"You Have Evidently Mistaken Me for a Villain."
"Captain Forsythe," I said, while my hand and my voice shook with the strain I put upon myself to control my anger, "you and others have evidently mistaken me for a villain of that low and despicable type capable of treason to his country. For the present I condone the insult for the sake of other British officers who have seemed to consider me a man of honor. I bid you good night, sir," and reaching for cloak and hat, I hastened into the street, where the freshness and purity of the early morning air and the calming message of the steadfast stars—shining on in their clear, soft beauty, whether men pray and sleep like Christians, or dice and plot, and drink like devils, on the changeful earth beneath them—cooled my fevered brow, and helped me to restrain a seething desire to take violent vengeance upon my insulter. But I realized clearly the foolhardiness of such course, and moreover the ingratitude and disrespect to my friends it would seem to imply.
CHAPTER X
The second evening after the banquet was the one set for the performance of our carefully rehearsed comedy, and all the Tory society of Philadelphia was agog with interest and curiosity to see the latest London hit, played by the belles of the city and the most popular of the British officers. I was told, moreover, that the story had gone abroad that the part of Sir Peter would be taken by a youthful Virginia mountaineer, whose giant proportions and unusual gifts of person and bearing—considering his backwoods breeding—made him the feature of the performance. I was no little annoyed by this talk, though I credited Wheaton, who retailed it to me, with a good deal of bantering exaggeration. In truth, being still sore from the insult offered me at the banquet, I wanted to throw up my part; but, after consideration of the difficulties it would entail upon my entertainers, and others who had been courteous to me, I forced myself to stick to my role cheerfully, and to do my best at it.
Rigged out in all the toggery of a stage Sir Peter, I presented myself to Miss Nelly. "Perfect," she exclaimed taking me by the elbow with the tips of her fingers, and slowly turning me around at arm's length, while she inspected critically my pompous finery. "Now must they all admit that there's not so handsome a figure of a man in the British army," and she nodded approval bewitchingly, with her puffed, powdered, and plumed head. She was altogether charming in her rich brocade gown and yellow laces, and I managed to tell her so in words that pleased her.
The play was pronounced a London success, and the players universally complimented. Twice were Lady Teazle and Sir Peter called before the curtain, and such flattering compliments were showered upon me in the green room that I was quite puffed with vanity and forgot my inward soreness. After the performance, Colonel Forbes entertained the players at a supper where sherry, Burgundy, and sparkling white wines of France were as free as spring water. Wheaton was made to sing his hit of the evening—Sheridan's jolly drinking song over again, and did so with even better voice and expression.
"Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen,
Here's to the widow of fifty,
Here's to the flaunting, extravagant queen
And here's to the housewife that's thrifty.
(And all joined in the chorus:—)
"Let the toast pass,
Drink to the lass,
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
"Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize,
Now to the maid who has none, sir;
Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes,
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir.
"Let the toast pass, etc.
"Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow,
Now to her that's as brown as a berry;
Here's to the wife with a face full of woe,
And now to the girl that is merry.
"Let the toast pass, etc
"For let them be clumsy, or let them be slim,
Young or ancient, I care not a feather,
So fill a pint bottle quite up to the brim
And let us e'en toast them together.
"Let the toast pass, etc."
Even Miss Nelly, and the stately Miss Shippen had drunken till their fair faces were a little flushed, and they joined with noticeable abandon in the chorus. The men presently became too hilarious, there being ladies present, and I suddenly realized that I also had imbibed more freely than I usually allowed myself. Just then I caught Miss Shippen's eye, saw that she observed my change of manner, and took it either for reproof or warning. Not to appear either rude or Puritanical in her eyes, I silently rebuked myself for my Presbyterian straight-lacedness, and began again to drink and to make noisily merry with the rest. A moment later Miss Shippen leaned over to us and asked, in an undertone, if Nelly and I would escort her home—the recent Joseph Surface being, she feared, already incapacitated for that duty. We slipped out almost unobserved, being followed soon after, I think, by the rest of the ladies, and the few gallants in fit condition to escort them.
My brain cooled but slowly, even in the fresh night air, and, after we had safely delivered Miss Shippen at her home, and driven to the Buford mansion, I begged Nelly to sit with me, in the library, till I felt more ready to welcome sleep. A single candle burned still in the silver stick on the candlestand, but through the shutterless French windows giving upon the rear balcony, a bath of opal-rayed moonlight flooded the room. I blew out the candle, as Nelly sank into a deep chair within the circle of the moon's softer radiance, and bade me find something to talk of, other than the play, for she was sick of it.
"Then give me a subject your ladyship will be pleased to hear discourse upon," I said, placing a chair for myself in front of her.
"The one nearest your heart, sir."
"That would be the one most accessible to my present satisfied vision."
"I—and what could you say upon so meager a topic?"
"Meager? To recount your goodness to me would furnish material for an hour's discourse; to enumerate your charms and graces another; your qualities and accomplishments a third. Give me leave and I'll talk till cock crow upon one subdivision of my theme—how much I love you! But always you hush me when I approach that subject."
"Because I know you love me not—that only you love to flatter me. How learned you such arts of the world, thou whilom backwoodsman?"
"From instinct. Needs a man ever to learn how to tell a woman he loves her? How to descant upon charms and graces he sees limned in beauty before his eyes? How can you say I do not love you?"
"Have you read of King Arthur's knights, and how they dared mighty deeds of prowess for the damsels they loved?"
"Yes, and so would I—were there deeds of prowess to be done. But I, a prisoner," and then I stopped, ashamed that I should complain, like a whining stripling, of the fortunes of war,—which in truth had used me but too kindly in all save enforced inactivity.
"True, there are no deeds of prowess you may do now, but one single act of self-sacrifice would convince me of your love."
"Only name it, dear Nelly," and I leaned nearer and caught in mine the hands that folded in her lap.
"It will serve to prove the value of your protestations—though I know beforehand you will not consent."
"First name my reward; were it but one kiss from those sweet lips, I'll engage to earn it at any cost."
"It might be something more lasting than a kiss, an' you would," and Nelly blushed adorably, and dropped the soft fringe of her eyes upon her glowing cheeks.
"Your dear self, Nelly, your love?" I questioned ardently, kissing the hands I still imprisoned, and dropping on my knees beside her, that I might force her eyes to meet mine.
"Even my own poor self—nor is the sacrifice I would ask so great; indeed it carries with it a compensation which by many would be deemed ample reward, were all you are now bargaining for left out of the contract. Can you not guess what proof of your sincerity I would claim?"
"Thick headed soldier that I am, I cannot—" but I scarcely knew what I said, for my arm was about Nelly's warm, pliant form, her soft cheek rested against mine, her fragrant breath was in my nostrils, and my heart thumped audibly, while all my blood was in a hot tumult of blissful agitation.
"Simply to don the uniform of a British captain, and then to teach these luxurious laggards how to put a speedy end to this fratricidal contest. By doing so you will the sooner bring to this distracted country the blessing of restored peace, and for yourself win quick promotion, honor, fame, fortune—and if you love me, Donald, that which will make you happiest."
As soon as I had realized the full meaning of Nelly's rapidly poured forth persuasions, I gently released her, and rose to my feet, then stood silently by, for a moment, looking down upon her, with a conscious tenseness of all my muscles, as of one who inwardly strengthens himself for a wrenching effort. Beneath my fixed gaze Nelly paled, and flushed, and paled again, and the fingers of her freed hands were locked and loosed alternately, while from beneath her lowered lids two big tears slipped, and fell unheeded.
Meantime I thought of Colonel Morgan, and the indignation with which he had repelled an offer of treason when a prisoner in Canada; then of my father, and his perfect trust in me—his only son, bearer of a yet untarnished name to future generations; and then, most strangely, came a sudden vision of Ellen O'Niel, as last I had seen her poised like a spirit upon the rock above the spring; and with the vision came a new and more complete understanding of her feelings of fierce loyalty to her parents' religion, and of all that it meant to her.
"And you could give yourself to a traitor," I said, at last—"or would you play Delilah to my Samson, Jael to my Sisera, Judith to my Holofernes? But I am roused from my well nigh fatal slumber; I have broken my bonds. To-morrow I resign my parole, and deliver myself a prisoner. I must indeed have sunk low, since twice in forty-eight hours infamous proposals of treason have been made to me!" Then my heart softened to Nelly, now shaken with sobs, her face covered with her hands.
"But I can well believe you meant it not for insult, Miss Nelly; you were set on by others to offer me love and luxury at the price of my honor. Women have no place in intrigue; I shall forget the nightmare of this hour, and remember only your goodness to me, and my happiness in your home. Farewell, thou sweet and gracious Nelly of my heart; the only Nelly I shall ever remember." And then I stooped and kissed the bowed head with reverent tenderness—as one kisses the face of a dying comrade.
The soft moon radiance which had caressed Nelly so becomingly, in the room below, streamed through my opened window, and I kneeled in it, and prayed, earnestly, that the God of my fathers would protect me against temptation, as he had hitherto protected me against all other dangers. As I did so the quavering voice of my grandmother seemed to sound in my ears, and I could hear her chanting in tones of solemn rapture her favorite song:
"The man hath perfect blessedness,
Who walketh not astray
In counsel of ungodly men,
Nor stands in sinners' way,
Nor sitteth in the scorner's chair
But placeth his delight
Upon God's law, and meditates
On His law day and night.
"He shall be like a tree that grows
Near planted by a river,
Which in his season yields his fruit,
And his leaf fadeth never.
And all he doth shall prosper well.
The wicked are not so,
But like they are unto the chaff,
Which wind drives to and fro."
Often had I sung with her these words, but now they took on a new meaning. I had chosen to enjoy luxury with the enemies of my country, rather than endure the hardships of prison life with other captives, and had allowed myself to become so entangled with them that the wrench of total separation must cost me much of regret and suffering. I had walked astray—therefore God's blessing was no longer upon me.
All night I tossed, regretting past weakness, and planning an honorable retreat. I could see, now, how they had played upon my conceit, and even upon my sociability, and, with writhings of spirit, I was compelled to admit that Nelly herself had measured my weaknesses, and used them to gain her ascendancy over me.
The household was still wrapped in the slumber of early morning when I arose, packed my belongings, and leaving a note of thanks and farewell to Madam Buford, betook myself to Captain Wheaton's quarters.
"He was still asleep," his man said; so I stretched myself upon a settee in his smoking room, fell into a doze, and then asleep.
"In the name of Pluto, and all the other gods of the lower region, how came you here, McElroy! Had you to bring me home, and were you too drunk to go farther?" were the first words which aroused me; and they came from Wheaton, who stood in the middle of the room, unshaven, and uncombed, his fine figure wrapped in a gay Turkish chamber-robe.
"I know not how drunk you may have been before the feast ended, Wheaton," I answered, laughing, "but I slept in my own bed, rose at sun-up, and have dozed here an hour or so waiting for you."
"Then you have the stomach and the head of Charles Fox himself. I know not how, or when I got to bed, and my head is as big and as tight as a drum. But you came avisiting full early—what's to pay?"
"I wish to ask a last favor, Captain, though already your courtesy to a prisoner passeth thanks."
"Out with it, man,—though why last, I can no way surmise. 'Tis done if can be."
As briefly as possible I told him of the offer which had been made me at the officers' banquet, and of my growing conviction that my own conduct had made me liable to the insult; so that, though I felt no sentiment but one of gratitude to the officers, I could no longer remain among them, as a guest. I wished him, therefore, to ask Colonel Forbes to grant me an exchange as soon as possible, and meantime I would hand in my parole, and go to prison. "I tell you truth, Wheaton," I concluded, "when I say that I scorn myself for my conduct during the past two months."
"You take a most exaggerated view of the situation, McElroy, and your decision is quixotic," answered Wheaton. "I'll ask for your immediate exchange, but, meantime, why not make yourself comfortable? I'll gladly share my quarters with you, if you feel indisposed to accept the Bufords' hospitality longer."
"Thank you from my heart, Wheaton," and I laid my hand upon his arm in grateful affection. "You British are good fellows, as well as brave and generous enemies; would there had never been cause of quarrel between us. But my resolution is taken; to prison I will go till exchanged. Will you be so good as to consider me your prisoner, and to send me under guard to your most comfortable resort for the enemy? Here is my parole."
"Damn your foolishness, McElroy! I'll not have your parole, nor will I send you to prison. If you are set to do this absurd thing, and no doubt you are, for you are as stubborn as—as—a Scotch Irishman, and I know of no other breed of animal worthy to be compared with him for that virtue, march yourself over to the general prison, find a cell, lock yourself in, and throw the key out of the window."
I laughed, wrung Wheaton's hand in farewell, and took his advice; except that I had no need to lock myself in, the astonished prison officer doing that for me with due courtesy.
