devoutly. There it lay, the sweet, peaceful scene I loved better than nature's grandest efforts! My horse must have felt the joyful impetus throbbing in my heart and tingling through my nerves, for he quickened his gait to match my eagerness.
We were still some miles from home, and the sun was setting, when Bowman halted at a farm gate.
"A cousin of mine lives a mile beyond this meadow," he said, "and I shall spend the night with him. He will gladly welcome my friends, and since you cannot hope to reach home before midnight, McElroy, why not come with me? Queen Eleanor is already tired; see how her shoulders droop; and for an hour she has not spoken."
I thought I saw assent in Ellen's eyes and so answered him, "Thank you, Captain, for a kind suggestion. I accept gladly for my cousin, but I am too hungry for a sight of home to need rest. On the day after to-morrow, Ellen, I shall return for you."
"You are very thoughtful, Cousin Donald," said Ellen, in low tones, as Captain Bowman considerately rode up to the gate, and occupied himself with its fastenings. "You will break the news of my coming, and soften the way for me. Good-by—till Thursday." Then she added with a merry smile, "You may promise what you will for me; I shall be good, and meek, and humble; I will even learn the Shorter Catechism, and wear my beads and crucifix beneath my bodice. It is easier to be good"—her expression changing to one of serious gratitude—"when one has a friend and sympathy."
"And love, you should say, also, Ellen. My tongue is bound by a promise, for a year, yet I wish you not to forget that I shall love you with unchanging devotion to the end of my life. Every breeze that caresses your hair, Ellen, every sunbeam that kisses your cheek, will bring a love message from my heart to yours. You cannot get away from my love, dear one, never again while you live! It will follow you even behind convent walls, should ever your conscience take you there. You will then bury my happiness as well as your own."
The words had sprung from my heart, and were spoken without premeditation. I realized, as soon as they were uttered, that they strained, perhaps, the strict letter of my compact with Father Gibault; yet when I saw the flush upon Ellen's cheeks, and met for an instant a tender glance, which seemed to beam without permission from those rare blue eyes, I did not regret the impulse which had made me speak. Who can set bounds to a lover's tongue, or demand of the eye of love that it express only what cold reason bids it say? Hearts have swayed heads since Adam listened to Eve, in the garden, and will to the end of time.
CHAPTER XXV
The messages I bore Ellen from Aunt Martha, when I rode to Mr. White's to bring her home, were ample in assurances of forgiveness and reconciliation, while Uncle Thomas' were full of affection and satisfaction at her return. Aunt Martha I found much changed; she looked not only older, but a new expression of meekness struggled with the habitual one of self-righteousness and indomitable will. Mother, ready as ever to make excuses for the faults of those she loved, declared that Aunt Martha's whole nature had been softened by recent chastenings, and that she had even lost her restless, bustling energy, so that one could spend, now, a peaceful afternoon with her and not be conscious of having interrupted a soap boiling, a candle molding, or a quilting. It was evident from my brief talk with her that Ellen's return was a great satisfaction; that she regarded it in some sense as a vindication in the eyes of husband, son, and neighbors. Thomas had just departed for Liberty Hall Academy to continue his ministerial studies, which was one reason, perhaps, that Aunt Martha could welcome Ellen sincerely. Especially had Thomas' full confession of all that had passed between Ellen and himself softened his mother's heart toward her, and increased her regret for past harshness.
Thomas, I found, had been most considerate, having given no hint to any one of my feelings toward Ellen. But I told my mother, as we sat talking, late into the night, and got her blessing, with a promise of profound secrecy, and whatever help she might find quiet opportunity to give me. All my own affairs were for the present as I would have them, and my heart would have been as light as thistledown but for the discouraging war news I had from my father.
The year that had given us such unbroken success, and such fruitful victories in the Northwest, had been one of disaster for the American cause in the East. The British still held New York; Fort Washington had been taken, Continental currency was depreciated in value till it was no longer possible to procure necessary army supplies; the troops had not been paid for months, and were ragged, poorly equipped, half starved, and mutinous. Georgia had fallen, and South Carolina sorely beset by home and foreign enemies, could not hope to hold out much longer unless strongly reënforced from without. Worse still, the gallant and patriotic Arnold had turned traitor, and a shuddering horror and apprehension was upon the land—since the noble and high-spirited Arnold could fall to such depths, might we not look for treason everywhere? On hearing all this discouraging news, I determined at once to visit Colonel Morgan, and to urge him, despite his physical infirmities and his justly wounded pride—for Congress had not yet raised him to the rank to which his past services had entitled him—to call together his scattered riflemen once more, and go to the help of the hard-pressed patriots of the sparsely settled South. And so I told Ellen as we rode together to Uncle Thomas'.
"Shall I feel as lonely, and as friendless when you are gone, I wonder, as I did the first time you left the valley with Morgan?" said Ellen with a light sigh.
"You were a child then," I answered, "and had few resources. Now you are sufficient to yourself. I fear you will not miss me half so much as you will the kindly Kaskaskians, and the good Father, and the faithful Angélique."
"Bless their memories! I shall miss them, and long for a sight of their kind faces. But, all the more, since they are so far away, I shall miss my one true and tried friend in the valley."
"Will you be very lonely and unhappy in the valley, Ellen? Would you have been far better contented had I left you in Kaskaskia?" I questioned anxiously.
"Father Gibault thought it my duty, Cousin Donald, and more and more I understand that it is the one right thing for me. I must find the way my God would have me walk by following the lowly path of duty, and by making reparation for past sins. Do you remember, Cousin, that night before you left the valley—when you found me star-gazing on the rock overhanging the spring?"
"Aye, Ellen! The vision of you, as you looked that night, has come back to me again and again—so often that I began to question, long before I knew I loved you, as man loves but one woman in his life, what import the vision might have, and to wonder if it foretold the crossing of our lives in some fateful way. That picture was the last that floated through my dream the day I slept in the forest, when you saved me from the Indian's tomahawk."
"Memory, it seems to me, has mysterious power,—beyond our will to guide, or our reason to explain," Ellen replied. "That night of our farewell at the spring, the first fibers of affection and sympathy reached out from your heart to mine, and through all these months have stretched and held till they have grown strong enough to bring me back to my duty."
"May they grow yet stronger, Ellen, till our hearts are knitted together for life, and for eternity!"
Ellen's serious absorption was shaken by these words, and she blushed like any earthly minded maiden, as she answered:
"My heart will ever feel itself bound to yours by the fibers of a deep and strong affection, Cousin Donald, wherever my duty leads me. There can be no harm in a nun's cherishing gratitude and affection, nor in her offering hourly prayers for one who has been to her the noblest of friends."
"Your thoughts and prayers would be but cheerless consolation for a desolate life. I want your daily presence, Ellen, the hourly benediction of your smile. But, forgive me, dear,"—for I saw that her lips trembled like a grieved child's, and that a tear had slipped from underneath her lowered lids; "I am very weak. After all my promises I continue to disturb you with my arguing and beseeching. You shall have a year to think upon it all, and, meanwhile, I shall smother in my breast every word that my heart may urge to my lips."
My visit to Colonel Morgan was made before Christmas, and I returned home cheered by his promise to take the field early in the spring. Meanwhile I was put to my old work of enlisting recruits—a work much interrupted by the malarial chills which every second day tied me to the chimney corner. Gradually they wore themselves out, and by the faithful use of bitters concocted from the Peruvian bark Father Gibault had given me, I made myself fit for active duty by the early spring, and gladly joined Morgan. He had been almost grudgingly made general by Congress at last, and generously forgetting all past wrongs and differences had hastened to join Gates, after the woeful disaster of Camden.
But that unfortunate officer reaped now the fruits of his previous scheming and bragging, and fell rapidly from the favor of Congress, in which he had held so high a place since Saratoga. He was replaced by the capable General Greene, and roundly abused by the whole country. Having been sent into North Carolina with dispatches from General Morgan to certain officers of the State Militia, it was my good fortune on my return to fall in with grim backwoodsmen marching to meet and repulse the advance of Ferguson. I accepted temporary service under Colonel Campbell, and so had the honor of fighting beside those indomitable militiamen, who won the victory of King's Mountain—one of the most glorious incidents of our Revolution, and the turning point of disasters, from which events marched on, more and more successfully, to Cowpens and Yorktown. At the risk of wearying my readers with constant reiteration of the praises of the race from which I, proudly claim descent—though I have played fair with them, saying, in the beginning, that it was partly with the hope of repairing our historians' neglect of the Scotch Irish that this chronicle was undertaken—I must call attention to the fact that King's Mountain was a Scotch Irish victory, won by militiamen of that race. I doubt, indeed, if the plan could have been conceived, or if conceived could have been executed, by regulars. Men used to climbing mountains, and to the methods of Indian warfare, were needed to fight and win as the frontiermen fought and won at King's Mountain.
By the first of January our affairs in the South were more hopeful. Recently discouraged patriots, inspired by the victory of King's Mountain, flocked to General Greene's standard, and that able officer, supported by General Morgan and Colonel Washington, and aided by the daring bands led by Sumter and Marion, soon threatened Cornwallis on both his flanks, and by a series of surprises and sudden maneuvers so confused that military pedant that he did not know what next to expect, and hardly which way to turn. Having divided his army into two bodies, Greene skillfully avoided a drawn battle, and continued to threaten the British communications. For Cornwallis to sit still was to await his doom; to march against either army was to give the other an opportunity to win a fatal advantage. He, therefore, divided his own force, sending the renowned Tarleton to hold Morgan in check, while he drew Greene after him into North Carolina.
Morgan retired slowly before Tarleton's advance to some meadows, not far from King's Mountain, and there formed his men upon the field of Cowpens, on gently rising ground, with hills to the left, and a deep, broad river in the rear. There would be no chance for the militiamen to run, for, said Morgan, with grim humor, when they had reached the river's bank they would likely be willing to turn and fight again. We slept that night upon our chosen battle ground, and until past midnight General Morgan was abroad in the camp, inspecting arms, inspiring his officers, joking with his men, and telling them what they and the "old wagoner" would do for the British regulars the next morning.
To form in fighting line, according to prearranged plan, was but an hour's work, when Tarleton's advance was discovered, and time was still left for our General to ride down the line, encouraging and animating us with a few hearty words—such as he so well knew how to fit to each heroic occasion. A furious rush, Tarleton's favorite maneuver, drove in our front line of militia, as had been foreseen, after they had obeyed General Morgan's oft repeated command to fire at least two volleys, at killing range, before breaking rank. But, behind the militia stood DeKalb and his Marylanders, and a tried company of Virginia Continentals, who met calmly the too confident pursuit of the British, and fought deliberately, till Colonel Washington's cavalry swooped down from the hills, attacking the enemy's right flank simultaneously with the charge of the militia, which had been re-formed, and marched around our position, on their left. Already entangled, by their over-eager pursuit of our first column, with their opponents, and now almost surrounded, the British fought on, gallantly but hopelessly. A bayonet charge from the Continentals in their front quickly brought about rout and panic, and nearly the whole British force engaged was killed or captured. Their loss was nearly one thousand; ours not more than seventy-five. No battle of our War for Independence was more skillfully planned, more boldly won, and to General Morgan, alone, belongs the credit for plan and execution.
A fortunately heavy rainfall cut off Cornwallis' pursuit, and gave us an opportunity to carry our prisoners across the Catawba. General Greene joined us here, escorted by a few dragoons, his force behind him. He had heard of Morgan's splendid victory, and pushed forward to help him reap the fruits of it. But Morgan was now attacked violently by his old enemy, rheumatism, and could not leave his tent; the gallant "old wagoner" who had never known defeat in battle, had more than once been vanquished by disease, the result, he bitterly admitted, of his own youthful excesses. A few weeks later he was forced to resign his command, and to return to his home.
That circumstance made easier for me the duty which had been assigned me—namely, to command one company of the militia which was to escort our seven hundred prisoners to Virginia. My latest service, on General Morgan's staff, had been most congenial to me, and even the honor now offered me of a similar position with General Greene did not console me for the loss of my first leader. The place would have been gratefully accepted, however, for I admired and trusted General Greene, both as man and leader—even with loss of the opportunity of a few days at home, and a glimpse of Ellen—had not a circumstance occurred which made me entirely willing to perform the duty which had been first assigned me. This circumstance was communicated to me by General Morgan.
"Whom, in heaven's name, think you I found this morning among our prisoners, McElroy? Young Buford—the pretty Nelly's brother, he who rescued you from Philadelphia prison hospital. He has a painful but not dangerous wound in the hip, for which reason he sent to me, asking for ambulance service, his wound having become inflamed from the march."
"Make him my prisoner, General?" I asked eagerly; "I claim no other share of the spoils."
"Eh? You'll hold him as hostage for his sister's favor—fair stratagem, I suppose. He'll be perfectly safe in your hands, doubtless, so I'll turn him over to you."
"To him and to his entire family I owe an obligation which can be repaid in kind only; this is a longed for opportunity."
"And what will you do with him?"
"Take him to my own home, even as he did me, and leave him to my mother's nursing, till he is well enough to be discharged."
"And no parole asked? The terms granted you were less generous."
"Buford did not make the terms; but if he had, I should still wish to surpass my enemies in generosity, as well as in bravery."
"Then you will decline Greene's offer of a place on his staff? I asked it for you, thinking this excursion to Virginia in charge of prisoners less to your liking."
"It was most kind of you, General, but for this find of Buford it would have been my choice—could the place be held for me?"
"It can be, doubtless, especially if you can bring back some recruits. Greene will need reinforcements, and must look to Virginia for them. But for these swollen and painful limbs of mine,"—with a grimace toward those much swathed members—"I should be the last to desert him. It's a bitter pill, lad, to be obliged to go home—to be chained by disease to my chair, like a galley slave to his bench, when my spirit is with the front ranks, against our country's enemies."
"It is a sore grief to me, also, General, and particularly that your malady should attack you now, when your newest laurels are still green, and there are more awaiting you. Your retirement takes half the heart out of me for the service, as it does for every rifleman in the regiment."
"That spirit must not be encouraged, lad. As much as it pleases me to be regretted by my gallant boys, it would sincerely grieve me were my going to affect in any way their zeal or bravery. I shall expect them to do no less than they have always done, indeed they must fight the more determinedly because their commander has gone stiff and lame and must be content to stand like a used up horse in the stall, munching memories for diversion."
"You'll get better after a rest, General, and be at it again before the war's over. Not even disease can conquer your spirit."
"Right, lad! If the war lasts long enough for my good Abigail to tea and poultice the swelling from my joints, I'll be at 'em again."
That evening I had Buford removed to my tent, where, presently, I visited him.
"I am sorry for the occasion, Captain Buford," I said, extending my hand to him, "but since it was written that this misfortune of war should befall you, I am grateful that the opportunity has come to me to repay in some degree the courtesy and kindness I received at your hands, when my situation was similar to your present one."
"It is indeed Donald McElroy!" Buford exclaimed, in pleased tones. "I am lucky in spite of this painful accompaniment to my good fortune," pointing to his bandaged thigh.
"You are now my prisoner," I said, "and your wound shall have the best attention possible."
"You are then in command of the militia which is to convey us to Virginia? Is it proper to tell me our final destination?"
"Yours, with your consent, Captain Buford, is my own home. My mother is the best of nurses. I promise you comfort and kind care, at any rate, if you will agree to the arrangements just made between Colonel Morgan and me."
"One would think me an urged guest, rather than a poor sick prisoner," answered Buford, a smile upon his face. He was much like Nelly, though his was strictly a masculine, as hers was purely a feminine, type of comeliness. "There is small likelihood that I shall decline so generous an offer—a comfortable home and woman's nursing are all too tempting for my present weakness."
"As was your offer to me in Philadelphia. It is seldom, I imagine, that a man is granted so high a boon as the opportunity to evince in fitting deeds his gratitude. Your mother and sister are well, I hope, and in safety?"
"My mother is dead, Captain McElroy, and I fear her constant anxiety for me hastened her end. Nelly, poor girl, is left lonely and desolate. She has taken refuge for the present with Quaker friends near the city."
I expressed my regret and sympathy, and left him to make arrangements for the march next day. His news oppressed my spirit more than one would have supposed; it was hard to think of light-hearted Nelly as a sad refugee. Oh, this weary, cruel war! When would it end?
CHAPTER XXVI
Buford's strength had been so burnt out with fever, and so wasted from the suppuration of his wound, that he was but the pale, limp outline of a man when I laid him gently on one of my mother's snowy beds. Had he been more than Tory, more than British officer, my dear mother would have received him kindly in his present state, and laid aside all other duties to care for him. It was good to see her hovering over him with gentle touch and to hear her say: "They were good to you, son, when you were in like condition. I am proud you brought him to me; he shall have every care, every comfort."
"Oh, brother, were you as ill as this, when he took you from the Philadelphia prison?" said Jean, tender commiseration on her face.
"Weaker, I think, only I had passed the stage of delirium into which he slipped only a few days ago. But look at me now! See how robust I am!" and I lifted her by the elbows to the level of my face, kissed her and set her upon her feet again, adding: "Buford will soon be as sound, with yours and mother's nursing."
"His mother and sister nursed you?"
"They had me well-cared for. I was over the worst when they found me."
"We'll nurse him carefully, dear Donald, you may be satisfied of that. Is he, though, really a Tory? He looks like a gentleman," glancing toward him as she spoke, as if she half suspected Buford of possessing hidden tusks and horns like some fabled monster.
"And gentleman he is, only his opinions do not agree with ours"; whereupon I laughed so merrily at Jean's shocked face that mother signed to us to leave the room, lest we disturb her patient. "Aye, little sister," I continued, "prejudice is a most strange thing! 'Tis like a pestilence in the air, poisoning even the most innocent and pure-hearted. Heaven, Jean, I doubt not, is a place where thought is as free as God's smile, and conviction untrammeled, save by love and knowledge of truth. Such state would almost be heaven, methinks, without other concomitants."
Jean, though the sweetest of little women, and well endowed with common sense, and all needful womanly reason, cared not, like Ellen, to follow the twistings and wanderings of thought, so she took me straight back to our subject.
"And if Captain Buford gets well, Donald, will they hang him because he is a Tory?"
"Do you suppose, innocent one, that we but fatten him for the halter? Either he'll be exchanged, paroled, or discharged."
"Then he'll go back to fight more against us? Oh! Donald, I'm afraid I shall hate the poor man when he begins to get stronger, though he looks now so pitiable."
"It would be very hard to hate Buford, Jean. You'll forget he's in a sense our enemy. But, don't bother your little head about all this yet; perhaps Generals Greene and Washington may make peace with the British by the time Buford is strong enough to shoulder arms again. A few more victories like King's Mountain and Cowpens and it's done."
"What would then become of Captain Buford?" persisted Jean.
"He would be released, and could go back to Philadelphia, or to England, as he pleased. Perhaps his estate would be confiscated, and he might suffer other persecutions. There is much bitterness everywhere against the Tories," I responded.
"Poor gentleman!" she sighed; "perhaps we ought not to want him to get well."
"Nonsense, little Jean! Of course we want him to get well, and if he could be consulted he himself would choose to get well, you may be sure. A man worth the name wants to see the end of the play—to finish the game—to keep up life's battle while muscle and wind are left him to fight with. Do all you can to cure him, Jean, and leave his future in his own hands."
"And God's," she added reverently.
All this conversation I repeated to Ellen, during the few brief hours I had to spend with her. Then we went back to the subject of prejudice, and I talked out the convictions which Jean had not encouraged me to express. Ellen was broad-minded, open-souled—one of God's chosen transmitters from generation to generation of ever-widening truth. This talk between us upon the subject of prejudice, as to which we were already agreed, led on to a less general discussion, and gave me opportunity to drive, I hoped, another wedge between superstition and consecration. Presently I made the enquiry I almost dreaded to have her answer:
"Tell me of your daily life with Aunt Martha, Ellen; is each day still a trial to you, exercising all your fortitude and patience?" Her answer gave me my first heart's ease for weeks.
"No, Donald, I wonder, indeed, if it was ever so bad as I thought, or if my stubborn will and set defiance magnified the hardships I underwent, as a child, under Aunt Martha's discipline. However that may have been, I find her, now, disposed to give me full liberty, and to exact few duties. Indeed, it is of my own will that I relieve her of such duties as she will trust me to perform; and since her health fails more and more, she is obliged to let others do many things she once took upon herself."
"And she never asks you to go to church?"
"No, but twice I have offered to go. Father Gibault granted me absolution beforehand—as Elisha did Naaman—should I think it best to attend the Protestant meetings which my relatives frequented. And I have found the quiet church a better place to repeat my litany and aves than even my own room; the preacher's voice I can imagine to be the priest's intoning, and if I shut my eyes, I can see the candles, and smell the incense."
I smiled at this naïve confession. "But you make no signs, I hope," I said in pretended seriousness, which for a moment deceived her.
"I am careful to do so only under my tippet; and see! I wear my beads beneath my gown," and Ellen drew forth a small ebony cross and held it out for my inspection.
Thinking this scene over later, Ellen's religion seemed to me not only harmless—apart from her superstitious vow—but so much a part of her as to be lovable. It would nowise affect my confidence and love were my wife always a devout Catholic. Could I be one with her, though, in her religion; could I yield my own simple and sublime faith for hers?—to that question came a not uncertain negative. My reason and feelings repelled all the dogmas and practices so sacred to Ellen, as hers did those most congenial to my spirit! No! I would make no compromise with the woman I loved—the woman I would win for my wife. She must come to me trusting all, confiding all. There must be no terms of barter between me and my heart's love.