My fare that day, and my couch that night were as poor and as hard as my aroused conscience could have suggested, but I took them as penance, and almost with pleasure. The very next day, Wheaton came to tell me that my exchange was, for the present, refused on the ground that I knew too much of the state of the defenses of Philadelphia; but that my parole was extended for a year, and I was requested to return to my home until my exchange could be allowed, as provisions were growing scarce, and the feeding of prisoners had become well-nigh impossible.
Unless exchanged in the meantime I could not bear arms against the British under any circumstances for six months, and I was not permitted to join my old command under a fixed period of twelve months from the first day of the present month. The terms seemed to me unduly severe, but upon Wheaton's assurance that they were the best I could hope for, I determined to accept them, and to start at once for home. The last was no unwelcome prospect, more than two years having expired, since I had seen the dear valley and the faces of loved ones.
I had still a dozen gold sovereigns in my pocket—fruits of the last game of Hazard I had played—and Wheaton assisted me in buying that afternoon, a sorrel horse, a saddle, and a pair of saddle pockets which I stocked with a bottle of rum, a package of biscuits, and a change of garments. By sunrise next morning, equipped with proper passports, my parole, and a pistol, presented to me by Wheaton, I rode southward to the Virginia border line; then deflected my course eastward, towards Williamsburg.
Governor Henry was an acquaintance of my father and a warm friend of Colonel Morgan. It might be worth my while to ask his influence in securing my early exchange, and to let him understand how irksome to me were the terms of my parole. When so many were ready to shirk there were those who would ask nothing better than an honorable excuse to stay at home. I would see Governor Henry, and ask that he transfer me to some frontier service where at least I could help defend the Virginia border against Indians, during the months of forced inactivity against the British.
CHAPTER XI
It will doubtless seem a matter for wonderment to those who may read this chronicle, that it was no more difficult, in those days, to secure an interview with the Governor of the State of Virginia than with any other gentleman in the Commonwealth. The morning after my arrival in Williamsburg, I betook myself to the Governor's mansion, clanged the iron knocker, and was shown by the negro doorkeeper straight into the Governor's office. He sat before a square deal table, littered with documents, inkhorns, and the like, while under his hand, on a small tray, lay a pile of letters, one of which he was engaged in deciphering. I made my bow in the doorway, and with my cocked hat upon my heart, after the latest manner, announced myself:
"Your Honor's most obedient servant, sir! My name is Donald McElroy, late captain in Colonel Morgan's rifle company."
Governor Henry rose and came to meet me, a friendly smile upon his lean, dark, beak-nosed face, his hand cordially outstretched. "Then you are one of the notable marksmen who whipped us the gallantly led English regulars at Freeman's Farm—closing thereby the trap in which Burgoyne was taken, a few days later. Let me shake your hand, sir, and thank you in the name of Virginia. Gates seems minded to claim all the glory, and that asinine congress still allows him to throw dust into their half shut eyes. But, history, sir, will be no more deceived than are General Washington, and others, and the debt of honor due Colonel Morgan and his riflemen will be paid in full by posterity, Captain McElroy."
Governor Henry's manner of saying this had far more effect than the mere words. His head went up, and his whole face beamed with lively enthusiasm, while his deep voice rang thrillingly. Wheaton had told me of Charles Fox, and how he made any man think what he pleased, more by the kindling power of his rich, finely modulated voice, than by his logic, or bursts of eloquence. Now, I understood what had seemed exaggeration in Wheaton; now I knew why those simple words, eloquent only with feeling, spoken by Mr. Henry before the Virginia assembly, at a surcharged moment, had set them aflame with patriotic fervor.
So proud was I again of my recent service under Morgan, that I forgot the depression and self-abasement I had suffered these last few days, and found it easy to sit down before Governor Henry, and give him an account of all that had happened to me since I was taken prisoner on the battle field of Chestnut Hill—leaving out, of course, the name of Nelly Buford, and hiding as well as I could the part a woman had played in my downfall. He guessed, I thought, much of what I tried to conceal, though his words in no way intimated that he did so. He told me candidly, that he thought I had been wrong to linger with my kind entertainers after my wound was healed, but added this remark of sympathy which warmed my heart anew:
"Yet, who knows but that I'd have done the same in like circumstances. Your conduct, sir, was less wise than natural. However, a whole year's absence from your command, without privilege of exchange, meantime, seems unwarranted by the harm you may be able or inclined to do them."
I thanked Governor Henry for his sympathy, and then unfolded to him my wish to spend this forced interval of absence from the regular army in frontier service, where I might still defend my state, and wipe from my conscience the reproach of having proved myself unworthy.
"If that be your wish, Captain," the governor answered heartily, "I have in waiting the very service you are looking for; and moreover, we sorely need men for the enterprise—as great a one and almost as difficult, to my thinking, as the undertaking of Jason and his Argonauts. Have you ever chanced to meet George Rogers Clark, one of the pathfinders in the Kentucky wilderness, a friend of Daniel Boone?"
"I have not had that honor, sir."
"Then it shall be yours, this evening, and an honor you may well esteem it. He is yet a young man, but he has the daring of a Cortez. He has vast schemes abrewing which, if successful, mean great things for Virginia, and timely aid to the cause. His plans, however, are yet secret, and must remain so, except in so far as he may see fit to enlighten you should you enter his service. Meet him here this evening, and, if Clark consents, you shall be present at our conference. I demand, you see, no credentials. Most men I can read in an hour's talk; and, moreover, I know the Scotch Irish breed—rugged, plain, a little hard and narrow, perhaps, but also steadfast as the rocks which rib the mountains they delight to dwell among."
"Though you but give proper praise to the worthy breed from which you also have partly sprung, Governor Henry, I still owe you warm thanks for saying it," I answered; "yet with your permission I'll leave my credentials for Mr. Clark's inspection," and I took from my pocket my captain's commission, a personal letter from General Arnold, commending my bravery at Freeman's Farm, and a copy of one written my father by Captain Morgan.
Impatiently I awaited the chance to learn more of this great adventure, and not a moment behind the hour named, presented myself. Yet Clark was before me. The first look into each other's eyes fixed, I think, our mutual confidence, and with our first handclasp began a life long friendship.
George Rogers Clark had the look and bearing of a man born for deeds of great emprise. He was half an inch taller than I, measuring in his moccasins six feet three and a half inches, and not one of Morgan's riflemen was tougher of muscle, suppler of limb. His face, lighted with glowing brown eyes, was singularly handsome, at once winning and commanding. It indicated a lofty mind, and a sweet nature, but also a reckless boldness of disposition. Better than all, for the fulfilling of his purposes, there was boundless confidence in himself and his resources, and a buoyant hopefulness of disposition; and these were united with a daring will which but strengthened under difficulty.
"Captain McElroy, I introduce you to Captain George Rogers Clark. He is quite ready to take you into his service if you can promise to join him heart and soul in this bold enterprise he is determined upon," said Governor Henry.
"Yes, Captain McElroy," and Clark grasped my hand, bestowing his winning smile upon me. "I am satisfied that I can trust you, and you may be of great assistance to me. Could you enlist forty or fifty volunteers in your valley, think you?"
"If there be left that many able bodied men, if the service be one of Virginia's need or honor, and there be no rumor of an Indian uprising afloat."
"Our enterprise will put an end to all fear of Indian forays, by driving them to the Mississippi. Our nominal purpose, indeed, is to turn back the gathering forces of the Northwest savages, who are planning a surprise for Bonnesville, Harrodsburg and Logan's Fort, and who, after devastating Virginia's outposts, expect to over-run your valley, and exterminate the settlements of the Blue Ridge. Now, while all the able bodied men are engaged in the war upon the coast, is the red man's last opportunity to regain his lost hunting ground. Does the plan to meet them more than half way, to do ourselves the surprise act, appeal to you, Captain McElroy? Is it likely to appeal to your neighbors in the valley?"
"Next to fighting our invaders, it is the service I shall like best, Captain Clark; and there are those of my neighbors more likely to respond to this call upon their rifles than to any other. The happy results of Point Pleasant have taught us 'tis best not to wait for the savages, but to go to meet them."
"That's encouraging talk, Captain," and Clark's voice rang more heartily, and his face sparkled with animation and humor, "and you may be doubly grateful before we see the end of our expedition; though we go against the Indians, and shall cheerfully fight them if there be need, our real object"—his voice sank to a whisper—"is to strike the forts at Kaskaskia and Vincennes. They are weakly garrisoned and unsuspecting, and their French inhabitants, I hear, are much disaffected to British rule. We have but need to appear before them with a small, resolute, well-armed force to compel capitulation, after which we can form alliance with the French, intimidate the Indians, and claim all the Ohio Valley as Virginia territory. By doing so we will not only more than double the dominion of our State, and give a blow to autocratic power, but will secure safety to the pioneers of Virginia and Kentucky, and save from butchery many a helpless family."
"But my parole, Governor Henry," I said, turning to him with rueful countenance.
"You are not violating its terms, Captain McElroy, by accepting service with Clark, since there's small chance of a clash with the British before your parole has expired."
"Then what can I do, Captain Clark, to forward your bold enterprise?" I said, turning again eagerly to my new leader.
"First you can sit here and listen, while Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Wythe, Mr. Mason, Governor Henry and I devise ways and means that will make known to you the details of our plan. You can then hasten home to enlist men for an advance against the Indians. Later—"
"That's Jefferson's voice now," interrupted the Governor, "and the others are with him," and hastening to the street door with a flaring candle in his hand, he lighted the group through the passage way to our presence.
Mr. Jefferson had once dined at our house, and I remembered him as an elegant and gracious gentleman, though somewhat over dignified and sententious. Colonel Mason, and the learned and able Wythe, I saw now for the first time. Since he had written our "Declaration of Independence" Mr. Jefferson's fame was world-wide, and Colonel Mason, as the author of our "Bill of Rights," and our State's Constitution, was not less favorably, though perhaps less widely, known; while Mr. Wythe's reputation as jurist had already extended beyond America.
As behooved in such company, I was a silent listener, learning much of Colonel Clark's plans, and even more of the difficulties in the way of them. It seemed to me a rash and dangerous undertaking but not without chance of success.
Governor Henry, I found, was not a whit behind Clark in zeal for the enterprise; nor was Mr. Jefferson much less ready to give the plan full countenance, though he did not expect from the expedition, even if successful, the vast results that Clark reckoned upon so confidently. Mr. Wythe showed the caution to have been expected from his calm and logical mind, suggesting difficulties at every turn, and urging forethought in the plans, while Colonel Mason spoke infrequently and with less of flowing readiness than any of the others, but most pointedly and justly, first on the side of caution, and then on the side of boldness, as Clark's enthusiasm and strongly presented arguments gradually won him to our side.
Governor Henry's fiat had already gone forth, nor could he be persuaded to modify it, that the men for the expedition must be drawn from the counties west of the mountains. If the seven companies, of fifty men each, which was the minimum force demanded by Clark, could be raised in the counties of Frederick, Augusta, and Fincastle, Clark was welcome to enlist and use them—otherwise the undertaking must be given up. But Clark was no wise minded to give up and, after accepting the Governor's terms, turned to me to know what I thought might be done toward raising a company in Augusta.
"It has been more than two years since I left home," I answered, "and I cannot speak with assurance, but I believe one or more companies of fifty might be raised, if I am allowed to say that the settlements in Kentucky are threatened, and that our object is to turn back an Indian invasion."
"You can say that with truth, Captain McElroy. I shall rely upon you for at least one company."
"I'll do my best, Captain Clark. I continue my journey homeward to-morrow, and shall begin the work of enlistment at once."
"You ride my way, Captain McElroy, I think," said Mr. Jefferson pleasantly, "and I also go to-morrow; with your consent we'll keep each other company."
I thanked him, and we fixed sun rise as the hour for our departure from the Bell Tavern.
"You are the son of Justice McElroy, of the Stone Church neighborhood, I suppose, Captain? The name is not a common one even in your valley of Macs."
"I am his only son, sir."
"Once when you were a lad I dined at your house; you scarcely remember the occasion, I suppose?"
"Perfectly, sir, and I should have recognized you anywhere. We cherish with pride the memory of your visit."
Mr. Jefferson was evidently pleased—few men are so great as to be indifferent to appreciation.
"By the way, Clark," continued Mr. Jefferson, "the ex-scout hermit we were talking of this morning lives on McElroy's direct homeward route, near the top of the south slope of the mountain between Monticello and Staunton. It might be well to engage McElroy to see him; that would save delay and me a journey at a busy season."
"I am at your service, Mr. Jefferson," spoke I. Then made my bow and left them. They might wish to talk matters over before taking me further into their confidence.