The company of militiamen I was able to take with me to General Greene was warmly welcomed, for many of the men of King's Mountain and Cowpens had refused to enlist for regular service, and General Greene was using all the skillful tactics of which he was master to avoid a drawn battle with Cornwallis' united army, until his own was strong enough to offer some hope of another victory. Defeat could not be risked just now, for that meant a resubjugated South, and then General Washington's dislodgement from Philadelphia and New Jersey, which would be the end of our hopes and our efforts. The battle of Guilford Court House, fought on the fifth of March, was claimed by the British as a defeat for the Americans; but Charles Fox realized, as General Greene did, its true import, when he said on the floor of the British Parliament:
"Another such victory as that of Guilford would destroy the British Army."
General Greene now retreated to Troublesome Creek and there awaited the expected pursuit. We did not know until later that General Cornwallis had lost a third of his force, nor that he was so encumbered with wounded, and so needy of supplies of all kinds, as to make pursuit impossible. Slowly he fell back into the Tory Highland Settlement at Cross Creek. We followed, at first cautiously, but more and more eager to dislodge and rout our enemy as we learned of his crippled condition. Our own lack of ammunition prevented our doing so, and General Cornwallis was perforce allowed to cross Deep River, near Ramsay's Mill. Both armies crouched here—like two angry lions, pausing in prolonged combat, and waiting but for strength enough to make again at each other's throats—for some weeks, the river between, with all its fords vigilantly guarded. We Continentals fared hardly, meanwhile, subsisting on ash cakes, and the black, stringy meat of the half wild cattle, raised on the pine barrens. The damp ground was our bed, and our ragged blankets and our tattered clothes were our only protection from the vagaries of the spring weather.
A bold decision of General Greene's relieved the strained situation. He would leave Cornwallis in his rear, and advance by rapid marches to the relief of South Carolina. If Cornwallis should follow him he would turn and give him battle;—if he should decide to march on northward to coöperate with Arnold in Virginia, the militia and General Lafayette must take care of him. His, General Greene's, task was to relieve the Southern States; he would stick to his work.
We advanced swiftly to Camden, held by a considerable British force, and sat down before it. Cornwallis still remained at Ramsay's Mill. The night before the fall of Fort Watson, which would give us Camden, General Greene sent for me to his tent. "Colonel McElroy," he began—I have found no opportunity to state my gradual rise in rank during my eight months of southern service,—"I wish to send important dispatches to Governor Jefferson, and for obvious reasons prefer to have them conveyed orally. I must have a trusty and well accredited messenger, and one perfectly familiar with the country, therefore I have chosen you. Say to Governor Jefferson that I believe it to be General Cornwallis' intention to advance into Virginia in an attempt to over-run and subjugate that state. Say to him, that I hope, with the assistance of Sumter's and Marion's rangers, without further reënforcements, to relieve the Southern States, and afterwards, if I am needed, I will gladly come to the help of Virginia. I would not have him think that I have deserted that noble commonwealth whose aid, more than that of any of the others, has enabled me to do what so far it has been possible to accomplish in this department. I know the bravery and loyalty of Virginians, and have no fears for the result there, but these over-ridden South Carolinians must have instant succor, if the State is not to be given over finally to the British and the Tories. Have you a fleet mount, Colonel McElroy?"
"The best that can be raised on my father's plantation, and bred from good English hunting stock."
"You will need to ride swiftly, and persistently. Once Cornwallis gives the order to advance—you know his habit—there'll be no delays, no deliberate marches."
"I fully realize that, General; I will lose no time."
"A somewhat circuitous route might be the safer: skirt the Highland neighborhood, though your route be lengthened thereby. It might be well to suggest to Governor Jefferson the extreme importance of guarding any army stores we may have left in Virginia, though doubtless the obvious necessity to do so will occur to him."
"Where shall I rejoin you, General?" I asked.
"I cannot say where one, two or three weeks may find me; it depends both on Cornwallis' movements, and our successes or reverses, as we attempt to relieve South Carolina. I would suggest that you do not try to rejoin me until ordered to do so. Should Cornwallis continue his advance into Virginia, Governor Jefferson will need you to help to raise and command the militia, doubtless. You may say that I but lend you to him, until the tide of invasion has been rolled back from your State."
Thanking General Greene for his confidence implied, I saluted, and went at once to my tent to make preparations for departure early the next morning.
Though General Cornwallis had the advantage of two days' start, I overtook him on the third day, and from that time distanced his encumbered movements every hour. Part of my way was over ground he had just traversed, part lay parallel with it, and more than one distressing scene came under my observation. Smoldering homes, barns, and hay ricks sent up a sodden smoke from all along the route, and several times I saw women and children sheltering, for lack of better place, under the eaves of half-burned ricks. Say the most one can for it, war at its best is but a grim and terrible necessity.
CHAPTER XXVII
My report but confirmed rumors of the approach of Cornwallis which had already reached Governor Jefferson, and I found him wide awake to Virginia's danger, against which he was taking every precaution his exhausted resources allowed. He received me with flattering remembrance of our former meeting, and an unaffected cordiality. Still more, he pleased me by the letter of introduction he gave me to General Lafayette, together with certain dispatches in which he spoke of me in terms of personal friendship. Among the dispatches was my special commission to raise reënforcements in the valley, with which I was to join Lafayette's command as promptly as possible.
This was my first meeting with the gallant and elegant Frenchman, under whom I was to serve during the remainder of our struggle. Morgan, Clark, Greene, and Lafayette were the four great leaders whom I followed during my eight years of military life. They were as different as four great souled men of war-like genius could well be—though between Morgan and Clark there was the kinship of spirits cast in primitive heroic mold, a like resemblance to Achilles, Priam, Alexander and other heroes of an earlier time—yet each of the four I could honor and love sincerely, serving him with exulting sense of privilege.
For this last emergency, recruiting was not needful. I did not find it necessary, indeed, to cross the mountain, for at its foot I met the grim militiamen of the valley, swarming to meet Tarleton. I had only to form them into a company, and march them to join Lafayette before he began his strategical retreat toward Fredricksburg, with the double object of protecting the manufactory of arms near Falmouth, and effecting a junction with the troops under General Wayne, ordered southward to reënforce us. Cornwallis followed Lafayette, taking a parallel course to the eastward of ours. Often not more than twenty miles separated us, and we dared not slacken our march for heat or storm while the winged Cornwallis gave chase. The junction with Wayne before a battle was forced upon us was General Lafayette's one hope of escape. And now, once more, it was the privilege of the Scotch Irish to render signal service to the cause. To my company, and that of Captain Mercedes, fell the posts of honor and danger. We were the scouts, the pickets, the couriers, and the rear guard on this skillfully conducted retreat.
We had nearly reached the ford on the Pamunkey we had been pushing for, when a force of the enemy overtook us and pressed upon our rear. General Lafayette halted and formed line of battle with the determination to make a desperate stand. I had been sent for to reconnoiter, on the first report of the enemy's advance, and soon discovered that it was only a patrolling force, and that the main body of the British was yet some distance in the rear of us. Hastening with this good news to General Lafayette, I found it more expeditious to travel for several miles along the road recently gone over by Cornwallis' reconnoitering force, and between that force and the British army. As was my rule when on scout service, my squad marched in close column, with detail of two in front, and two in rear, as special lookouts. The front lookout stopped suddenly, and seemed to listen; we approached quickly and heard also the confused sounds, with screaming, and hoarse wrangling, which had arrested their attention. Convinced that the force in front, whatever its uniform and purpose, could be but a small one, I ordered my men to advance at double quick, and, putting spurs to my horse, I came immediately around the bend in the road to the scene of action.
A squad of fifteen or more British soldiers surrounded an overturned post chaise, from the tangled harness of which, four frightened and struggling horses were being extricated by trembling postilions. In the midst of the group were two female figures, one dressed in black, and heavily veiled, the other in the costume of a lady's maid. It was she who continued to utter piercing screams, throwing her hands about in the most tragic manner, and paying no heed to her mistress' low spoken commands. We were within fifty yards of the group before the thud of our horses hoofs upon the sandy soil was loud enough to rise above this confusion of clamors; and before the mounted British could turn, or the dismounted leap upon their horses, we had surrounded them.
"Stack arms: You are my prisoners!" I called, "and what means this cowardly attack upon a lady's traveling carriage?"
"You Americans have a trick of using women as your spies and couriers, and then crying shame upon us if we arrest them, and foil you! This pretended widow or orphan is doubtless stuffed like a pin cushion beneath her black robes with spies' reports, and warnings to Jefferson!" replied the officer in charge of the squad, as he angrily stacked his gun beside the rest, and cast scornful glances upon the veiled figure, who, until then, had stood haughtily erect and silent among them.
"It is a false charge!" she now answered, spiritedly; "I bear no dispatches, convey no messages. I but go to seek my only brother, late a British officer, now a wounded prisoner, yet treated by the courteous enemy who harbor him, I doubt not, with more gentleness than I am receiving from those who should be most prompt to succor and defend me!" Then, turning to me, she continued in tones less scornful: "Will you be so good as to inform me, sir, whose prisoner I have now the honor to be?—The fortune of war may change, it seems, with such magic swiftness, that one finds it difficult to be sure of one's present or one's prospective situation."
"You are no one's prisoner, madam," I replied, stirred suddenly by familiar tones in her voice; "you are under the protection, however, of Virginia troops commanded by Colonel McElroy, and will be conveyed to some place of safety acceptable to you as soon as possible." I had dismounted, meantime, and stood near her.
"Can it be Captain Donald McElroy, of Virginia?" she said in lowered and tremulous voice, at the same moment throwing back her veil, and revealing the face of Nelly Buford—fairer than ever in its setting of rich hair and banded crepe.
Does a man ever quite forget his first love? Has its remembrance always power to thrill him, even though the once lively sentiment be supplanted, or outlived? That the sound of Nelly's voice, and the touch of her hand, could yet thrill me, was, just now, a disturbing revelation. I felt myself disloyal to Ellen and so scorned myself for this fresh evidence of weakness, that I fear my manner to her was almost haughty.
Having dispatched a courier with my comforting news to General Lafayette, and sent my prisoners after him, under sufficient escort, I ordered the postilions, and some of my men, to right the carriage, and make the harness safe. Then I joined Nelly, and relieved her mind of all anxiety about her brother by telling her of his whereabouts, and the news I had had recently that he was convalescent, and would completely recover. Nelly's thanks were fervently expressed after which she proceeded to explain her present situation, and to give me her double reason for leaving the shelter her generous Quaker friends had for some months afforded her—the longing to find her brother, and the wish to relieve her host of the inconvenience and possible danger of harboring one of a family well-known to be strong Tory adherents.