CHAPTER XII
That ride with Mr. Jefferson, and the day I spent at Monticello, have still a pleasant flavor in retrospect. Mr. Jefferson's urbanity matched his delightful conversation, and my pleasure in his condescension and his intellectual charm gave him evident satisfaction.
Part of our way lay through the forest, and one could hear the oozing sap, mounting upward into the yet leafless branches interlaced above us. The graceful, clean-limbed maples had strung themselves with strand after strand of glowing coral leaf buds, and the white trunked cotton woods were hung thickly with a soft pinkish brown fringe, while each branch of the laurel, the dogwood and the ivy shrubs bulged with close folded gray green buds—big with promise of leaf and blossom. The rich loam under our horses' feet was cracked open here and there, making tiny winrows of the rotted leaves, where reawakened roots of fern or flower were pushing upward with divine instinct for life and sunshine. From sunny dell's slope, and the southern side of oak and locust trees, rose nature's incense—the breath of purple violets, of white anemones, and flushed arbutus blossoms, floating intermittently upon the whimsical zephyrs of a balmy day in March.
Sudden bursts of rapture, or shrill, happy calls from vibrant throats of robin, and wren, cat bird and oriole, red bird and yellow hammer, mocking bird and blue jay, rang from treetop to treetop, and the fluttering of busy wings, and the important chirruping and twittering of the nest builders, told that the birds, too, recognized the many hints of coming spring, and were all of a spirit with the mounting sap, and the promise-breathing perfume of violet and arbutus buds.
We talked of farming and gardening, upon which subject Mr. Jefferson had gathered much valuable information. From horticulture we drifted to books, and the writers of them. It pleased me to find that, as far as my limited reading had gone, our tastes were similar. He preferred the Greeks and Greek literature to the Romans and their writings. He admired Demosthenes, Thucydides, and Homer; Tacitus and Horace were his favorites among the Latins; and when we came to English writers, he also gave first place to Dryden, Milton, Pope and Ossian among the poets, to Bacon, Hume and Addison among prose writers. Finding I knew nothing of French, Italian or German literatures, he barely mentioned Molière, Racine, Petrarch, Tasso and Goethe. Yet his mere word of appreciation kindled my resolution to know these masters, when peace and a quiet life should give me opportunity.
My liking for Ossian seemed to delight Mr. Jefferson, and he quoted freely from his poems, saying, with warmth, that he thought "this rude bard of the North the greatest of poets."
"Then, sir, you give no credence to the charge of the English critics, that there was never any other Ossian than his pretended translator?"
"No, I do not!" answered Mr. Jefferson emphatically, then proceeded to give me cogent reasons to back his opinion.
The urgency of Mr. Jefferson's invitation to stop a day at Monticello was not to be resisted, nor was my inclination far behind the courtesy of my host. The early morning was spent about the beautifully turfed and planted grounds, and the carefully cultivated gardens. I was even allowed to look over the garden books, as accurate as algebraic demonstrations, and as neat as copy books. Horses were then ordered for a ride over the plantation. Mr. Jefferson scanned their satiny coats with critical eye, rubbed a single rough spot on his own mount with his handkerchief, and showing the black groom who held the impatient steed's bridle the dust stain made upon it, gave him a sharp reprimand. We got back in time for a glass of Scotch rum and hot water, seasoned with nutmeg, before dinner. A second ride to Charlottesville in the afternoon, to procure the mail and attend to some matter of business, seemed necessary to Mr. Jefferson's indefatigable energy.
Mrs. Jefferson gave us her charming company in the evening, and some excellent music with voice and spinet, after which I was so fortunate as to be able to entertain her by an account of the Philadelphia performance of "A School for Scandal," with a few quotations from the text—since they had not yet had the opportunity to read any of Mr. Sheridan's plays.
Though Mr. Jefferson had given me most minute directions, I came near losing the trail—to the right, half way up the mountain—which was to lead me to the hermit's retreat. One of the giant sentinel maples, which marked the entrance to the trail, had recently blown down, and its sprawling branches completely hid the path. A double log cabin, built in a dent of the mountain's southern slope, was the old scout's home. The forest clustered about it protectingly, except for a clearing a few yards wide just in front of the door, and no other than wild growth was anywhere visible. Two yelping dogs came from the doorway at the sound of my horse's feet, followed closely by the hermit himself.
"Light, stranger, an' hitch," he called, pointing to the nearest tree trunk.
I did so, while he leisurely approached, a short stemmed cob pipe in his mouth, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his homespun breeches. His hunting shirt was also of homespun; his leggins, belt, and moccasins of leather; and the cap which surmounted his face—so covered with beard that a pair of heavy browed, keen brown eyes, and a large crooked nose were the only features visible—was made of deerskin. Though hair and beard were grizzled, he showed no signs of age in figure or bearing. Within the cabin's wide chimney a fire smoldered, and a rough bench was drawn up before it. Seated and served with tobacco for my pipe, I unfolded my mission.
"Thar' ain't no two men nowhares I'd ruther pleasure thin Pat Henry en' George Clark," said the scout, "en' I 'low I'm the man they er' lookin' fur. I knows them Algonquins, en' ther savage ways, en' ther heathen talk better'n menny."
"Governor Henry and Mr. Clark say they cannot do without you, and Mr. Jefferson bade me tell you to come to Monticello this week to give him your promise."
"Thar' ain't but one thing es'll hinder me—but thet's 'nuff. I see no way er promisin' jist now, Cap'n—but I'll see Mr. Jefferson afore I sez no. You coulden' nohow mention no kind uv frolic, nur no feastin' nur pleasuring es temptin' ter me, Capt'n, es killin' Injuns. The way I hates the redskins mought be counted es hell-desarvin' sin, Capt'n, but fur the fact thet they's devils en' hes devils' ways, en' the Holy Word commands us ter hate the devil and all his wurrucks. Did Mr. Henry ur Clark tell yer the old scout's story, Capt'n?"
Just then my eye was drawn to the crack in the door, between the two rooms, by hearing the swishering as of a woman's skirts, and a soft tread upon the planks, and I was much astonished to see what seemed to me the shadow of a woman's form. The scout, too, looked up, then drew his brow into a half worried frown. I had not heard of a wife or a daughter; indeed, had understood that the hermit lived entirely alone, so was greatly surprised. Something in the scout's manner led me to think, however, that he did not care to be questioned, so I made haste to withdraw my eyes and to answer his question in the negative.
"Wall, ef you kin bide er spell longer you shell hear the pitiful tale"—said the old man with a sigh—"en' er sadder, I 'low you've seldom hearn, even in this land uv sorrowful stories en' terrurble sufferin's."
"Then without doubt your opportunity has come," said I when the tale was ended; "nor do I wonder you hate the Indians," and I wrung his hand. "But I must say good-by now, and ride on. I hope you will decide to join us, as your not doing so will be a serious loss to our expedition."
"I'll see, I'll see. Ther temptation to fight Injun devils is not one I'm likely ter resist; yit thar's reasons, serious reasons," and he lowered his voice, looked grave, and watched the crack in the door between the two rooms as he gripped my hand in farewell.
A mile farther down the mountain a sudden crackling in the bushes at one side caused my horse to snort and sniff suspiciously. But I had no time now to track wild beast, or snare game, for it was already midday, and I must reach Staunton, if not home, that night. As I rode on I thought much of the scout's sad story, and pitied his bereaved and lonely condition. But could he be a hypocrite posing for sympathy? Surely that was a woman's form which flitted before the partly open door, yet he had let fall no hint of having any companion of his solitude, and I knew of no neighbors nearer than the dwellers on the plantations around Charlottesville.
CHAPTER XIII
The realization that before another sunset I should be at home, should take mother, grandmother, and little Jean in my arms, clasp my father's hand and meet his welcoming eye, thrilled me with a joyous excitement such as I had not felt since, nearly three years before, I had led my squad of recruits out of the valley.
The road between the foot of the mountain and Staunton seemed elastic—as if it stretched as I traveled it. Not for six months now had I heard from home. The last letter had been brought me by a recruit from our valley, before the fight at Chestnut Hill, and was then several weeks old. It told of my grandmother's gradually failing strength, of Aunt Martha's increasing vexation with still unconquered Ellen, of Jean's rapid development into womanhood; of my mother's good health and father's continued vigor; also of the fine crops harvested during the year, and sold at good prices, after a generous proportion had been given to help load the wagon train sent from the valley to help to feed General Washington's army. There were, also, bits of local news and gossip most interesting to me.
A chill, misty March drizzle came on with the twilight, my steed drooped his head wearily, and lifted his feet with mechanical, springless effort.
"Poor tired beast," I said, patting his flanks, "we'll stop this night in Staunton, and you shall have supper and stable if there's a barn left in the town." He appeared to understand my promise, for his gait quickened, his head was lifted hopefully, and a moment later, as a turn in the highway revealed the lighted windows of the town, he uttered a low, thankful nicker.
"If William Allen or John Walker is at home, we'll not lack a welcome," I added, giving him a second encouraging pat. Both these lads—they were men now, of course—had been mates of mine at "the academy," and 'twas Allen to whom I made gift of my books when I went home to enlist. Walker's house was the first reached and, leaving my horse before the gate, I rapped loudly with the hilt of my sword upon the door. It was opened somewhat cautiously, and Elder Walker's voice enquired peremptorily, "Who's without?"
"An old school mate of your son John's, Donald McElroy."
"What! Captain McElroy, whom family and friends have mourned as dead these six months past? Come in, lad, come in!" and the door was flung wide open. "You'll be chilled to the bone in that drenching drizzle,—and your horse likewise. John! John! Here's an old school friend! Call the niggers, wife! Send one of them round for Captain McElroy's horse, and have on another back log! Bring out the rum and the peach brandy! The son of William McElroy would be welcome under all circumstances, but coming from the dead, as it were, and covered with honor, doubtless,—why, there's nothing in the town good enough for him."
The house was abustle by this time, negroes running to and fro, Mrs. Walker and John overwhelming me with welcoming attention, and the Elder alternately rattling the decanters and glasses, and ringing the heavy iron poker against the massive brass andirons, as he vigorously punched the logs into a brisker blaze. I had half forgotten the warmth and heartiness of a Scotch Irish welcome, and my eyes filled with tears at the familiar sound of it all, and the sight of John's kind, homely face wreathed with glad smiles.
How pleasant the flavor of the oily peach brandy, how genial the blaze of the hickory logs, how good to hear the rich voices and the slight accent, as they called over familiar names and faces, and told me the valley news!
"Are they all well at home?" was my first question.
"All well, the last we heard, and your father continues to be one of the most prosperous and respected men in the county, and your mother the best of housewives. Little Jean has grown into a beauty, and your father has built a big new barn, and is burning brick for a spacious dwelling to take the place of the old cabin," answered the Elder loquaciously, while Mrs. Walker superintended the maid Jinsey, serving me, upon a folding table placed at my elbow, a cavalry man's lunch—which means enough for three.
"And they thought me dead, Elder?"
"They feared it, lad, having heard that you fell wounded on the field at Chestnut Hill, were taken prisoner, and carried to the prison hospital in Philadelphia—death traps they are said to be. Your father hopes still, but your mother greets sair, and fears the very worst."
It was not easy to get away from my entertainers the next morning, but I was eager to be at home, and managed to be off by half past ten, despite their urgent hospitality, and their disinclination to have my horse brought around.
"It was communion Sabbath at the Stone Church," the Elder had insisted, "and my whole family would, without doubt, spend the day at the services; so I might as well take dinner with them, and ride home in the afternoon."
But "No," I said; "I would ride on to the church, hear part of the sermon, find my people, and take them home with me at the recess between the morning and afternoon service."
Elder Walker was one of those who had gone off to form a new congregation at Tinkling Spring, and I gathered from his talk that the feud caused by a secession of a part of the congregation had not yet abated. Between my Uncle Thomas and Elder Walker this split in the congregation had given rise to a lasting bitterness, and during all our conversation my Uncle Thomas' name was not mentioned.
Every rod of the way, from the town to the church, was marked with memories for me. I smiled at the recollection of the squirrel I had caught in the top branches of a certain gnarled old oak; of the deer I had shot, as it bounded across the branch in yonder meadow; of the strawberries I had gathered from the sunny hillsides. Wrapped in these recollections of a happy boyhood, I rode on, as in a dream, and came at last with the surprise of suddenness, upon the old church.
One might have supposed that a cavalry company was bivouacked in the grove, from the horses hitched to every tree and shrub, and the illusion would only be strengthened upon closer view, by the rude but strong fortifications encircling the building. How vividly came back the sounds and scenes of the Indian raid! especially the erect form and inspired face of old Parson Craig, addressing "his lads," in the spirit of a Spartan leader. Years before this intrepid man of God had gone to his reckoning, and I had no doubt as to the side of the account on which he had found that Mosaic charge he had given us to "slay and spare not."