The carriage having been made ready, Nelly and her maid were shut within, and, preceded and followed by mounted escort, Miss Buford was conveyed in state to General Lafayette's late headquarters. We found the army gone, and camp deserted, and I surmised, that, upon receipt of my courier's message, the general, seeing yet a chance to escape, had ordered an immediate advance. We followed, but did not overtake the hastily bivouacked army until past midnight.
No other accommodation than that Nelly's carriage offered was procurable, and so I regretfully informed her, to be cheerfully assured that she asked nothing better, if she might have cessation from jolting, and sense of security. The rest of the hot night I stood guard, watching the languid stars blink one by one to sleep, and waging lively warfare with the swarms of greedy mosquitoes, who constituted themselves surety for my vigilance. As soon as the first flush of morning tinged the eastern sky, I woke one of my men, and left him to guard the carriage while I sought General Lafayette. He was sound asleep under a tree with a gnarled root for pillow, his face and hands covered by his blanket to protect them from the swamp pests. Awakened by my step, he threw off his blanket, looked up at the sky, and muttered sleepily some unintelligible words in his own language.
"General Lafayette?" I said, stepping in front of him, and saluting, "I am Colonel McElroy, at present in command of a company of Virginia militiamen. Will you grant me a few moments of your time while the camp is getting ready to march?"
"Most certainly, Colonel McElroy," then, in the precise English of the cultivated foreigner, and with agreeable accent—"when I have thanked you for this valuable information sent me last evening. Ah, if fortune continues to favor us, we'll yet escape the bold Cornwallis, Colonel McElroy! But we must march unceasingly, till we meet the reinforcements of General Wayne. Then we'll give Cornwallis the fight he seems so much to wish, and show him what may be done by the united gallantry of America and France! But I retard your story, sir; command, now, my attention."
I related briefly the capture of the British stragglers, the rescue of the young lady, and added an account of my previous acquaintance with Miss Buford, and the debt of gratitude I felt myself under to her family. He listened with courteous attention, and responded with true French understanding of such obligation:
"You can do nothing less, Colonel McElroy, than escort the young woman in safety to her brother. Later I shall gladly detail such force to guard you as you may think necessary, but for the present it is safer that she remain with the army."
"Then you have no objection, General Lafayette, to her carriage and its escort traveling between the main army and my company—at present the van guard?"
"None, sir—under the circumstances."
"I have still another favor to ask, General"—somewhat embarrassed by my own boldness—"that you will grant Miss Buford the honor of an introduction. Such attention from you as a brief visit to her carriage would avoid all danger of familiar acts, words, or surmise from any of the troops while she must be with us; she would become your guest, and be under your personal protection."
"A shrewd thought, Colonel, worthy of your Scotch name," General Lafayette gayly replied, "and for gallantry of conception not unworthy one of my own countrymen! I consent, with pleasure, and while awaiting your orderly shall make such toilet as my very limited facilities permit."
Nelly had managed in some mysterious way to remove all traces of her tiresome journey and broken rest, and stood ready to receive the general, under the canopy of a blooming magnolia, meeting him with the ease of a society queen, and responding to his gallant speeches with grace and vivacity. The susceptible young Frenchman at once proclaimed himself her captive, lingering to talk with her until the troops in front were moving, and the rear guard falling into line of march.
Twice during the day he rode back to exchange a few words with her, and to assure himself of her comfort. He was so attentive, indeed, and so solicitous for her, that I think I felt almost a pang of jealousy at being deprived of the full credit of being the fair Nelly's rescuer and protector.
Our junction with Wayne was effected near the ford of the Rapidan a few days later. Already Cornwallis had given over the pursuit, and turned back to rejoin Tarleton. It was now possible for me to accept General Lafayette's offer of a furlough and escort, with fair prospect of safe journey to the valley by circuitous northeastern route. It seemed my fate, by some claim upon my private sentiments or some untoward accident, again and again to be withdrawn from active service at critical periods of our struggle. As willingly as I now rendered this service to one to whom I owed perhaps my life, I sighed inwardly to leave General Lafayette at a time when we might speedily expect some chance to strike a telling blow. To the General I expressed my regret, and was gratified by the warmth with which he assured me he would welcome my return as soon as I should have placed my fair charge in safety.
Not many hours before we reached home, when indeed we were entering the valley, I told Nelly of an amusing conceit that had been running in my head, namely—that I was destined for a rescuer of fair damsels, using this as an introduction to the story, I had been casting about for an excuse to relate, of Ellen O'Neil, and her journey to the west with Clark. But the presence of the maid kept back a full confession, and Nelly's suspicions did not seem to be aroused by my warm championship. Evidently she thought I but framed elaborate apologies for a kinswoman.
Miss Nelly's bearing, in truth, had been a source of disturbance to me for several days. She was so confiding, so almost affectionate in her manner, and seemed to appropriate me with such joyous confidence, that it was difficult not to meet her in like spirit. Not unto this day have I been able to determine the true meaning of her conduct during that journey. Did she believe that I was yet a captive to her charms? or, was it but the natural overflowing of grateful, friendly affection? Or—but even as it came I reproached myself for such thought—did she wish to make me again her slave, that she might have revenge for my single defiance of her power? Such reflections and uncertainties disturbed me more and more as we neared home; and mixed with the gratification of uniting Nelly and her brother, and the happiness I could but feel in the near prospect of seeing Ellen, was a sense of vague uneasiness, of shadowy foreboding.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Seldom have my forebodings gone unverified—possibly because I am not superstitious, and they are usually founded upon some more or less clearly realized cause. I had not been home a quarter of an hour till I felt that something had gone wrong; that the usual sweet and serene home atmosphere was impregnated with an illusive element of discord. Every one capable of the finer shades of feeling has experienced, doubtless, the subtle influence of an atmosphere, surcharged with carefully hidden emotion that yet jars each soul, and sets all nerves a-quiver. Not always, however, is there present a serene, commanding spirit, which can dissipate the threatened storm, by tact and the sunshine of genial graciousness.
So did Ellen, being for a while my mother's guest, during Aunt Martha's absence at a famed medicinal spring. My father, strangely stern and silent, after his first hearty greeting for me, and courteous one for his latest guest, would warm into fitful geniality under Ellen's blandishments, mother's face lose its look of anxious distress, Jean dimple and brighten in the old way, and Buford relax somewhat his air of dignity and reserve.
Yet the cause of the evident gloom hanging over the household was, on the second day after my return, still a mystery; the entire family seemed to have entered into a tacit agreement to withhold it from me, and each one carefully avoided a private interview. For a while it defied guessing even; I could only surmise that Nelly's presence had complicated the situation, and was to some extent the reason for my exclusion from the family confidence. From the first hour I had seen that Ellen was surprised by Nelly's manner to me, though I alone guessed her unconscious resentment, noting the expression of it through an added flush to her cheeks, a slightly more erect attitude of her head, and a firmer tone in her voice. Mother, too, had presently observed Nelly's apparently unconscious appropriation of me, and watched us both anxiously; then Buford seemed to note it, looked annoyed, and exchanged a quick glance of mingled despair and tender assurance with Jean. That intercepted glance gave me my first hint, and I longed more than ever to get Ellen alone, and to ask the score of questions that hung upon my lips.
Through all, Nelly seemed unconscious of the false note in her welcome, and the gloom hanging over the household. After her first regret at finding that her brother, though almost as strong as ever, was yet lame, and likely to be always slightly so, she seemed to be entirely content with her new surroundings, and grew blithe as a child, putting forth all her charms to win over her new friends. I, meanwhile, was driven to despair by Ellen's manner—by disappointment, longing, and hope continually deferred. Once more she was the unapproachable Ellen of Kaskaskia—sweetly dignified, graciously charming, cousinly kind—yet the distance of the poles between us! And, continually, she found excuses to leave me alone with Nelly, constituting me her host and entertainer, while she kept herself occupied with helping mother or with entertaining Buford.
From Thomas, home for his vacation, the explanation came at last.
"Tom," I asked abruptly, "what is the matter? I have not had a moment's satisfaction since I came home. Father is stern, mother unhappy, Jean feverish, and Buford sullen. As for Ellen she avoids me as if I were a dangerous lunatic."
Tom gazed at me, astonished at my petulance, and answered with provoking calmness: "The trouble or at least their knowledge of it, is so recent that they have had no time as yet to adjust themselves to it, and they do not know how you may take it—especially since they are in doubt as to your relations with Miss Buford."
"What trouble? Speak out, lad! I'm sick of mystery."
"Jean's avowed love for Captain Buford. Neither your mother nor your father suspected their interest in each other until four days ago, though Ellen tells me she had guessed it for weeks."
"Well, it is no such grave trouble that the family need sink into despondency because of it. Buford is a Tory, and likely to be always a little lame; nevertheless he's a gentleman by birth and breeding, and lacks none of the qualities necessary to make him a good husband."
"All that may be true, and yet it is not surprising that Uncle William should object to a penniless, lame Tory, and ex-British officer, as husband for his only daughter. Your bringing his sister here just at this time complicates the situation. Buford had decided to go to Staunton, if such move were consistent with the terms of his parole, but Miss Buford's arrival brings him the double embarrassment of providing means for two to live upon, and of seeming to decline for his sister your proffered hospitality—which for himself he has so long accepted."
"I have General Morgan's permission to release Buford as soon as he is well," I said, "so his parole need not interfere with his plans. And he can sell Miss Nelly's carriage and horses if he is too proud to borrow. Perhaps General Morgan can induce Congress to restore Buford's confiscated property, so that his poverty need not influence father, if he can bring himself to forgive his Tory principles. Moreover, I have always intended to divide my western bounty lands with Jean."
"If you are to marry Miss Buford any objection to her brother as husband for your sister would be untenable."
"I have no intention, and no wish to marry Miss Buford," I responded impatiently, "nor she to marry me."
"She seems greatly interested in you, Donald, and lays open claim to you. Well, I despair of ever knowing any woman, and am thankful I have resolved to live a bachelor. Ellen never treated you as familiarly as Miss Buford, after all your months of comradeship."
"Ellen is as rare among women, as the nightingale among song birds," I answered, "but Nelly is lovable and womanly, and I owe her an unpaid debt. Look here, Tom; if you'll do me one great kindness I will consider myself under obligations to you for life. Pay Miss Nelly devoted attention for the next two days; take her for a long ride to-morrow; do anything to give me a chance for some private talk with Ellen before I go back to the army. Think of it, lad," and I laid my hand entreatingly on his shoulder. "My furlough is almost gone, and I haven't had a moment alone with Ellen! I might be killed in the next battle and never see her again! She might take a sudden resolve and immure herself before I can return! I must see her before I go!"
"I'll do all I can to help you, Don," said Thomas, with a long drawn sigh, "but you couldn't well ask a harder thing of me. Miss Buford, though pretty and gay enough, is not my style of woman; and moreover, the least I have to say to young women, now-a-days, the better pleased I am!"