But the sounds issuing that March morning from the closed doors of the old church were sounds of Christian harmony and pious rejoicing. The congregation was singing one of Rouse's paraphrases as I pushed the door open gently, and glided into the vacant pew against the wall. Not a head was turned, so engrossed were they all in worship, save those of two or three restless children. I drew myself close in the shadow of a pillar, and listened with glad and thankful heart to the singing. This was the psalm, and the words were set to one of those solemn, grand old tunes, which rolled so deep and full from the throats of big chested, earnest men, and devout women, that no accompaniment of instruments, such as the modern music is said to require, was needed.
"O praise the Lord, for He is good,
His mercy lasteth ever,
Let those of Israel now say
His mercy faileth never.
Let those who fear the Lord now say
His mercy faileth never."
I thought I recognized the full tones of my father's voice and my emotions almost choked me.
The instant the minister rose to give out his text, I knew him to be Parson Waddell—the eloquent, blind preacher of Hanover, who more than once had been described to me, though never before had I seen him, or heard him preach. That long, lank form; that thin face, and high, bald forehead, from which the long gray locks flowed backward; those fixed, open eyes, so evidently sightless; those long, restless arms, and hands, trembling with palsy—that ensemble could be no other than Parson Waddell—the pulpit orator of America during his generation, and one who has been seldom equaled in any age or country.
I cannot now recall the words of his text, nor their exact place in the Bible, only that it was some passage in the description of the passion of our Lord. This I remember well, that from the first sentence uttered by that mellifluous and feeling voice, I forgot everything but the scene he depicted, which scene I saw as 'twere passing before me. I agonized with Jesus in the garden; flamed with Peter's anger, when he struck off the ear of the servant of the high priest; followed, weeping, afar with the other disciples; burned with indignation against Christ's accusers and torturers; heard Pilate's decision, and the High Priest's sentence, with the despairing astonishment of His followers; grew sick and tremulous with sympathy as His bleeding form, weighted with the cross, struggled up Calvary; and my very soul was overwhelmed in horror and amaze, as I saw His broken body hanging upon the cross, scorned, reviled, His sacred head crowned with thorns, His sacred side pierced by the soldier's spear. As the preacher went on to depict Jesus' agony of spirit, when He felt Himself deserted by His Father, and uttered that piercing cry, "Eli, Eli, lama Sabachthani?" my every nerve was strung to its tightest tension, and my throat became so rigid that the moans which came from my heart could find no utterance. The entire congregation was moved almost as I was.
From Dr. Waddell's sightless eyes tears streamed like rain, and his utterances were almost choked by the heartfelt emotion which moved him. At last he was forced to pause and to cover his face with his trembling hands. For an instant the deep silence over all the church was broken only by low sobs and stifled moans.
Presently Dr. Waddell lifted up a face, wet with tears, straightened slowly his tall, gaunt form, lifted his left arm with solemn impressiveness, and pointing and looking upward, with a gesture of indescribable faith and assurance, said, in tones which rang in glad triumph, though an echo of the recent sobs of penitence still lingered in them,
"Friends—Socrates died like a philosopher, Jesus Christ like a God."
The effect was marvelous. The moans and the sobbing ceased, and all over the church men, women, and children bowed their heads, and wept tears of thankfulness, while the preacher went on to describe the last scenes of the crucifixion:—the rent veil of the temple, the darkness, the earthquake, the terror of the soldiers—divine signs that no mere man, but the Son of God Himself had here offered up His life a free sacrifice to satisfy Divine justice.
When the invitation had been given to the celebration of the Lord's Supper, and while the communicants were taking their places at the long tables spread in the aisles, which formed a cross, another psalm was sung. During its singing I slipped unheeded from the church, and walked back and forth under the trees, my soul more moved than ever it had been before. That hour I gave my heart, and my life to Christ, making solemn vow that from henceforth I would take my place, as my heritage and baptism, gave me right—at God's Table; that I would no longer be one of those to scorn so mighty a sacrifice, to refuse so priceless a redemption. There, under the trees, I knelt and consecrated all my future to God's service.
The very day seemed set apart by this solemn resolve, and now I did not wish to greet my family before the congregation. So I got on my horse and rode homeward.
At the bars which led from the highway across my Uncle Thomas Mitchell's fields to his house, stood my Cousin Thomas, half leaning on the stile. His gaze was fixed upon some distant object, and though he answered my greeting, as I halted before him, there was neither interest nor curiosity in his listless manner.
"You do not know me, Thomas," I said.
"Can it be Donald McElroy?" and he was interested enough now, his face aglow with pleasure. "We had given you up for dead in Philadelphia prison, Donald," and almost before I was off my horse he had his arms about me, and was hugging me as if I had been his mother.
It did not take long to tell him so much of my story as was needful he should know at once, and then I began to put questions.
"Are all well at home? Tom?"
"Yes, all well."
"Then dear grandmother has recovered from her illness; I'm glad to know that."
"And you have not heard, Donald? You do not know that grandmother has been dead these five months. But there, cousin," putting a comforting arm about me, "don't grieve for her; she went joyously, her one regret being that she could not see you once more on earth."
"And mother has stood it bravely?"
"Yes, and is if anything, kinder than before, but she grieves all the time about you. The only thing that keeps her in heart is your father's confidence in your coming. He looks for you every day, or for good news of you."
"And does little Jean believe that I am dead?"
"Oh, no; she agrees stoutly with Uncle William, and watches the road for you, each evening."
"She is almost grown now?"
"Quite grown up, and the prettiest, sweetest lass in the valley—now Ellen's gone," and Thomas sighed deeply and fixed his eyes upon the hills again.
"Ellen gone? What mean you, Thomas? Where would she go? I thought she had no other relatives."
"She has no others, and we do not know where she is. Three months ago she disappeared—my mother was harsh with her, and Ellen would not brook it. One night she slipped from her bed, took father's riding horse from the stable, and rode away. Three days later the horse came back, saddled and bridled, but we have never heard a word of Ellen, nor had a clew as to her whereabouts. Perhaps the horse threw and killed her; perhaps wild beasts devoured her; perhaps she was captured by Indians. My mother says she is hiding somewhere to spite us, and hardens her heart against grieving for her; but father and I keep up constant search and inquiry for her.
"Meantime, Donald, our peace is gone, and our home is disgraced. We have driven the orphan, and one of our own blood, forth into the wilderness, to perish by savages or by wild beasts—yet we boast our religion, pray our prayers, sing our psalms, and blame harshly the intolerance of the established church, and the tyranny of the British! Do you wonder that I'm half Tory, and whole heretic, Donald?—at war with my race, my religion, and my family?"
"Then you loved Ellen O'Niel, Thomas?" I said, coming to the prompt conclusion that such morbid vehemence could spring but from one root.
"Yes, Donald, I loved her, and will always love her—or her memory, more than aught else in the world. It was, I think, the suspicion that I was growing to love Ellen, and the fear of her influence over me, that made my mother more and more harsh to her. She is beginning, however, to find out that if I have lost Ellen, she has lost a son, and what is more to her, I think, the church has lost a preacher. She thought I would soon get over it, but now she is beginning to worry about it, and to wish me to find Ellen. I care little any more; however, mother's worries are her chief sources of happiness."
"I do not believe Ellen is dead, Thomas," I said, ignoring his disrespect to his mother. "Either she is hiding somewhere, as Aunt Martha surmises, or she has been carried off by the Indians. In either case, Thomas, we'll find her, for I intend to join you in the search, and will not give up 'till we have a sure clew. Don't let it trouble you so, laddie, but cheer up and expect good news every day as father has done. And I'm sorry, Thomas, to hear you express yourself so bitterly against religion on this day of all others—when for the first time I have felt the influence of converting grace," and then I told him of Parson Waddell's sermon, and my resolve to be a Christian.
Thomas was moved, I could see, but he held firmly to his latest view, that religion in most people was naught but fanaticism, and Presbyterianism a narrowing creed. "If ever I find Ellen alive," he concluded, "I shall become a Catholic and marry her. Should I be assured of her death I shall go west as pioneer or scout or else turn monk."
"I can offer you a better career than either of those," I replied, laying my hand on his arm, and speaking cheerfully, "and not only a fine career, but, if all our searching hereabouts fails, your best chance to find Ellen. Come to see me, and we'll talk it over."
At the first bend in the road, I turned to wave to Thomas; he was still leaning dejectedly upon the stile, his back to me, and his absent gaze fixed upon the mountains. And now surprising thoughts and feelings took possession of me. My sympathy for Thomas was marred by sudden and unreasoning jealousy. What right had he to fall in love with Ellen O'Niel in my absence? Had she not shown plainly enough her preference for me? He had not been man enough to protect her from his mother's tyranny, and yet he talked as presumptuously of marrying her as if he had earned a right to her. He had not even found her in all these weeks, and was now hanging idly on his father's stile, whining, and uttering blasphemies. Find her and marry her indeed! I'd find her myself, and, marry her, too, if I pleased, for all he might say. Nor would I turn Catholic and abuse my relatives, and the religion of my fathers to win her; rather, I'd make her see she had acted foolishly and teach her to honor our creed, as I should honor hers. Ellen, I plainly saw, had needed sympathy, and love, also some one to show her the dangers of her own impetuous, and self-willed nature.
Thinking these thoughts, I put my horse to graze in the meadow, and sat down on the porch, drinking in, with profound content, the well remembered prospect, and planning how I should search minutely all over the country for Ellen, and get together my recruits for Clark's expedition at the same time. Then I fell to castle building, and it was Ellen, restored to us with added beauty and a nobleness of character developed by her trials, who was to lend charm and grace to my "Castle in Spain."
Already I avoided thoughts of Nelly Buford, and though they often forced themselves upon me, they brought me always regret and mortification, mingled still with a lively sense of her powers of fascination.
CHAPTER XIV
The meeting with my parents has a place in my memory so sacred that description seems desecration. My mother went white as the linen handkerchief she wore, and with one sharp cry, "O! William, it is Donald, our son! Oh my laddie, my laddie!" fell into my outstretched arms, weeping and laughing, in a violent hysteria of joy.
"There, there, Rachael, wife, don't take on so," said my father. "Of course it's Donald! You know I've always said he was not dead; he's well and strong, only broader and more manly looking,"—and he took mother out of my arms, and began to stroke her hair and to soothe her.
"And this is the little sister I left three years ago"—turning to Jean to hide my own emotion. "I can hardly believe it, yet the eyes are the same," and I kissed her and held her off to look at her, saying teasingly, "Why, Jean, you are almost as pretty as our mother."
"Do you hear that, mother?" asked my father in pleased tones. "Don hasn't forgotten his blarneying ways, either;—just the same lad who went away from us so many months ago."
Mother smiled at this, and ceased weeping, and together we went joyfully into the big room, where I was forced to turn aside to the window to blink back the tears that welled up at the recollections of my grandmother, which the familiar room with her chair still in its place called forth. Not until mother followed me to my room that night, to sit on the side of my bed, as she used to do when I was a little boy, did we talk of her. None of us wished to dim the pure joy of our first hours together by reference to our bereavement, and I had so much to tell them, so many questions to answer.
Then, mother gave me a minute history of grandmother's last days. "You and I, dear daughter," she had said to my mother, "will not for long be separated; I am just gangin' on a little before you, to make our real hame the mair ready for your welcome, but Donald's a young man, and will live a lang an' useful life, I trust. I should like to see him once mair on earth, an' gie him my last message. But since that could not be, Rachael, kiss him for me, and tell him the message's just the verra same as that I told him the day he held the last hank o' yarn for me—he'll not fail to remember, I'm sure."
Then I told my mother what it was grandmother had said to me, and also of the resolution I had made that day to live hereafter a Christian's life. Mother wept with me, tears of joy mixed with tears of regret that grandmother was not there to hear the glad news. "I hope, dear Donald," she said, as she kissed me good night, after the clock had chimed the midnight hour, "that your dear grandmother in heaven knows of your conversion, and that it adds to her perfect joy this day, as it has to mine."
I was too happy to go to sleep, my heart too full of thankfulness and high resolve, to be willing to waste the blessed moments in unconsciousness. So I lay awake until daybreak, tasting with keener and keener relish my new found holy joy. Then I fell asleep, and slept so restfully that, after two hours' repose, I awoke feeling as fresh as the robins, caroling joyously in the branches of the elms that shaded the eastern window of my room.
Mother seemed to avoid talking of Ellen. I knew it was because she could not bear to blame her sister, and yet she could not, in justice, exonerate her; but with father I discussed the matter freely. He blamed Aunt Martha's severity, and had little excuse to make for her:
"She was not only unsympathetic, and harsh with the child," he said, "but, in all save blows, she was cruel. She overworked her, and tried hard to break her spirit. Many a child would have been driven to lying, but Ellen was honest through all, if she was at times defiant and disrespectful. I do not blame her for running away; it is what any high spirited lad would have done, long ago."