I might have smiled to see Thomas, not yet twenty-six, affect to be already so blasé, and a woman scorner. But I was too feverishly engrossed with my own passionate longings, and half angry defiance of circumstances, to be greatly interested in the feelings of others—except Ellen's, upon which I knew now depended all my hopes of a life rounded and completed as God meant a man's to be.
My next confidential talk was with Jean. She poured out all her innocent heart to me, surprising me by the depth of her feelings. My sympathy seemed to comfort her and she promised, without urgence, to heed my counsel for patience and to impose like conduct upon Buford. They must wait, I told her, until the war was over and I came home for good. Then, with time and intercession, there was good hope that she would win the full consent of our parents, which meant a far better prospect of happiness than a union unblessed by their approval. I promised her, too, a last interview with Buford, before he should leave for Staunton, and she assured me that she would make him no promises I would not be likely to sanction.
A second plan had come to me, which offered, I thought, a better chance to both Buford and myself than my first one of sending Thomas and Nelly for a long ride together, which was to make up a horseback party to the big cave, that Tom and I had often explored in our boyhood and which had now become a resort for pleasure parties. It was but natural that I should wish to show our guest the greatest curiosity in the neighborhood, and also that I should desire one day's pleasuring before I should return to the stern duties of war. I boldly proclaimed my plan, therefore, at breakfast table, the next morning; it was warmly seconded by Thomas and Nelly, and met with no spoken opposition from any one.
A negro boy was sent ahead, with cart laden with skins, wraps, lunch baskets and candles, and we followed on horseback an hour later. Tom and Jean, Nelly and I, Ellen and Buford, we started out, and mother viewed the pairing with little less satisfaction than she would have an arrangement more pleasing to most of us. Freed from the suspicious eyes of our elders, we forgot our reserve and self-consciousness, and enjoyed the cool, dim ramble through the crystal studded passage ways, and also our lunch in the cool grove near by, with the light chatter afterward. When we were mounting for the homeward ride, Thomas revived my waning hopes by boldly proposing a change of partners all around, coolly sending Jean off with Buford, and himself appropriating Nelly, leaving Ellen no choice but to ride with me. Even then I was like to be checkmated, for Ellen kept close behind Thomas and Nelly. At last I grew desperate, and riding close laid a restraining hand upon her bridle, stopping her horse just as we were about to enter a beautiful strip of open forest through which the road extended for a mile.
"Ellen," I said, in firm tones, "I must have an hour alone with you. Let them ride on; we'll follow when they are out of hearing. Can you not trust yourself with me for one brief ride after all our journeying together?"
Over throat, cheek and brow came a sudden glow of crimson like that which was flaming in the western sky; the thick fringed lids dropped over her eyes, and the harp-like vibration I loved was in her voice, as she said:
"You cannot doubt I trust you, Cousin Donald; you saved me once from claw of wild beast, once from my own folly, and once again from a fate worse than common death, from the Indian's torture stake. I would trust my safety to you under all circumstances."
"But not your happiness, Ellen?"
"My happiness would be but too safe in your hands, dear cousin. One has not always the right to be happy."
"And it is sometimes a sacred duty to make one who loves you with every fiber of his being, one who would die to save you sorrow, miserable for life. Oh, Ellen, I know that you are true and holy beyond my understanding, yet I can see no reason in this fixed purpose of yours to divert your life from its evident destiny."
"My weakness assents to all you say, Cousin Donald," and Ellen lifted eyes to mine that were tenderly aglow with feeling, "but you have missed the true reason on which my final decision must depend. If my vow to God may be honestly broken, if I may be absolved from it, it would be only because that were true beyond question which you have so earnestly claimed—that your single hope of happiness, Donald, depends upon me—that by fulfilling my vow, I should leave you to bear the man's struggle, without hope of the man's God-appointed cheer and solace. But recently I have been convinced that no one woman circumscribes a man's possibility of happiness, that God wisely has ordained a quick healing for heart wounds. Therefore, cousin, since happiness, thank God, would still be possible to you without me, I am bound by my vow. You will find some one to devote her life to you who is not of alien faith, who has not broken sacred vows that she might come to you; and I, meantime, will be adding to your happiness by daily intercessions for you before God's holy altar."
Why it was I do not know, but a sudden anger flamed in my heart. Was I always to be answered in this absurd, illogical way, with platitudes of holy vows, and sacred consecration? Were all my protestations of devotion to be brushed aside, as not worth believing, and my life's happiness to weigh as nothing against Ellen's will, and pride, her sudden whims and conclusions? Making no attempt to conceal my anger and my bitterness, I answered her:
"Let us have no more of this cant of sacred vows, Ellen. Think you God has cared to register a disobedient girl's sick fancy that, by immolating herself, she could render Him special homage, or add one ounce to His power and His influence? You say I do not need your life, that I can find happiness without you—thus casting back my words as too light for belief, and my heart, my very soul, as of small value beside your vaunted vow. I would I could believe, Ellen, that happiness were possible for me without you. But it is too late for that, and if in perversity of stubborn superstition you condemn me to a lonely, loveless life, I can but endure it with such fortitude as I may learn to command. It would seem to me but poor reflection for quiet convent hours—that an honest man's life had been wrecked—that a noble family name had perished from the earth—all that one more nun might count her beads and offer up prayers in needless repetition to an all powerful God who has no need of such mummery to help him rule with eternal wisdom a universe of worlds."
"So far apart are we in mind and heart, Donald McElroy," answered Ellen, with flashing eyes, having reined her horse to a standstill that she might fully face me, "if these be your true sentiments, that never could we hope to be one in spirit; never would I dare to unite my life with yours," and, putting whip to her horse, she joined Thomas and Nelly, nor deigned to show consciousness of my presence again that evening.
The next day she kept her room, "with headache," said Jean. The morning after she came down only at the last moment to say good-by to our guests and me. Vainly I sought the chance to whisper my regret and repentance in her ear; she was careful to give me opportunity only for a formal farewell in the presence of them all.
To Buford and his sister I said good-by, after I had settled them comfortably in Staunton, almost with coolness. They, it seemed to me, had repaid my generous wish to more than return their kindness by a crass indifference to my feelings.
Then I faced to the scene of war, once more, with fierce satisfaction. For the first time I felt a thirst for danger. Since I had thrown away all chance for happiness, I would win a glorious death in the last glorious and successful struggle of my country for liberty!
CHAPTER XXIX
The battle of Green Spring, fought the third day after I had rejoined General Lafayette—that gallant officer being now in pursuit of Cornwallis, who was slowly retreating to a less hazardous position, near the sea coast—was the one engagement Lafayette allowed himself during the tedious game of march and countermarch at which the opposed armies had been playing for three months. Fighting was much more to the taste of the ardent Lafayette, but he had learned the art of war in the school of Washington, and knew that a timely and skillful retreat is often worth more than a victory. By such "Fabian policy" as the great leader himself had condescended to use, to the open scorn of his enemies, Lafayette had completely aborted the concerted invasion of Virginia, and had gradually turned Cornwallis on to the open mouth of the trap which was later to prove so fatal to him. The fight above mentioned was undecisive, and had no other effect than to hurry Cornwallis' retreat to the seashore—at a dear cost to us of one hundred and fifty men.
At Yorktown, the British awaited their fleet with convoys of needed supplies, and hoped daily for reënforcements from General Clinton; meantime working industriously to entrench themselves. We sat down at Malvern Hill, watching, like a bull-dog before his enemy's gate. The sea protected Cornwallis' position on three sides, and a few days sufficed to erect strongly fortified works on their fourth—there was small chance for the bull-dog, unless the desired prey could somehow be driven from cover. But he crouched and waited on. This stubborn vigilance was rewarded on the last day of August when the flagship of Count de Grasse sailed into the Chesapeake Bay at the head of the French fleet.
Our camp went mad with joy as the three thousand French troops under Marquis de Saint Simon landed to unite with us, and on the next day we took position across the neck of the peninsula at Williamsburg. Cornwallis was in the trap, and Lafayette had sprung shut the last door which offered possible chance of escape. Admiral Graves with the English fleet arrived too late. We watched anxiously the naval battle between him and Count de Grasse, and exulted wildly when the defeated fleet sailed away. Nine days' later, General Washington arrived, his presence the final assurance of coming victory, and close on his heels the whole northern army; by the twenty-sixth of September, the American and French forces confronting Cornwallis were sixteen thousand strong. It was only a question of days now. The brave British, inspired ever by the intrepid Cornwallis, could not hold out long in their cramped condition, without adequate supplies, and decimated daily by the deadly fire we were presently ready to pour into the town. Our first parallel was opened on the sixth of October; the men were so impatient with the prospect of speedy victory after our long struggle against heavy odds, and so reckless with mad enthusiasm, that it took all the authority of the older and more prudent officers to restrain acts of needless risk and exposure.
That night—I had helped to fire the first guns and had witnessed the fearful havoc they made among the enemy's redoubts—my whole being was in such tumult from violent and conflicting emotions that I could not sleep. Patriotic joy uplifted my soul to a fervor of grateful emotion one moment, and in the next, a wave of depression overwhelmed me. Apples of Sodom would be even the success of the cause, which so long and so fervently I had cherished, if the future held for me no hope of Ellen's love, no promise of Ellen's companionship! Ah, if I had not lost my last chance by the rashness of my tongue! had not thrown away my life's happiness by yielding to unreasoning anger!
Had I but explained my true situation and feelings in regard to Nelly Buford before I began to urge my suit so commandingly, I might have had hope, at least, to feed upon, instead of the certainty of disappointment. Yet why admit failure? If General Washington had done so after Long Island, General Greene after Guilford; where would be to-day the cause of American liberty? No, I would not recognize defeat! I would fight on till no ray of hope was left me. This very night I would make a last appeal to Ellen—set before her once again, but more persuasively, all the reasons and arguments that to me seemed so clear. So I lit my last end of candle, took my board upon my knee, found a bottle of poke-berry ink, sharpened a quill and wrote—the ardent words flowing from my quill's end more freely than the thin purplish red fluid in which I transcribed them:
"Dear Heart of my Heart:
"Past midnight, and this vast camp lies wrapt in slumber. No sounds disturb the star lighted peace save now and then the faint call of the sentinels, and the distant roaring of an occasional gun, fired from our first parallel which we opened to-day. To my tent, far in the rear of our front line, these sounds come softened into the musical echo of to-day's joyous excitement, and hint of to-morrow's glorious promise. Though the sweet and brooding peace of the night, the benediction of the stars, and the caresses of a gentle breeze, all woo my tired limbs and excited mind to needed repose, my heart is too full of longing thoughts of you, dear Ellen, to admit sleep!