"Yes, father," I answered, "but Ellen, being a girl, should have been more submissive to authority, more meek it seems to me. Think what fearful risks she took in running away."
"The very fact that a woman must take such grave risks in pursuing any course of action not countenanced by her lawful protectors, makes her condition the more pitiable under oppression. Ellen was completely in your aunt's power; no relief was possible to her, save from some act of desperation such as the one she was guilty of."
"Could she not have found refuge somewhere in the neighborhood?"
"No one would have taken her in. It would not do to encourage the child in disrespect and disobedience."
"What do you surmise has been her fate, father?" with an effort to speak calmly.
"I think it most likely she has been carried off by some band of roving Indians. She doubtless tried to find her way back to Baltimore, lost her way, and was picked up by the savages. She, I surmise, watched the chance to turn the horse loose, that he might find his way home."
"They would hardly kill her."
"No; more likely they have taken her to their village, and are training her for a chief's squaw."
The thought blanched my cheek, and I resolved to make inquiry and search from the crest of the Blue Ridge all the way to the Mississippi, and not to return home till I had found Ellen, or had gotten some clew to her fate.
"Uncle Thomas has searched the neighborhood thoroughly you think?"
"He and Tom have made enquiry at every house in the county, I am sure; have sent to Charlottesville and Richmond; written to Baltimore, and posted notices at every store and cross roads between here and Maryland. No, I think there's little room for doubt that she's been carried west by Indians."
"That's what I told Thomas, yesterday, and advised him that our best chance to find her was to go with Clark on this expedition to the Kentucky border, next month."
"What expedition, son? I had heard no rumor of it—and do you mean George Rogers Clark, the Kentucky pioneer and friend of Daniel Boone?"
"The very same, father, and a most remarkable young man he is." Then I went on to tell of my interview with Governor Henry, Captain Clark, Mr. Jefferson and the rest, and of the service to which I had engaged myself.
I saw at once that my father was not pleased, and now for the first time, I felt the chilling influence of his disapproval of my plans. He had never approved the forward movement into Kentucky, believing it to have been worked up by land companies, that they might line their pockets at the expense of the lives of the settlers.
"I have never grudged your services in the cause of our independence, Donald," he said, "nor would I your life even, were the sacrifice of it necessary; but I cannot feel it our duty to give you up a victim to the scalping knife of some savage, in order that this rash project of the premature settlement of Kentucky should be encouraged. Have we not already more land than we can protect, and properly cultivate? The Kentucky settlers would do much better to move back over the mountains 'til our independence has been won—when Virginia will be able to establish posts, garrison them adequately, and furnish sufficient protection to make emigrating to Kentucky other than wanton self-destruction. Why not stay with us, lad, since you are honorably released from service for a while?—you'll never know how much we've missed you these three long years."
"Father," I replied, laying my hand on his, and inwardly reproaching myself bitterly for my comparative indifference, now that I realized how much my long absence had really meant to him, "if my word had not been given, if I had not already taken service for this expedition, it would be my pleasure to make my own wishes second to yours. But now, father, it is too late. I cannot honorably draw back. Moreover, I must join in the search for Ellen. I could never stay quietly at home as long as there is uncertainty as to her fate. And I think I can unite the two duties, follow Clark and make constant search for Ellen from the mountains to the mouth of the Ohio. Thomas will go with me, I think. He'd far better do that than some of the rash things he is contemplating."
"It will almost break his mother's heart, but she deserves it," spoke my father, harshly for him, who was usually calm and mild in his judgments.
I think at this time I had more tolerance for Aunt Martha than any one in the family, except my mother. To my mind Ellen had not been blameless, and Aunt Martha's harshness was to have been expected from her character, and the spirit in which she had received the child. I put much of the blame on Uncle Thomas for his unmanly meekness, and part on the neighborhood for not speaking out its sympathy for the child until too late. And when I thought of her probable sufferings, and dangers, I almost ground my teeth in impotent rage with them all.
Poor little Ellen! With her indomitable spirit, and courageous faithfulness, what a cold, hard, loveless life she had had these three years! And hers was a nature made for happiness and love, one to expand under appreciation and sympathy, as a morning glory opens in the early sun's rays, and to fold close all its beauty and sweetness under the chilling influence of disapproval, as the morning glory on a cold and sunless day.
"You'll not withhold your consent, I hope, father, to my going with Clark," I said when we had sat together in silence for a while. "This expedition means far more to our country than appears, and before the expiration of my year's parole I shall be back, I hope, ready to engage in the regular service again, should the war not yet be ended."
"You will take my consent and blessing, Donald, and my love and prayers upon any honest adventure you see fit to enter. But I grieve, lad, for your mother. This last strain of anxiety about you, following so soon upon the shock of her mother's death, came nigh killing her. Tell her yourself, lad, and soften the blow as much as you can."
Women are unaccountable creatures. They are apt to do the least expected things, and to take quietly the news you most dread to break to them. So it proved in my mother's case. She went white for an instant, and her hands began to tremble, but she spoke quietly:
"I knew, Donald, you'd never be content to dwell idly at home, when there's so much doing in the land; nor would I be so proud of my lad were he less a man of deeds, and duty. Governor Henry and Captain Clark honored you in taking you into their confidence; they saw that my son is no ordinary man," and she stroked the hand that had taken hers, and smiled tearfully upon me.
"That such men as Governor Henry, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Wythe take an interest in the expedition would seem to mean, Donald," she went on presently, "that they have some more important object in view than to protect a few scattered emigrants. If the rumored alliance of the French with us is confirmed, they may intend to use Clark's troops to make a surprise advance on the western forts, recently ceded by France to England. That would overawe the Indians and strike a blow at the British power at the same time."
My mother's shrewdness so astonished me that I came near telling her all I knew. "You may be right, mother," I answered nonchalantly, after a moment; "certainly we hope to overawe the Indians, but our present instructions go no further than safe conduct for the band of emigrants, and an attack upon the Indians, should we find them on the warpath, or plotting an attack on the border settlements. It lifts a weight from my heart, mother, dear, to have your approval," I added.
"You are a man, Donald; it would be presumption in your mother to withhold her blessing from any worthy thing you had set your heart upon. As for your safety, dear, I must leave that in God's hands. I trust you to Our Heavenly Father's care, my son, with only the shield of our hourly prayers about you."
Recruiting was no easy task, especially with the account I was free to give of the object of our expedition. I encountered all sorts of objections and discouragements, and was obliged to travel from end to end of the county, and into the district of West Augusta, with little left of my two months' anticipated holiday to spend at home. I grew impatient of my ill success, especially since all my enquiries in the county concerning Ellen were as fruitless as Thomas' had been. There was no other conclusion left us than the one my father had reached, and both Thomas and I grew more and more restless to start westward, that we might begin a more hopeful search.
At last I was enabled to add Captain Bowman's company to the score of volunteers I had been able to get together, although this made it necessary that I should yield him my place as captain, and content myself with a lieutenant's rank. Captain Bowman was encouraged by the prospect of glory and land grants, the men satisfied with large but vague promises; and by the middle of May we were ready to start.
Clark—recently made colonel by Governor Henry—with three companies, each of less than fifty men, and a band of emigrants, had already reached the falls of the Ohio, and we were ordered to join him there as speedily as possible.
CHAPTER XV
It was marvelous what Clark had accomplished with less than one hundred and fifty men in the three weeks he had been at the Falls, and I now conceived a higher opinion than ever of the rare qualities of the man. He had a faculty for organization, and for using men and circumstances which amounted to genius of the noblest order. Already he had builded a substantial block house on Corn Island, just above the Falls, in which all his goods, supplies, and ammunition were stored; the newly enlisted men had been taught some idea of the duties and requirements of soldiers by the work, systematically organized, of clearing and building, by the regular camp life, and the daily drills which they practiced. Still more important, they had acquired unbounded confidence in their leader, and all his orders were obeyed with a cheerful alacrity that promised well for our project.
The camp presented a busy and cheerful scene, and the neighboring settlement of emigrants had already the promise of a village in the dozen log cabins built, or building, surrounded by newly broken ground, ready for the corn planting. Our company was received with enthusiasm, and Captain Bowman by Clark with the consideration due his rank and age. Publicly I had only the formal recognition of an acquaintance, but as soon as we had been assigned a place for our camp, and the ax-men set to cutting poles for our booths, Colonel Clark, who, meantime, had concluded his interview with Captain Bowman, and given personal attention to the pitching of a small tent for his accommodation, sent a messenger to me with word that I would please follow the man to the block-house. There Colonel Clark awaited me in a small room adjoining the one in which the ammunition and extra arms were kept; he had taken this room for his own quarters that he might watch over his precious store of lead and powder and guard against its waste.
"With three hundred like you, McElroy, I'd venture an attack upon Quebec itself," was Clark's greeting, as he seized and shook both my hands in a grip that cramped them, "I see what you've done, stepped down rank a grade in order to get Bowman's militiamen to fill up your company. It glads my heart, McElroy, to know there's one kindred spirit in this enterprise with me."
The proud distinction had been mine of claiming a personal friendship with Colonel Morgan. Also I had been commended by General Arnold for my bravery at Freeman's Farm, but more than all these Colonel Clark's recognition of a sacrifice which had cost my pride no easy struggle, gratified me. Clark read men as a master in geometry reads his blackboard, and found as little difficulty in solving the human problem. Captain Bowman he had won to hearty cooperation in his plans by treating him with the dignified consideration he deemed his due, and now he took the surest way to fasten me to him as with hooks of steel.
"You have accomplished so much already, Colonel Clark," said I, "that I have less doubt than ever before of the success of your project. Your raw recruits are already soldierly in bearing, and your camp as orderly as a barrack. Our company will be the awkward squad of your command."
"Two weeks' training will bring them up with the rest," answered Clark. "Most of them are Scotch Irishmen I see—that is saying all that is necessary. But I must tell you my plans before we are interrupted. I shall often want your secret counsel, until the opportunity comes to give you a place on my staff. How much, think you, does Captain Bowman know?"
"Only, I surmise, that we are here to protect the frontier, and that it is probable we may be commanded to make a foray into the lands of the Iroquois, in which case our chances for promotion and bounty lands will be increased."
"That is well. He knows enough to have a mind prepared for further disclosure, and is not likely to turn back when he knows all. Did any suspicion of our real object seem to occur to any one in your neighborhood?"
"To no one except to my mother, and I easily allayed her shrewd suspicions. Most of our people were disposed to blame our project as diverting strength from the cause."
"More than anything else I am dreading that the English may get some information as to our movements, their suspicions be aroused, and the garrisons at Vincennes and Kaskaskia reënforced. I have certain information, through spies I have been sending out all summer, that both places are sparsely garrisoned at present, the men having been withdrawn to defend Canadian forts, which are thought to be more exposed. Also that the commandant and most of the garrisons, if not all, at Kaskaskia are French, and not overfond of their new British masters, while the English officer in charge of Vincennes is just now absent at Detroit. You see, therefore, that we run but little risk of failure, if only our plans can be kept secret."
"Certainly the prospect is so far encouraging. When do we start and by what route?"
"In ten days or two weeks, down the river by boat to the mouth of the Tennessee, and, I suppose, landward to Kaskaskia—since that is the weaker point. Meantime we must drill and enthuse our men, load our boats and get all in readiness for a forced march. It will be best, I think, not to inform the men of our destination till necessary.
"Hello, Givens!" as a face appeared before the open window—"come in!" Then, lowering his voice to me—"be careful, McElroy, in your talk to the scout; he doesn't know all yet, and it is necessary to reveal our plans to him gradually, and to use some persuasion; he hates the Indians, and longs to fight them, but he has never consented to bear arms against Great Britain. Nor do I want to persuade him against his convictions, but he'll not be of much service to us unless he is one with us. If he does consent freely to go on he will be as valuable as an interpreter as he has been so far as a scout and guide. I'm loath to lose his services."
Givens had by this time made his way through the armory, and was knocking on Clark's door. His recognition of me was immediate.
"Glad ter meet yer ergin, Capt'n McElroy," speaking with his usual emphatic drawl, and with hand outstretched cordially. "Couldn't resist ther temptation, yer see, uv goin' ergin ther red-skinned devils onct more 'fore ole age kitches me, en' lays me by ther heels. But ther savages's wary, sence they larn't thet last lesson we sot 'm so mighty well et Pint Pleasant. 'Tain't ther intentions, 'pears like, ter walk inter no more sich traps; besides er leader like Cornstalk's precious sildom found 'mongst 'um. They'll be mighty apt, though, ter be at ther native tricks uv skulkin' roun' en' bushwackin' en' ambushin' ef we give 'um enny chanst. Long es we keeps tergether, howsomever, en' in ther open they ain't no ways likely ter distarb us."