"I see your dear face as last I saw it, flushed, hurt, angry, and hear that voice, whose tender tremor is the sweetest music my ears have known, ring sharp and firm in those words which were the death knell of my hopes. In no other mood than that one, in which I have seen you so rarely, can I recall you—the hurt and angry state so foreign to your warm and generous nature. Yet I cannot upbraid you, dearest, or in anywise blame you, that last I saw you in a mood which so ill-becomes you, for I was its just occasion. I was too impetuous, too assertive, dear one. I knew it ere the rashness left me, and would have given my right arm to have been able to blot my foolish words from your memory. I longed to explain, to implore your forgiveness, to humble myself before you, and to recall all I had said that could give you offense—but you gave me no opportunity; was it not, mavourneen, a needlessly cruel punishment to deny me a last chance to beg for mercy, a moment to say farewell? Yet, dear one, though I expressed myself rudely, and went too far, much of what I said was true, as your generous spirit has already admitted when you have, with characteristic nobleness of soul, recalled my words in the hope of finding excuses for me.
"Perhaps before this letter reaches you—it goes by special courier to Richmond, with General Washington's dispatches to Governor Jefferson—a glorious victory will be ours. General Cornwallis and his army are completely surrounded, and must surrender in a few days. This will end the war, think all the officers, and bring us peace with Great Britain upon liberal terms. The United States of America will be a free republic, and before us stretches a noble future with the grandest possibilities that the mind of statesmen have yet been able to conceive. We shall have a free representative government administered by noble patriots, such as Washington, Jefferson and Adams. We shall abolish all prerogatives of class, party and creed; not only life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness will be free to all, but entire freedom of religious thought and free speech will be the unquestioned right of all the inhabitants of America. And not only freedom, but prosperity will be within reach of all. The wide and fertile plains of the West await but the claim of the settler to constitute a rich heritage. My heart thrills at the realization of the vast territory which Clark and his handful of Virginians added to that country which shall be called the American Republic. And you, Ellen, and I had our share in that glorious enterprise. Can any citizen of America fail to experience the glow of a true patriot's fervor, a thrill of true patriot's pride, upon contemplation of the noble destiny which a glowing future seems to promise our land—with Freedom's crown upon it? A destiny that will be shared with all who come to us.
"But oh, heart of my heart, my joy and exultation for my country are overcast with the gloom of despair! despair of any hope for my own life, any happiness for my own heart. Even my joy in our victory will be but the dim shadow of what it would be for my spirit is sick from this gnawing regret, and despair, eating daily deeper and deeper into my heart, till all buoyancy has left me, and I have longed for death. That madness is past, dear Ellen, else I would not tell you of it, but in truth I have sought death for days, as a mother seeks a lost child, wooed it as a lover wooes his mistress while yet there is hope. Not even death would come to my relief—and now I see it was a weakness to have sought it, a blasphemy to have prayed for it. I shall live out as even I must, the span allotted to me, and strive at least for the patience of hopeless resignation.
"Two pictures, Ellen, haunt the sick visions of my idle, waking hours, and glide nightly through my dreams. One is that which might have been, the other that which, alas, likely will be! I see a spacious mansion, crowning a green and gently sloping hill; its wide windows open to the sweet air and gracious sunshine of Virginia; its doors hospitably spread to welcome kinsmen, friends, neighbors, or wayfarers, whether bringing or needing blessing. At the foot of the hill, and seen from the broad verandas, stretch luxuriant meadows, where sleek horses and lazy herds of cattle wade knee deep in blossoming grass, and pink headed clover.
"Roses, lilies, and pinks bloom in the garden behind the house, and their fragrance floats in through doors and windows. Music too is there, for happy, unmolested birds sing their praises to their Creator, and the sweetest voice in all the world speaks kindly to contented slave, or happy child, or croons tenderly to the rosy infant. And beauty is there, rarer than that of the fair landscape to be glimpsed through doors and windows, for the fairest, loveliest woman in Virginia fills this happy home with her sweet pervading presence, and casts over it a rare and nameless charm—a spell which brings to all its inmates, from master to slave, from visiting friend to chance guest, a sense of assured comfort and cheerful content—Does not your heart tell you, oh, heart of my heart, that such home might be ours! and can you conceive for any woman, even for my own rare Ellen, a nobler destiny than to be the mistress of such home, the priestess of such heart shrine?
"But the other picture! A gloomy convent cell in which a spirit-worn one—whose lingering beauty glads no tender heart, charms no eye of love—kneels with face of despair, to pray for grace not to loathe a life of useless sacrifice, of cloistered inaction,—so little suited to an ardent and loving soul, so fruitless in bringing real peace, true heart renunciation,—a life of small service to man or God, and of worth only because it brings to the heavy-hearted nun daily self wrestlings. And ever as she prays there comes between her and the Christ vision for which she yearns, and hourly implores her God, the sad face of a man, old before his time, and hopelessly resigned to sit in listless idleness by another's fireside, because he has no heart for one of his own.
"His old comrades and friends have built for themselves spacious homes, transformed the wilderness into rich estates, carved out useful and honorable careers, and are counted among those Virginians who are laying broad and deep the foundations of country, state, and family. But he, lacking the dear responsibilities of wife and children, having no descendants to carry the name in honorable memory and emulation to future generations, has dropped out of the struggle, given over the race; and, broken-hearted and despairing, lives only to recall the memories of an active and inspired youth.
"Can you, Ellen, mavourneen, contemplate this last vision, and not be moved to the thought that such end for God-endowed spirits, destined to complete each other's lives, were indeed a fearful sacrifice? That the tears, regrets and prayers of the nun would be but poor recompense to God—if there can be a reckoning between man and his Maker—for two unfulfilled lives, and lost generation after generation of human souls adequately gifted by noble birth, and honest inheritance, with health, comeliness, happiness, and opportunities, and trained in love of country, love of progress, love of virtue, love of God! My children shall have no other mother, Ellen, should you finally determine to let your superstition stifle your heart; know that in doing so you cut off from the earth the race of McElroy. Last male of the line am I, and vowed to go childless to my grave unless my offspring may call mother the one woman who is the love of my life, heart of my heart, hope and inspiration of my soul!
"As soon as General Cornwallis surrenders I shall ask for a furlough, and come home for my final answer. Oh, my Ellen, dearest of dear ones, will you not crown my rejoicing, make of true worth to me our hard-won victory! and fill one patriot's breast with that supreme happiness of love accepted and returned which is the wine of men's souls, the one elixir which can furnish them with courage and inspiration for the constantly repeated struggles and continually renewed efforts of life!
"May that God who is your God and mine, the God of your fathers and the God of mine, come to you in dream or vision, through word of saint or prophet, and open your eyes to see, as I see, that destiny which is the noblest and holiest for woman! Yet always, dear one, whether the happiest, or the most sorely bereft of men, I shall be
"Your true and loyal friend, your sworn knight, your devoted lover,
"Donald McElroy."
My candle sputtered feebly in its last effort to do its duty as I folded and sealed my letter. As I crossed the camp in search of the courier, the formless dull gray of the eastern landscape was suddenly aroused by the yet unrealized promise of the coming sun, and soon appeared a glow of life, under whose influence the bolder features of the landscape began slowly to assume their natural forms. Half an hour later, when I was returning to my tent, the whole east was glowing gorgeously and every smallest detail of the landscape was limned in vivid light. Nature was pulsing with life in every part, beneath the first kiss of the sun. So would a word of kindness from Ellen scatter the heavy, chill mist from my heart, and set my whole nature a-quiver with a new life of hope and joy.
To history belongs the record of those brave days when American and Frenchman vied with one another in deeds of daring gallantry, and when hour by hour our long delayed reward came nearer. General Cornwallis made a brave resistance, and delayed surrender almost to the point of madness. Our final exultation—the day Cornwallis gave up his sword, and the long line of our prisoners marched between our lines to stack arms—was, indeed, much softened by respectful admiration and sympathy for our gallant late foes, and their broken-hearted General.
As we all know family quarrels are usually the bitterest, but somehow this long contest between the American colonies and the mother country did not seem to breed any deep-seated animosity between their respective peoples. It may have been that the people of England—as certainly some of their statesmen did—recognized that we were but leading the vanguard of progress toward a happier order for all nations. England is not fond of experiments, yet none are more freedom loving than her sons. They have but moved on more conservatively, more deliberately to their goal.
Or perhaps the happy absence of any lasting bitterness may have been due to the circumstance that our war—except for its few Indian episodes—was conducted with as little savagery as war may well be. Whatever the explanation, it is true that in two days after Cornwallis' surrender the officers and men of the two armies were fraternizing like brothers, and not a few of our late enemies were already declaring their intention to remain in this new land of promise and to cast in their lot with the American Republic.
At a banquet given by our colonels to those of the British army, toasts were drunk to a firmly cemented and lasting peace between our respective countries and then to a steadfast alliance between England and America. In response to the last of these I ventured the prophecy that the two great English-speaking peoples would not only be bound together presently by ties of blood and language into a close alliance for mutual welfare, but that side by side they would go forward toward higher and higher ideals of free government and universal brotherhood, pointing the way to a nobler civilization than had yet been conceived. Carried away by my own fervor, I even predicted a time when the two nations, England and the United States of America, that was to be, supported by France perhaps, would make the last fight against autocratic power and military rule, to conquer the world for democracy—to the end that war might forever cease, and the world begin to be made ready for the coming of the "Prince of Peace."
It was a perfervid and wild harangue doubtless, and some of my fellow-officers who heard it never ceased to twit me about my one burst of eloquence. Nevertheless, it seemed at the time to chime in with the mood of my hearers, who soundly applauded these sentiments. If events since, and especially more recent ones, have made me appear but a poor prophet, I am still not ready to withdraw my prediction, and I still believe that the destiny of humanity lies in the keeping of the Anglo-Saxon peoples, who will, I yet maintain, go steadily forward through mistakes and errors to a better understanding and a closer friendship.
General Lafayette granted my request for furlough with playful jest about the fair refugee who awaited my coming, and my blush and stammer doubtless confirmed his suspicions. I lost no more time getting home than I could help, you may be sure, but every man I met stopped me to get details of the big news, which had spread like fairy fire, and men, women, and children ran out to question me as I passed each hamlet.
Jean was on the porch enjoying the bracing balminess of a bright October afternoon when I rode up, and ran with glad cry to meet me. Father and mother were gone to Staunton for the day—father to get further news, mother to lay in the fall supplies—and Ellen was back again with Aunt Martha, whose health failed more and more, so that Ellen was her chief dependence. All this Jean told me and more, while she urged upon me the laziest chair, and brought sangaree and spiced cake to refresh me.
"You, dear Jean, are well again and happy if your face is index to your feelings," I said, when my first eager questions had been answered. "Have father and mother already been won over to Buford's cause? I knew they never could stand to see our little maid wear sad face, and lose all her pretty bloom."
"It was not all done by my reproachful looks," she answered, smiling and blushing. "Ellen's influence more than any other has changed them. Oh, Donald, she is the dearest girl, and her tact is wonderful! Neither father nor mother know when it was done, but gradually she has made them like Captain Buford, till now they are willing for his sake as well as for mine. Mother told me yesterday that they but waited for your full approval to withdraw all objection to our marriage."
"Then, little sister, Buford's happiness is assured, and yours too, I believe. He is a brave and an honorable gentleman, and likely to make his wife a happy woman. His poverty, for most of his property will be confiscated, doubtless, is the one drawback, but if I get my western bounty lands, I shall be able to make up for that. A deed to one-half of my share shall be my wedding gift to you."
"Dear Donald, you are the very dearest of brothers," and Jean perched herself upon the arm of my chair, kissed my forehead, and began to thread my somewhat neglected locks with her slender fingers. "Will you think me presumptuous, brother, if I ask you a personal question?" she began presently, with apparent hesitation.
"I can hardly think of a question my little sister would not have the right to ask me," turning my head to smile encouragement upon her.
"Did you ever think Nelly Buford a coquette?" she asked, waiting for my answer with amusing anxiety.
"Can any one who has ever known her exonerate her from the charge?" I replied with a smile—"unless it is Buford, who has never guessed his sister's weakness. Is it high treason in his eyes for his prospective wife to harbor such suspicions?"
"Oh, we never discuss family matters; I was thinking only of your opinion of Nelly."
"Is my judgment upon coquettes so valuable?"
"Then you do not love Nelly, Donald? Oh! I'm so glad!"
"No, I do not love Nelly Buford, though she's a winsome maiden. But why rejoice, little sister? Do you disapprove of too close family entanglements?"
"I could not be happy if it were not so," Jean responded enigmatically.
"And why?" Indifferent to Jean's meaning, my thoughts wandered off to the far greater likelihood of my love for Ellen bringing me unhappiness.
"She has promised to marry Thomas!"
"Thomas?" I almost sprang from my chair with surprise. "Thomas and Nelly Buford to be married?" and then I laughed long and heartily.
Jean laughed too. "It is funny, Don, for at first Thomas barely endured Nelly. I believe his indifference nettled her into a determination to win him. She seems entirely unsuited to a parson's wife, much less a missionary's. Thomas declares he is going to Kentucky as a border missionary, and that Nelly is willing to go with him anywhere."
"And give up her Tory principles, and her Episcopal faith? Wonder of wonders is this love which overleaps all barriers as easily as a hunter takes his ditch. Does Ellen know of this?"
"Yes, and seems to be very happy over it. I think she feels now for the first time easy in conscience, since Thomas' happiness, as well as his calling is assured."
"And what says Aunt Martha?"
"She says very little about it, though we all know that Nelly would not have been her choice for Thomas. She told Ellen, when first she heard it, that she had interfered, already, too much with the lives that other people had to live, and that she no longer felt that confidence in her own judgment she once had; that humility was the latest flower of her Christian experience, and though but a weak and sickly bloom, she wished to cherish it."
"Poor Aunt Martha. She has suffered much, then?"
"Yes, but mother and Ellen say she has grown daily gentler under her sufferings."
"Only natures of true worth are 'refined by the furnace of affliction,' to my observation—Aunt Martha evidently deserved not the youthful scorn I felt for her. But tell me more of Ellen—she is, you think, really happy to be Aunt Martha's nurse?"
"Yes, Ellen is more light-hearted recently than I have ever known her; Aunt Martha called her, talking to mother yesterday, 'a well-spring of happiness,' and said it made her very thankful when she considered how Providence had forced upon her a daughter against her time of need, in spite of her utter undeservingness."
Scarcely could I wait to greet my parents, I was so eager to see Ellen, to fathom the true cause of her unaccustomed gayety of spirits, which even the love-absorbed Jean had noticed. I found her so busy with household duties, and attentions to Aunt Martha, that I was obliged to content myself, after the first greetings—which told me without need of words that I was forgiven—with the vision of her flitting about busily, and the exchange of an occasional meaningless remark. When reluctantly I rose to go, Uncle Thomas asked me to stay to tea, and I accepted so eagerly, that I think Aunt Martha guessed, at last, my secret. Either because of that, or the way my truant gaze followed Ellen's every movement. At any rate she surmised the real reason of my prompt visit to them, and when supper was over, came to my help with something of my own mother's tactfulness.
"Donald," she said, "take Ellen out to the porch, and make her rest while you tell her all about Yorktown—as you told it to me while she was at the dairy; Ellen never takes time to rest unless I make her. Thomas will sit with me."
For a while we talked perfunctorily, and with embarrassed self-consciousness, like children who are bidden to be sociable; and I did describe to her the final scenes at Yorktown, but with such lack of interest in my own story—my mind all the time on other words I wished to speak—that there was no spirit in the narrative. Disgusted with my bungling of such an inspiring subject, I broke off abruptly, then after a silence surcharged with emotion—"Oh, heart of my heart," I asked, "have you ready the answer to my letter?"
"Almost," and there was the dear harp-like tremor in her tones, which bespoke deep feeling.
"Meantime I may feed on hope, may I not, mavourneen?"
"Some men need only their own resolution, Donald, to base assurance upon," and she smiled at me, in such wise that I grew suddenly dizzy, then gliding away from me to the top of the steps—"you are one of those masterful men, cousin, whose will is not to be gainsaid by any weaker vessel."
"So I fail not this time, I can trust my will for all the rest of my life," I answered—"but you know full well, Ellen, that with you I am very coward," following her, and capturing the hands she had clasped about a column of the porch. "Dearest one, I have waited long, and, it seems to me, most patiently and humbly—ask not, I beseech you, much more of my fortitude." Then I kissed softly the blue-veined wrists, where her heart's blood pulsed warmest, and asked once more, "May I hope, mavourneen?" getting for answer a low, but tenderly spoken "Yes, but ask no more, now. Be patient, dear Donald, only a little longer," and once more she lifted her quivering eyelids, and flashed a smile upon me which filled my veins with an all-pervading thrill of fiery joy. Again I kissed the white wrists, looked into her eyes for one instant, spoke a murmured word of joy, then—lest I could no longer resist the mad impulse to clasp her in my arms, and ease all my violent emotion in passionate caresses—turned, and, without daring to grant myself a single backward glance, walked swiftly away in the starlight. No single self-conquest of my life cost me the effort of that one.
CHAPTER XXX
Buford came down from Staunton the morning after my arrival to urge upon mother and Jean an immediate marriage. News had just come to him that made his presence in Philadelphia necessary within the fortnight, and he was so unwilling, he declared, to leave the valley until Jean was his own, beyond question of his right to return for her, that, rather than do so, he would forfeit the chance for pardon, and restoration of his property, which this call to Philadelphia seemed to promise him. With my help mother's objections were overborne, and it was settled that the ceremony should take place on the first day we could procure the services of a clergyman of the Church of England.
Under the establishment, a marriage solemnized by any other than an Episcopal rector was not strictly valid in law, and though such marriages had been spasmodically tolerated under certain circumstances, they were regarded with such ill favor by the courts that they often gave rise to unpleasant complications afterwards. It was, therefore, our custom to submit to the mortification of begging the nearest Episcopal clergyman to read the service, previous to the solemnization of the contract by our own minister. The nearest clergyman to us lived more than thirty miles distant, and as he spent much of his time in Williamsburg, it was a difficult matter to induce him to go any distance to legalize the marriage of dissenters. However, I preferred not to be the one to enlighten Buford on this subject.
Buford and I rode together to see the clergyman, while Thomas went to Staunton for a persuasive interview with Nelly—we to join him there next day. Our clergyman was at his midday meal when we arrived, and we were left to cool our heels in his draughty hall while he finished leisurely an evidently tempting repast. He came out to us after three quarters of an hour, cleaning his teeth with a golden pick, a string of hounds at his heels, and his top boots muddy from his morning ride. We introduced ourselves, and announced our business.
"You are modest in your request, sirs. Think you I have nothing else to do than to ride all over the State reading the marriage ceremony for dissenters? Such usually come to me. Bring your wenches behind you any afternoon this week and I'll make quick work of the marriage service for your benefit."
"This gentleman, sir, who is to marry my sister," I made calm answer, though restraining my anger with no small effort, "was late an officer in the British army, and is a member of the Church of England. He is entitled to your services, therefore, through the double claim of like politics and religion. His sister weds my cousin. To neither of them would it appear seemly to ride the width of two counties to seek their church's blessing on their marriage."
"You should have stated those facts before," responded the clergyman stiffly, but with sense enough of decency to flush as he turned to Buford. "Your rank and name again, please. I shall be glad to come to you any day and hour you may name. It is my duty and my privilege to go wherever needed by those of the established faith, but I do not consider it so to be gallivanting from hut to hut to marry all the heretics in this valley—who have made such ado about the tithings of their pitiful substance, that the State has been forced to heed their clamor, and we are cut down to a beggar's stipend."
"Since the State requires your services to legitimatize marriage, since you are paid to perform that duty—and from the scarcity of your parishioners I judge your other duties are by no means onerous—I see not how you can excuse yourself," was Buford's cool rejoinder "But you shall be well paid for your needful assistance, sir. Shall we say Thursday afternoon, McElroy? There is to be a second service in the evening, solemnized by your own minister, as you know, and this would better be got through with beforehand."
Buford, I saw, was seething inwardly by this time, and holding the reins on his passion with rigid grip; the clergyman, too, was waxing hot, and there was need to terminate the interview as soon as possible.
"It is small wonder, McElroy, that you Presbyterians are so set against an established church," commented Buford as we remounted our horses. "I understand as never before, that men appointed to holy office by royal or state patronage are more likely than otherwise to be men unfitted for the discharge of sacred duties; to them it is a living rather than a holy calling. Count me on your side, Donald, when you are ready to throw yourself into the fight for religious liberty, which is, I believe, the next war you Scotch Irish propose to engage in, now that your state independence has been won."
"The fight for religious liberty and for the separation of church and state is already on. All through the greater war our ministers have kept up a brisk warfare of yearly memorials and petitions to the State Assembly. Four years ago Mr. Jefferson drew up a statute of religious liberty which he offered to the Assembly, and which has since been brought up at each session for warm discussion. Sooner or later the measure will be carried, and you are right in supposing that that is the next fight in which I shall enlist; nor shall I forget your promise to be on my side the next time," and I laid my hand on Buford's arm. Already I felt almost a brother's affection for him.
"After this, Donald," said Buford with feeling, "your people shall be my people, your country my country, and your interests mine; and," he added more lightly, "if I meet many more mere holders of livings, like the clergyman we have just left, your religion shall be mine also."
"You and Jean shall settle that question to your mutual satisfaction," I answered, smiling; "if you can make an Episcopalian out of her you have my consent."