"This block-house is a substantial warning to them, Givens," put in Clark; "I wish we had forts all through the Ohio and Mississippi country; that would be the surest way to drive and hold back the savages."
"And now that the English are arming the Indians and using them to intimidate the border colonies, we must make a big show of strength, or all our frontier settlements will be wiped out," said I.
"Do you believe thet thar 'tale, Capt'n?" asked Givens, a flush rising to his cheeks. "'Tain't like the gallant English."
"I think there's small doubt of it, it's by King George's command and is not approved by his ministers, I understand. Governor Henry has had most positive information to that effect recently."
"If thet's so, I ain't no longer countin' myself er loyal subject," said Givens, speaking even more slowly and emphatically than usual. "Ef ther English king es capabul' uv armin' red skins, en' turnin' 'em loose on ther settlements ter murder innocent wimmen en' babies, then I'm done bein' loyal ter 'im. I'd es lief jine ther Continentals en' fight 'um wid ther rest uv yer."
Clark gave me a sly and eloquent look and, with that tact which amounted to a sixth sense with him, turned the subject at precisely the right moment. "Where's your foster son this afternoon, Givens? I haven't seen him since drill this morning."
"Oh, I got a furlough fur 'im, en' sont 'im over ter ther settlement. He ain't over strong, so I saves 'im all thet's possible. He's powerful frens uv some uv ther wimmen en' chillun down ter the settlement, en' sence he ain't so mighty strong I'm glad fur 'im ter hev ther milk en' ther eggs they meks 'im eat."
Just then Clark was called out a minute, and I took this opportunity to tell Givens about Ellen O'Niel, of her having left her home, of our long fruitless search for her, and of our finally having reached the conclusion that she had been captured and carried off by Indians; of our hope of finding her or getting some clew to her fate during this expedition, and my reliance on him to help me make enquiries among the various Indian tribes we might meet.
At first he asked me a few questions as to the time Ellen left home, her age, appearance, etc. Then he pulled his cap over his eyes, and listened silently.
"You do not think it likely the Indians have killed her?" I asked anxiously, his silence seeming ominous.
"'Taint like ther red skinned devils ter kill er handsum' young gal."
"Then do you not think we have good prospect of finding her, and will not the Indians be glad to take a big ransom for her?"
"Thar's some prospects, I reckin', en' ef we find 'er we'll git 'er," was the scout's answer, as he got up and marched off, his skin cap still pulled down over his eyes.
Once during the next two weeks, I had Givens' step-son pointed out to me; his youth, his shyness, and the scout's special watchfulness over him, seemed to have excited a good deal of interest. I, too, felt some curiosity. Givens had said nothing to me of a foster son the day I had visited him, though it is true our conversation was confined to the one topic, and there was no occasion to mention any other. Perhaps he was not then with Givens, or the form I took to be a woman's in the adjoining room was his, the swish of a woman's skirts being added by my imagination. Well, it was no concern of mine, either way, and I had enough to do and to think about.
Thomas Mitchell, who had improved greatly in health and spirits, under the influence of an outdoor, active life, and manly duties, came to me about a week after our arrival at Corn Island, and with an air of mystery led me off down the river some little distance from the camp.
"Do you know, Donald," he said almost in a whisper, "I am convinced the scout, Givens, knows something about Ellen?"
"And why do you think so?"
"I was telling him the story of her disappearance, and our vain search for her, to-day, in the hope of getting him interested, and he seemed already to know everything."
"Well," I laughed, "that is not strange. I also told him a week ago, and for the same reason."
"Oh, did you! Still that does not fully account for his manner, Donald, nor his unwillingness to continue the subject. He's got some clew, I'm sure."
Colonel Clark now detailed eighteen of the least bold of his men to remain behind at the block-house, for the protection of the settlers, and of our extra supplies. He then allowed his officers to make known that we were about to start on a further journey down the Ohio—the object and destination of which would be revealed just before the start was made. Confusion and speculation reigned in camp; boats were loaded; rifles cleaned; ramrods whittled from the hearts of hard wood saplings; a supply of bullets molded, and a lot of new moccasins and bullet pouches made, by those skilled in such work, from the skins we had collected.
At the afternoon drill hour, on the twenty-third of June, Clark presented himself, in riflemen's uniform, before his men, and was greeted with enthusiastic cheers. He gave orders to the captains that the men should form in two columns, and then swing out in double line facing him. The maneuver was executed without a hitch, and our small force presented a fine soldierly appearance. Most of the men were past early youth, either brawny pioneers or substantial freeholders, many of them being persons of some education, and considerable weight in their own communities. They were not, as some have charged, a set of mere adventurers.
The occasion and the scene were well calculated to impress one who realized their import, and as I walked back and forth to dress the line, my imagination took fire, and all the daring deeds I knew of tradition and history marshaled themselves in my memory—a long and glorious array.
"My men," spoke Colonel Clark, when all were waiting in expectant silence—"shall we press onward to a glorious enterprise—or having conducted our emigrants, and established them here in safety, shall we turn homeward without having wrought any deed worthy to be written on the page of our country's history? I can lead you on to the performance of such deed, my men—that noble friend of liberty, Patrick Henry, has sanctioned a daring enterprise, which all along, I have had in my mind, and which, if successfully executed, will bring honor and dominion to our noble commonwealth, and to each of us renown, fortune, and the gratitude of all Virginians. Not only so, but in executing this bold plan, we shall strike a telling blow for that cause we all hold dearest.
"No need, my men, to say what that cause is—the cause to which the heart of every man present, I truly believe, responds as gladly, as the tenderly nurtured infant to its mother's loving call. The cause of liberty for which each one of us would proudly shed his blood! Nor is the cause unworthy such devotion, my comrades, for 'tis not only that of our country's independence, of American liberty, of blessed freedom and rare privileges for our descendants—'tis the cause of the world's liberty, of the freedom from kingly tyranny and the right to seek happiness for all future generations of men, till time shall be no more. My brothers, future ages will look back to us and call us blessed, will offer thanks to Heaven for the brave and determined people of the new continent, who freely risked all for liberty—threw into the scales against the claims of oppressed humanity, every present good, every hope for the future. Are you willing, my men, to sacrifice still further, to risk still more for the cause? Shall I tell you more? Shall we press onward?"
"Onward! Colonel, onward!" yelled the men in wild enthusiasm—"tell us more, tell us more! Onward! Onward!"
Then Clark told them the true object of our expedition, and unfolded all his plans, which had been so well concealed, hiding from them nothing of the hardships and risks of the undertaking. Yet he dwelt long and eloquently upon the tremendous consequences of success, the glory that would be theirs, and the important results to Virginia and the cause. He added that he wanted no half hearted consent, that he far preferred that all those who were not enlisted heart and soul in the enterprise—ready to do and to dare all things,—should make their decision now. They could do so by stepping out of ranks. Seventeen men stepped out, looking sullen and ashamed of themselves.
"You are free to go," said Clark, with a contemptuous wave of the hand toward the east; then he faced the faithful again, and made them a brief speech, which set them wild, and sent them off to their booths so eager to begin our adventure that they could scarcely wait for the night to pass.
During the first part of Colonel Clark's address, I had watched Givens, close by. His face was a study of mingled interest, eagerness and doubt. When Clark gave the command that all who did not wish to follow him should step out of ranks, he started forward, hesitated, then dropped back into rank, where presently, he was cheering with the rest. When all were gone except the officers assembled around Clark, Givens came up to him.
"Colonel," he said, "I've tuck my stand by yer fur good en' all; yer may fight Injuns, ur British, ur what yer please, I'm with yer."
"Thank you, Givens," said Clark, shaking his hand heartily; "we could ill afford to lose you."
"Mebbe you'd better thank that boy uv mine. Him yer've plum bewitched, en wher' he goes, goes Givens."
That night as I wandered about the camp—it was all astir till long after midnight—I got wind of the fact that some of the deserters were lurking around trying to persuade others to sneak off with them, and went straight to Clark with the information.
"Detail a squad from your company, McElroy, and surround the camp with a close cordon of guards," said Clark, promptly.
I did so; then Clark had the drum beat, and the men called to the drill ground, where waning moon and twinkling stars gave barely light enough for them to see each other's faces.
"Silence!" commanded Clark, stilling the confusion with a word. "I understand that the cowards who deserted us this evening are in the camp attempting to stir up mutiny. It must be stopped. The deserters must leave camp immediately, or suffer the penalty of mutineers and traitors. Should any other man, except these, attempt to leave the camp he will be arrested or shot by the guards now surrounding it. You had your chance, men, and took your choice; you must now abide by your decision. To-morrow we start for Kaskaskia."
CHAPTER XVI
A June sky and a resplendent sun, undimmed by cloud or mist, beamed upon the camp next morning, as we made last preparations for our departure. Those of the men who had been detailed to "stay by the stuff," at the block-house, were plainly dissatisfied, now that they realized that they were to be left out of the adventures and chances, as well as the toils and dangers of our enterprise. Those who had made the bolder choice were as eager as boys starting on a first bear hunt. The uncertainty as to what might befall us, the unknown country we must traverse, the very dangers we would probably encounter, all lent mystery and excitement to our undertaking.
The entire population of the settlement, and all the block-house garrison were assembled on the river bank to say good-by to us. The women were in tears, the men quiet and serious; we, on the contrary, were hilarious with excitement.
Colonel Clark again addressed the men in words stirring and heroic, and the command to embark was given. Company by company we stepped upon the flat boats, and drifted rapidly down the Ohio to the falls, each raft guided by a skilled poleman, who stood erect, steering carefully for the one channel through which we could safely shoot the falls. The crowd on the bank was still cheering the last boat load, as the first dropped over the edge of the rapids. At that moment the sun, which had beamed less fiercely for some time, though in our engrossment we had taken little notice of the fact, became suddenly obscured, and the dimness of twilight fell upon gliding river, green banks, and tumbling falls. One could scarcely recognize the faces of his companions beside him in the boat, nor the polemen see to steer. The cheering ceased, and over man, beast and nature fell an awesome stillness. The birds in the branches of the overhanging trees ceased their glad caroling, the insects their buzzing, the fish their plunging, even the hurrying river seemed hushed into a more subdued murmur, and the noise of the falls to subside into a muffled roar.
The men in my boat drew in their breath; one uttered a stifled sigh, another a low moan; and I realized that a word might precipitate a panic. I stood up and studied the sky for explanation of the phenomenon. The sun held his wonted place in a cloudless sky, but over his radiant face lay a black disc, leaving only a bright rim upon one edge.
"It is an eclipse, comrades," I called, in my loudest tones, "an eclipse of the sun. I take it for a good sign—symbol of what we shall do for autocratic power upon this continent, only that will be a lasting, as well as a total, eclipse."
My words had magic effect upon the men in our boat, and in the two others near enough to hear my words. Clark must have said something similar to those in his, and adjacent boats, for I saw him spring to his feet, pointing to the sun, and simultaneously with our shouts of "Eclipse, eclipse! good sign, good omen! Thus we'll blot out the forts in the northwest," came like cries from the other boats, and answering cheers from the bank. So the ominous portent, as it seemed at first, was changed into a symbol of encouragement.
Often since, I have thought of this incident, which seems to illustrate the way life should be met. Allow ourselves to be discouraged by apparent auguries of failure, and we will turn our backs upon success, when our feet are already pressing its threshold; yet such signs read by the light of a steadfast purpose, and a courageous heart, may become but prophecies of victory, and encouragement to more strenuous effort.
Our journey down the river was as rapid and uneventful as the most hopeful of us could have asked; we reached the mouth of the Tennessee without a single adventure worth recording. On the way, however, Colonel Clark had learned a most cheering piece of news, and one momentous to our undertaking. The rumored French alliance was made public, and France had promised liberal and immediate aid of men, money, and a fleet. That night when we had disembarked at the mouth of the Tennessee, after we had tied up the boats, and killed and cooked our suppers, Clark assembled the men, and announced the joyous intelligence he had received, pointing out all the fortunate consequences to our expedition to be expected from the French alliance. This was all that was needed to give the men assurance of success, and to make them ready to brave everything.
Next morning we shouldered all the ammunition we could march under, and set out for Kaskaskia. We were still following the river, when, an hour after starting, we hailed a boat load of hunters. They proved to be Americans—a new appellation among us—but eight days out from Kaskaskia, and after a conversation between them and Colonel Clark, one of them, a certain John Saunders, consented to act as our guide through the Illinois country, with which he professed to be perfectly familiar. This solved our one difficulty, for until now we had lacked a guide. With light hearts we resumed our tramp across prairie, marsh, and forest, seeing victory within our grasp—renown and wealth as the individual reward of each, and for our country extended dominion, and added glory.
Good luck continued to attend us, while six more days passed. We had fine weather and made good progress, considering the unbroken; wilderness through which our route lay. Time was most precious, for everything depended upon our reaching Kaskaskia before any rumors of our approach should get to the ears of the commandant. Signs of lurking Indians, pointed out from time to time by Givens and Saunders, made the least enthusiastic among the men eager to hurry on; but these filled Thomas and me with impatience, because even Givens discouraged our wish to seek out their camps, and to question them in regard to Ellen. It would be foolhardiness, declared Givens, and result only in our being ambushed—he'd find "the gal" fast enough for us when once we were safe behind the walls of a fort, and could kill the "redskin devils" at our leisure.
On the eighth morning, Saunders spread consternation among us by the announcement that he was lost—that he did not know where we were, nor could he recognize a single landmark. The night before we had seen the smoke from a distant camp fire, which Saunders said he doubted not was that of some roving Miamis or Kickapoos. This fact made our predicament the more serious. At once a halt was called, and Clark sternly declared to the confused Saunders—who was half suspected of treachery by us all—that unless he quickly found the way, he might prepare for instant death. It was not possible, Givens declared, in his slow, emphatic dialect, for a scout and woodsman to lose his way in a country he had once traveled over, and Saunders had either lied to us in the first place, or was laying a trap for us now; therefore all were ready to back Colonel Clark in his evident resolve to make short work of the suspected traitor, unless he speedily found himself. Saunders saw that his doom was sealed if he could not quickly regain his bearings, and went to work desperately, closely attended by two guards, retracing our way for some distance, examining sky, stream and trees, then climbing to the tops of the tallest to overlook the landscape.
The men sat about smoking dejectedly, or muttering their suspicions to each other. Meantime I grew restless, and the sight of the anxious face of Saunders, and the stern face of Clark, oppressed me. So I picked up my rifle, and plunged into the forest which fringed the higher ground stretching eastward. A small stream flowing out of the woods promised either spring or pond, and possibly rare game, within. As I started I called to Givens asking him to sound his turkey yelper should they resume the march before my return.
The shade and freshness of the woods was most grateful and the tangle of well laden blackberry bushes in a more open space beguiled me to stop and pluck some of the fruit. The spring found, I looked about for signs of game, but seeing none, propped my rifle against a tree, laid flat down upon my chest, and buried my face in the limpid sweetness of the pure, cool water. I drank till satisfied, then fell to dreaming. The same scenes under different aspects came to me always in my day visions, or night dreams—pictures of home, recollections of my childhood, and occasionally some scenes from those few weeks of dissipation in Philadelphia, with Nelly's witching face, swimming, amidst my memories. But I liked the home scenes best, and next to seeing them in the flesh, was the happiness of closing my eyes, and conjuring up visions of my mother, of Jean, and of Ellen.
What a glad day it would be when, Ellen having been found, and our country's independence won, Thomas and I could go home and settle down to peace and happiness!
Peace and happiness! Would it be ours after all, so long as Aunt Martha set herself, in her narrow bigotry, to persecute Ellen? so long as there was estrangement between husband and wife, mother and son in my uncle's family? So tenderhearted was my mother, so loyal to her sister, that even we could not be a happy family while there was discord and unhappiness in Aunt Martha's—for mother was our happiness barometer, and the family atmosphere went up or down with her feelings. But mother should adopt Ellen, and we would make her happy, and Aunt Martha ashamed of her harshness and the narrowness of her religion.
Then and there I vowed a new crusade. I must be a soldier always, fighting upon one arena or another for some principle of human liberty—for the love of liberty and a fervent zeal for it had, from long meditation and some sacrifices in its cause, gotten into my blood, and become a part of my nature. When this war against autocratic rule should be ended I would take my stand by Mr. Jefferson, and give all my time and energies to the brave fight he was making for entire and universal religious liberty. Deeper and deeper had I plunged into the trackless wilderness of my own thoughts, till I was lost to consciousness of the place, the hour and myself.
Perhaps I had been dimly conscious of some slight movement in the bushes behind me—afterward I remembered being subtly disturbed by it, and of lifting my head to listen—but the first sounds that really aroused me were the short explosion of a rifle, followed, almost instantly, by the whistle of a bullet cutting its way through the still air, and then, scarcely a second later, a wild weird whoop, close beside me, which caused me to spring to my feet, and turned me in its direction, as if I had been an automaton. There, beside the tree, against which I had leaned, was stretched the quivering body of a dying Indian. One hand still grasped a tomahawk, while the other clutched frantically at the leaves and grasses. A last quiver and he was still, his set eyes staring into the branches, rustling softly above him.
It was all a mystery to me. Where had the Indian come from? Who had shot him? I stood an instant gazing down upon the still savage in dumbfounded amazement, then took my rifle and started back to the men in search of an explanation of it all. Presently I overtook Givens' foster son, who was hurrying forward as fast as he could. I caught up with him, halted him, and asked if he had shot the Indian. He did not answer, and only pulled his cap farther over his eyes. I took his rifle, and looked into the bore of it; it was warm, empty, and smelled strongly of powder.
"Givens," I said planting myself before him, and holding out my hand, "you have just saved my life, doubtless. Won't you let me thank you?"
The beardless lips of the lad, about all I could see of his face under his wide brimmed cap, curved into a half smile, and he said, in muffled voice, his head still on his chest:
"The savage had just poised his tomahawk for a blow when I saw him."
"You acted most promptly," I answered; "he might have brought a whole tribe down upon us, so that you have perhaps saved the entire band, as well as Donald McElroy." I continued to talk, to praise his coolness, readiness, and marksmanship, and to repeat my thanks, but I got no more out of the lad and it was so evident that I embarrassed and annoyed him that presently I walked on and left him to follow. He seemed affected with a painful shyness, and apparently preferred solitude to the most flattering society.
No immediate opportunity was given me to tell Givens of his boy's kindly deed, for, just as I joined him and Colonel Clark, talking earnestly together, Saunders, still attended by his guards, came running toward us, waving his arms, and shouting joyously. He had found a landmark, and knew our locality! We were but a day's march from Kaskaskia, and the way was safe and open!
CHAPTER XVII
"Comrades," said Clark the next morning, just as we were falling into line of march, "have you remembered the day? It is the fourth of July, my men—the anniversary of our Declaration of Independence, the birthday of our liberties—day propitious in the history of the United States of America! Our guide tells me that we are but six leagues from Kaskaskia, and I have already planned our attack. Bloodless victory awaits us—for I can rely on each man of you to do only and all that is expected of him. We will march within half a mile of the fort this morning, conceal ourselves in the woods until dark, and, then, dividing into two companies, we will rush into the town from opposite ends, shouting and brandishing our knives.
"I am told that the minds of the French in this region have been filled with terror of the bordermen by horrid tales of our ruthless cruelty; we may as well take advantage of this impression to overawe them. Perhaps we may prevent bloodshed by producing astonishment and terror in the breasts of the garrison and citizens. We have no quarrel with the French, but are concerned rather with winning them peaceably to our side. After a night of fear—but you must remember, men, that we wish to arouse apprehension alone, and that a single deed of violence or rapine may ruin all—the reaction will be the greater, and our liberal terms of amnesty the more gratefully accepted. As we lie in ambush this afternoon, you will preserve the strictest silence, and not a man must venture out of hiding till the command to advance be given. Carry out this plan successfully, and Kaskaskia is ours to-morrow, and Virginia's forever!"
Cheers rent the air, and the more enthusiastic waved their caps over their heads, and shook each other's hands, as if victory were already ours.
The town lay dark and silent under the stars, as our two bands circled it, and simultaneously marched down the principal street from opposite directions, yelling, and brandishing our unsheathed hunting knives, as demon-wise as the worst of savages.
"The Long-Knives! The Long-Knives!" shouted the people upon the streets, running from house to house to spread the alarm, while women and children screamed, doors were slammed and barred within, and lights extinguished everywhere. Gradually the pandemonium of shrieks, shouts, and screams subsided into a hush of fearful expectation, during which Givens and Saunders, each of whom could speak a little French, marched captured citizens from door to door, before which they required them to announce in loud tones that the general in command of the Long-Knives had decreed that all citizens of Kaskaskia who should remain quietly within their houses would be unmolested, but that all who ventured out would be summarily dealt with.
M. Rocheblave, the commandant, was surprised in his bed-chamber, and taken prisoner. His wife, a pretty, voluble Frenchwoman, went into hysterics, and begged piteously for their lives in broken English, much mixed with French words, and interpreted with expressive gestures. Colonel Clark assured her, as best he could, that no harm would be done them, and then bade me search the apartment for papers while he stood guard in the doorway. Meantime the Commandant and Madame looked on, the latter regaining her composure, and seating herself on a small trunk, from which she watched my proceedings with smiling scorn. I searched everywhere, upsetting furniture, and even ripping open the feather beds, but few papers were found, and they of slight importance. The trunk which Madame seemed to be guarding was, evidently, the receptacle for the more important documents.
"Madame," I said, approaching her, and taking her gently by the arm, "I must search this trunk also."
But she held her place firmly, and, in better English than she had yet spoken, heaped reproaches upon me, saying that "no man worthy of the name would invade the privacy of a woman's personal belongings." Then she began to weep and to wail, and to entreat Clark piteously.
"Let her alone, McElroy," said Clark, at last; "we cannot use violence to a woman," so we marched off with our prisoner, the Commandant, and left the little Frenchwoman to destroy his papers at her leisure.
"I tell you, McElroy," said Clark, "I'd rather face a battalion, or storm a battery, than to encounter another hysterical Frenchwoman."
During the night we took possession of the ungarrisoned fort—a disused warehouse, which had served as fort since the burning of the old one—and Colonel Clark issued strict commands that only the officers and such soldiers as he should detail to guard the town from time to time, must leave the fort until further orders. By this ruse the citizens were deceived for weeks as to our real strength, their imagination readily using such adroit hints as Colonel Clark threw out to magnify our force into a strong army of invasion, and the squad left at Corn Island, into large reinforcements, expected in a few days.
All night guards patrolled the streets. The inhabitants, however, obeyed orders strictly, and did not venture forth next morning until permission was given them, with the information that the fort and the town were in our possession, and M. Rocheblave a prisoner.
Their distressed faces presented a strong contrast to the cheerful scene which greeted our eyes with the beaming sunlight of the morning. Kaskaskia, situated on the right bank of the Kaskaskia or the Okan River, six miles above its confluence with the Mississippi, was then a village of two hundred and fifty houses, situated on a beautiful and rolling peninsula. The velvet verdure of the plain, dotted with little groves of pecan, maple, ash, and button-wood, the glassy surface of the idle river, the lofty hill opposite, with its stately forest, the air scented with the fragrance of its wild flowers, the little springs gushing from its sides in sparkling beauty, all reposing in the lap of nature, with their virgin freshness yet upon them—there was a landscape to charm her most capricious lover. We gazed enchanted on the fair picture and felt that we had reached a Canaan, rich reward for all we had dared and endured.
Presently came the priest to Colonel Clark, asking that the people be allowed to assemble once more in the church to say to each other a last farewell before leaving their homes, and separating forever. "Theirs," he said, "was the fortune of war, and they made no murmur—since an all wise God had willed it so. Nor could they complain of their conquerors, who so far had treated them with unexampled consideration. They had but one other favor to ask—that the men might not be separated from their wives and their little ones."
Doubtless all the night through the woeful fate of the hapless Acadians had been present to the anxious minds of the people, who were expecting for themselves, as the best to be hoped, a similar fate.
When the priest's words had been translated to Colonel Clark by Saunders, he answered with a winning smile, and a convincing air of friendliness:
"Monsieur Gibault, we have nothing whatever against your religion, nor against the citizens of Kaskaskia. Assemble your people in church when and for what purpose you will; worship God freely, as your consciences dictate. It is to win freedom of belief and personal liberty for all the inhabitants of this broad continent we have taken up our arms. But we came not to fight against the French; our quarrel is against King George of England. And why should the citizens of Kaskaskia, for the sake of being loyal to a power which has but lately subdued them, desert their comfortable homes, and wander forth again into the wilderness? Why should they not make peace, and live in harmony with the allies of their father land? Have they not heard the great news—that France and America have formed a close alliance—that a French fleet and a French army are on their way to help us fight the armies who have invaded us because we would not submit to tyranny and injustice? Does not this alliance absolve the citizens of Kaskaskia from all allegiance to England? Is not blood thicker than treaties forced upon a people at the point of the sword?
"No! M. Gibault, there is no necessity for your flock to bid each other farewell, and scatter into the wilderness to fall prey to wild beast and cruel savage! Remain peacefully in your homes! swear allegiance to Virginia! conclude with us the same alliance that France has lately entered into with the United States of America, and not a drop of blood need be shed, not a man, woman, or child need leave his home, nor resign either his religion, nor a franc's worth of his lawful property! We will pledge ourselves to secure your safety, and to maintain you in the enjoyment of all the rights and privileges of American citizens!"