"She shall make anything out of me she wishes," and Buford's face and voice were softened by quick springing tenderness. "My one ambition shall be to make her happy."
"You will not find that a hard task," I answered, with a sigh for my own delayed happiness; "she loves you dearly."
"Look here, Donald. Some forts may not be taken by the most persistent siege; a bold assault is the only way. Miss Ellen loves you, but she dare not close the door for good and all on the morbid conscience to which she has so long listened. Surprise her into an irreclaimable step, and she will but love you the more for having mastered her will, since you have already mastered her heart."
"But how?" I questioned eagerly. "I was never shrewd at strategy, and am, at best, but a backwoodsman in love warfare."
"Procure a license for your marriage to-day, and Wednesday show it to her, refusing to listen to her plea for postponement.
"Ellen would hold no marriage valid for herself not solemnized by a priest."
"Call this but the civil contract and explain it is to get this unpleasant necessity for a Church of England ceremony over with. You will surprise her into the necessary step before she has time to listen to her doubts and fears, and can afford, then, to wait for priest's blessing before you shall claim her. I will bring you a priest on my return from Baltimore."
"Suppose Ellen should be angry?" and I shuddered at the bare thought.
"What woman was ever made angry by the daring determination of the man she loves, to win her at all hazards? If at first Ellen should seem angry, be deeply grieved, and declare your intention to go to Kentucky to join Clark, and fight the Indians. If she loves you, as she does, she will never consent to that."
Buford's suggestion appeared more and more feasible as my mind dallied with the tempting prospect. In the end three licenses were procured. Thomas, who acted for Ellen, swore profound secrecy, and I rode home with the folded paper on which hung my destiny feeling warm against my beating heart. The more I contemplated the rashness of my deed, next day, the more I feared Ellen's displeasure. When evening came, I was still in a state of excitement that seemed to key all my faculties to a higher pitch.
An Indian summer's day had been followed by a calm but buoyant night. The sky, unflecked by lightest cloud, sparkled overhead, an arch of congealed azure, amidst which the big bright moon shone with such radiant resplendence that the stars were quite outdone and gleamed almost apologetically, as if aware that this was not their hour. As the sky dipped down to meet the mountains, lifting their purple bulk in soft but distinct undulation, the sparkling blue melted to a fathomless, almost colorless mist, which cast over the dark blue range a mysterious reflection, exaggerating its bulk, its mystery, and its silence.
The night, I thought, was like Ellen, exhilarating, joy-giving, yet serious and thought-compelling—its beauty and sweetness far removed from the beauty and sweetness of common things, by a silent suggestion of unfathomed depths. I found her alone on the porch, a white shawl so draped about her that once again she looked as she did that night at the spring, when she was yet a child, like a spirit from some purer world.
"Ellen," I began, dropping down on the step below her, and compelling her dream-held eyes to recognize mine, "have I kept high carnival in my heart these last three days for naught, or are you but playing with my hopes? Surely, Ellen, promise is but delayed fulfillment."
"Has it made you very happy—the hope?" she asked, her tones soft and dreamy, like the far-away notes of a violin. "You are very sure that you will always be entirely content with me? The pleadings of my own heart, Donald, I might have resisted, but to bring you happiness, to bless and crown your life, as you say I alone can—to resist that temptation, Donald, was beyond my soul's strength. I may have been hard to win, dear, but your conquest is complete."
My right arm clasped her, and her head sank to my breast, as a bird into its nest, and rested there as quietly.
"Then you will grant my request, Ellen?" my heart throbbing tremulously. "Say you will! Even before I make it, that will be the sealing sign of your love and confidence."
"You could ask nothing I would refuse."
"Then marry me to-morrow, mavourneen!" and before she could answer, I dropped softly upon her lips the first kiss I had ever dared to claim.
"To-morrow, Donald?" she questioned, with more of curiosity than anger or even surprise; "how could that be? But it shall be soon, dear, almost as soon as you could ask."
Then I explained all, and told her how I had dreaded her anger, and yet felt that I could endure suspense no longer, but must somehow force her to make me the very happiest or most miserable of men.
"And you will wait for priest's blessing on our union, before you claim me, Donald—you have thought fully about it?"
"When you come to my home, Ellen, it shall be with the full and glad consent of your whole heart. This marriage to-morrow will be no more than the publishing of our banns, after all, but I shall be sure of you then; my heart will be at rest, and this annoying necessity for a Church of England ceremony will be done with. Our real marriage will be wholly a dear and solemn rite."
"Do you know, dear Donald," said Ellen, after a long silence while her heart beat against mine, "I am very glad it is all settled at last, that after to-morrow I shall have no right to question my soul, or even to pray for further guidance? Once I am your wife, dear, I shall give all my thoughts and prayers to wifely duty. Do not fear I shall still try your patient soul with doubts and regrets."
"I fear nothing, dear one, now that we are one. Do you know, mavourneen, that you can have no feeling, no thought, hereafter, that I shall not share, and that I shall experience no emotion you will not feel? Awful mystery, yet precious reality, this merging of two spirits into one!"
My eyes had turned from time to time to rest in rapt thankfulness upon sky and mountain; but now, suddenly, I was aware that the haunting mystery, lately brooding over the horizon, was gone, and in its place only a perfect peace beyond which the shining circle of the moon, climbing higher and higher in the azure dome, gave promise of joys beyond, infinite and eternal.
CHAPTER XXXI
Impatiently our household awaited Buford's return. Jean, his bride of two days, bore his absence, and the suspense of his still unsettled fate, with more fortitude than I the weary waiting for the coming of the priest, whose blessing was to give me my own—my Ellen. Each day, as I watched her minister more and more tenderly to Aunt Martha, who was slowly dying, and had now and then rare hours of confidential intercourse with her, my love, which I had thought already great beyond power of increase, grew and deepened, till every plan and aspiration centered around her, every thought and emotion was inspired by the glad consciousness of our mutual love.
Thomas and Nelly would not start to Kentucky while their mother lived, nor until after Buford's fate was settled.
There was much hot, foolish talk of banishing Tories, and the English government had been ordered to convey them to England. Through the strong influence which General Morgan and myself had been able to enlist for Buford, however, we hoped to procure for him, at least, a pardon. Both households lived on week after week in anxious suspense, made endurable by the love which brightened the lagging hours.
Meantime Ellen's home was building, planned as to its larger outlines after my vision, but in all details modeled to meet Ellen's tastes and wishes. Whenever the weather permitted, and it was possible for her to leave Aunt Martha—for even the new daughter could not take Ellen's place acceptably at the invalid's bedside—we rode together to the green knoll with its fair prospect, which our home was to crown, to inspect with almost affectionate interest each beam and brick, and to suggest, alter, and replan to the bewilderment of the tolerant workmen. Nevertheless the slow winter days dragged along, and Buford's repeated delays and excuses wore my patience to a thin edge as spring approached. Was I to wait forever for my long withheld happiness?
Aunt Martha had been beyond all suffering for a week, and Thomas and Nelly were almost determined to start to their waiting field of labor without again seeing Buford, when he returned—taking us all by surprise at last.
But he brought no priest with him. "None would come so far," he said, "in such unsettled times." One indeed had been at first willing, but could not get the requisite dispensation from his superior. He, Buford, would be obliged to go back at once to Philadelphia, but he could stand the separation no longer and had returned for Jean. Why not Ellen and I go with them, stop in Baltimore to be married, and then go on to Philadelphia to help him? With me to intercede, personally, for him, he felt sure of obtaining not only pardon but the restoration of his estates.
I took this disappointing news across the fields to Ellen. Surely the fate of Tantalus was not much worse than mine!
"Yes, I'll go to Baltimore with you, Donald," she said cheerily—seeming so little disappointed over this further delay that I was for the moment hurt. "Indeed, if you can help your brother, it is your duty to go. Moreover, I shall like a wedding journey, and I have always wanted to go to Baltimore and to Philadelphia."
That put a new phase on the matter. Since it would give Ellen pleasure to take the journey, and we would take it together, I could endure a few more days of waiting. And a happy journey it was, in our own four-horse post chaise, notwithstanding the roads were muddy, and the March weather precarious. Still more happy its ending.
Ellen and I were married in the Cathedral by the solemn ceremony of the Catholic Church, with only the priest's assistance—the choir boys, and Jean and Buford for witnesses. Afterwards Ellen went into the confessional, while I waited alone for her in the dimly lighted, reverence-inspiring edifice. She joined me, presently, her face both tender and radiant.
"The good Father, Donald," she whispered, slipping a warm little hand into mine, "bade me obey my husband, and follow my conscience in all things—even should that lead me into becoming a Protestant; for I must not let my religion come between me and my wifely duty, since marriage was a God appointed sacrament. You must never again say, my husband, that the Catholic faith is bigoted and superstitious."
"I trust I shall never say anything to wound my dear wife," I answered; "all her principles and feelings are sacred to me. As to her being a Protestant, that she shall never be unless she truly wishes it. As a loyal Catholic, I have learned to love her, and if she is happier still to be one, I shall love her none the less for that," and I kissed first the sweet, earnest face upturned to mine, and then the tiny jeweled cross which had been one of my gifts to her. Three weeks later Buford's pardon had been obtained, with a full restoration of his estates. He would return to Philadelphia, occupy the family mansion, and resume his father's business, for which indeed he had been destined and trained. But, first, he must take Jean back to her mother, as he had promised, and gain her consent to really giving up her only daughter. Buford's supposed poverty, indeed, had been a strong argument in his favor with my mother. If he had nothing, she argued, why should they not settle down on the home place? It was big enough for all and then she and Jean would never be separated. Buford's good fortune would be, I feared, a sad blow to dear mother. But, then, Ellen and I would live not far away, and she could often visit us; while Jean affirmed that her mother should spend part of each year in Philadelphia—for, after all, it was not much of a journey, with good stage roads all the way.
This is the true story of a somewhat eventful life, and I must e'en tell it as it happened. I cannot then conclude it by saying that Ellen and I lived in perfect happiness ever after. In truth we had our sorrows and disappointments, such sorrows and disappointments as are common to mortals—even our differences at times.
Yet, looking back upon our united lives, I see that they have been full and happy—almost realizing the radiant vision of my youth.
One of the incidents of it which gave us much pleasure, was a visit, some years after our marriage, from good Father Gibault. His love for Ellen and hers for him was almost that of a real father and daughter, and his interest in our children that of a grandfather. Especially did he take delight in the manly blue-eyed son we had named for him. Before he bade us farewell, to return to his beloved land of Illinois, he absolved Ellen finally from her allegiance to her old faith, bidding her, since her conscience allowed it, be one in creed also with the husband to whom she was fully united in life and purpose. Though devoted priest of a faith, held bigoted by some, he too believed that creeds are man made, and that God lives not in doctrines, but in our hearts and in our deeds.