The gentle face of the priest passed from distressful entreaty, through all the varying expressions of surprise, doubt, conviction, relief, and rapture, as Colonel Clark's speech, phrase by phrase, was interpreted to him. He poured out fervid and voluble thanks, called down Heaven's blessing upon such merciful conquerors, and repaired quickly to the church to spread the glad news among his flock.
Never have I witnessed a more affecting scene than the one which followed. The child-like Kaskaskians passed in an instant from despair to joy, from fear and horror of us, to enthusiastic admiration and affection. We were their allies, their brothers, not only would they share all they had with us, but they would assist us against our common enemy.
An hour later, when the first outburst of joy had somewhat subsided, Father Gibault called his flock to assemble again in the church, that they might offer to God a solemn thanksgiving for this great deliverance. Colonel Clark and I, with two others of the officers, attended this service and gave respectful attention. In a far corner of the dim little chapel I recognized the slim form of young Givens bowed in worship. Again I fell to puzzling over the lad—some mystery attended, evidently, his presence among us. Could he be a Catholic? yet Catholics were as rare as Jews in our part of the State; Ellen had been the single one in our county as far as I knew. There was no solving the mystery, unless Givens chose to disclose what he knew, and that he was little likely to do, without good reason. Well, mysteries were not rare in the New World, and we were little accustomed to concern ourselves about them beyond idle speculation.
When the religious ceremonies were over, Father Gibault announced that the rest of the day would be celebrated as a fête day, and asked that the panins, or slaves, should be given holiday. Festoons of flowers were quickly woven, and hung from house to house; maidens and youths danced upon the green; flutes, violins, fife, and drum filled the air with music; and later a supper of pan cakes and maple syrup was served to all by soft-voiced, bright-eyed Frenchwomen. Dancing, feasting and rejoicing were kept up in many of the houses until midnight. Intoxicating drinks had flowed so freely, meantime, that there was much disorder on the streets, and several fights among the panins, who mingled with their masters in a familiar manner, strange to us. To their brawls, however, we paid no attention, since only friendly demonstrations were made us, and no one ventured near the fort, in which the men were kept with some difficulty.
To Colonel Bowman's company fell the lot of marching up the river to take possession of the town and fort of Cahokia. Several of the citizens of Kaskaskia had volunteered to go with us, and, entering the town before us, easily persuaded the inhabitants to transfer their allegiance from Great Britain to Virginia. As in Kaskaskia, the news of the French alliance was all that was needed to incline to a bloodless surrender.
Chosen by Captain Bowman to carry the news of our easy success to Colonel Clark, and ask for further instructions, I was again in Kaskaskia within the week. My interview over with Colonel Clark—who took my news with rather disappointing calmness—I found Givens waiting for me, his anxious face and air of mystery giving me a sharp surprise. He led me aside, and asked abruptly,
"You hed er cousin by ther name uv Ellen O'Niel?"
"Yes," I answered, still more surprised.
"She's yander in the fort, en lyin' low. What'll we do erbout et?"
"Here, in Kaskaskia? It is not to be believed."
"All ther same, Capt'n, et's so. John Givens es Ellen O'Niel, dressed en boy's clothes. Howsomever she's down with ther swamp fever now, en must hev woman's nussin' en' priest's docterin' es soon es it's ter be got fur 'er. It's yer es must tell Colonel Clark, en' have 'er moved frum ther fort at onct."
"How came she with you, Givens? And why did you let her come all this way from her friends—and dressed, too, in men's clothes?" I questioned angrily.
"'Tain't no time fur explanations now, Capt'n. Ther gal needs tendin' ter, right away," and he stalked on in front of me with imperturbable manner, but anxious countenance.
It took few words to explain so much as was necessary to Colonel Clark, and not many more to enlist the sympathies of Madame Rocheblave. We soon had the poor child,—yet in her rifleman's garb, but too far gone in the stupor of her disease to know anything—removed to the Commandant's house, and left her in the care of Madame, and a fresh faced girl whom Madame called Angélique, and recommended as an excellent nurse. Then we went to see Dr. Lafonte, the village doctor, and Father Gibault, who was reputed to be skilled in herbs and roots, and especially successful in treating fevers.
When both had come, while we waited for their verdict, Givens sat down beside me on the steps of the house and told me the following story:
"Twuz one bitter cold en' snowy evenin', las' winter, as I wuz out on ther mountin', huntin'. I seed a dark heap 'long side er ther parth, en' thort 'twuz er wild beast uv sum descripshun. When I got closter I heerd er human moan, en' seed it wuz er woman, hurt, en' harf froze. I toted 'er home on my shoulder, laid 'er on my bed, en' rubbed sum life inter 'er. Fur days she did'n' know nothin'; then, when she did 'pear ter notice sum, she lay ther', too weak ter speak, en' lookin' more like er ghost than like er woman. When she could talk she 'peared not ter wan' ter, en' specully not ter keer ter talk erbout herself. I didn't ask 'er no questions, en' one day I tole 'er I'd call 'er Mary ef she'd es lieve—thet having been ther name of my own leetle gal, es ther redskin devils killed, en' her eyes somehow remindin' me uv ther chile's. She 'greed ter thet, en' got more friendly.
"One day she axed me if I could give her some paper en' er quill. I guv 'em ter 'er, made 'er sum poke-berry ink, en' she writ' er letter; thin I tramped ter Charlottsville ter post et fur er. She waited en' waited, en' twiset I went ter town ter git ther answer, afore it cum. When et did cum, et sot her ter cryin', en' took all ther red out'n her cheeks ergin—fur by this time she wuz well en' strong, doin' all my cookin' en' mendin', and makin' cheerful company fur me evenin's. She said 'twuz her own letter cum back frum ther postman, who had writ on et thet ther people et wuz sont ter didn't live in Baltimore no longer. She didn't hev no whar, now, ter go, she said, crying pitiful. She could stay with me es long es she'd er mind ter, I tole her, en' I'd be glad to hev her fur my own chile—sence the red-skinned devils hedn't left me none. Thet seemed ter cumfort her some, but you cum er few days arter thet, en' she heerd me tell yer I'd like ter go with Clark. You wuz no sooner gone then she declared she wuz goin' off so es not to be er hinderunce ter me, nur my plans. Ter thet I wouldn't ergree nohow, spechully arter she hed tole me er leetle 'bout how she happened ter be on ther mountin thet evenin'—though she never did tell me her name, nur ther name uv her kin folks.
"We talked mos' all thet night; she argified, en' I argified; et las we cum ter this ergreement:—she wuz ter go with me ter Kaintucky es my foster-son, en' we'd settle out ther, when she'd put on her gal clothes ergin, en' be my daughter fur good en' all.
"I went ter Charlottesville, got er rifleman's uniform fur 'er, en' she put it right on ter practice wearin' it, en' lookin' natural en it. Every day she went huntin' with me ter practice shootin', en' I tuk ter callin' her John. By ther time we started, 'twas all es nat'ral as if 'twere so, en' everything went smooth tel you en' Mr. Mitchell come. She wuz skeered fur fear you'd fine 'er out, en' staid most er the time at the settlement. 'Twuz my intention to leave er ther, even ef I went on with Clark, but she wuz mad fur adventure by thet time, en' would cum' on. The reason I let 'er wuz becus' uv yer two bein' her kin, in case 'twuz needful ter mek known she wuz er woman. Her being in 'tother company kept you frum seein' 'er much, en' nights I allus slept nigh 'er es you know. She's been awful sick now fur twenty-four hours, en' both uv yer gone. Et's been er terrable responserbility frum fust ter last—es fatherly as I feel ter ther poor gal," and Givens mopped the sweat from his brow, and drew a long, deep sigh of intense relief.
"Will she recover?" I asked eagerly of Dr. Lafonte, who just then opened the front door softly. To translate my question was beyond Givens' strictly limited French, but somehow Dr. Lafonte understood, and replied in his own tongue.
I gazed at him hopelessly, for then I could not understand a single word of the French language. Father Gibault, gliding behind the little doctor, smiled at my bewilderment and translated for me with many shrugs and gestures.
"He would say, Monsieur, that Mademoiselle ees very seek—boot she ees young and strong, eef le bon Dieu ees weeling she weel make recovery. I, Monsieur, have plenty Peruvian bark, et ees la grande médicine; Mademoiselle weel make recovery, I theenk, Monsieur," and he gave me a benign and reassuring smile.
CHAPTER XVIII
As soon as Colonel Clark's commands were delivered to Captain Bowman at Cahokia, I obtained permission for Thomas and myself to return to Kaskaskia, that we might await there the issue of Ellen's illness. We took turns of watching upon the porch of the commandant's house to be in readiness for any instant service it was in our power to render. Meantime Madame Rocheblave and Angélique nursed Ellen assiduously and tenderly, and her physicians gave her faithful attention. This was my first acquaintance with people of French blood, and their unfailing cheerfulness and sympathy were a revelation to me. In truth the French Americans of the Northwest were the most simple natured and warm hearted race I have ever known—they had not, however, the hardier qualities of my own people.
For seven days we had always the same answer to our questions given by the little doctor, with cheery air, and sympathetic expression—"C'est impossible à dire, Monsieur, il faut avoir la patience."
Late on the eighth night, Father Gibault came to me, his gentle face beaming with pleasure, to announce that the crisis had been favorably passed, and that with no relapse, Ellen would soon be as strong or stronger than before.
The most hazardous part of our enterprise lay yet before us—the taking of Vincennes, the real key to the Northwest, without which we could not long hold our position at Kaskaskia and Cahokia. And every day the English commandant, Abbott, might return from Detroit with reënforcements for the fort, which was far stronger and better equipped than the almost abandoned one at Kaskaskia. Moreover we could not hope so easily to overawe and win the larger and more mixed population of the town of Vincennes, which had fallen more directly under British influence.
Colonel Clark had conceived that his best hope was to make the Kaskaskians believe his riflemen the most formidable of warriors, and to lead them to think that he could summon from our recently established forts on the Ohio any number of reënforcements he might need. So we drilled and mustered the men and made pretense of sending couriers to our forts, till the Kaskaskians imagined us to be but the vanguard of an army. Their fears were aroused for friends and relatives at Vincennes, and Father Gibault himself offered to proceed to that town under an escort of Colonel Clark's troops, to counsel submission and alliance. Clark accepted his offer with apparent indifference, but secret joy, put me in command of Father Gibault's escort, and bade me gather all the information possible, in regard to the condition of the fort, the feeling of the people toward the English, and everything I thought might be useful in case we should have to storm or besiege the place.
Still our amazing good luck attended us. The logic of Father Gibault, and the natural preference of the people for peace—which made a change of masters a matter of secondary importance—proved irresistible. The citizens assembled willingly in the church, swore allegiance to Virginia, elected a town officer favorable to our interests, and allowed us to garrison the fort, and raise our standards over it. Father Gibault carried the news of our third bloodless victory back to Clark, and a week later Captain Helm arrived to take command of the garrison of five Americans, and about a score of French recruits. Colonel Clark had given him the large sounding title of "Governor-General of Indian affairs on the Wabash," and had charged him with a characteristic answer to Tabac—the head chief of the Piankeshaws, who had visited us at Vincennes, and arrogantly commanded us to convey a defiant message to the chief of the Long-Knives.
"Take your choice," was Clark's answer—by the mouth of the interpreter Givens—"between the British and the Big-Knives. Choose peace or war with the Long Knives and you will—but whichever you select, remember it is final and prepare to stand firmly by your choice. We are fighters by trade, we object not to war, yet we have no present quarrel with the red men, and seek none. We prefer to save our strength to make war upon the British king"—and then the ground of our quarrel with Great Britain was explained as well as Givens was able to do it by the use of such figures of speech as the Indians could understand.
The negotiations lasted several days, nor could we gather from the stolid faces of Tabac and his warriors what their decision would be. At last Tabac announced that he had made up his mind,—then sat in Sphinx-like silence for half an hour, smoking solemnly and looking straight before him into the dense smoke made by the pine knots, burning in the midst of our circle. His warriors did likewise. Instructed by Givens, we showed neither curiosity nor impatience, but remained as impassive as they.
Meantime, partially to rest my eyes from the smoke and flame of the pine logs, I gazed long and curiously at Tabac. How crafty and subtle the expression about the thin close-lipped mouth, and long half-shut eyes! How savage the narrow sloping forehead, and the high fleshless cheek bones, smeared with fantastic daubs of paint, and surmounted with suggestive scalp lock, conspicuously adorned with gay feathers and stiff quills. The noble red man indeed! I have no patience with this absurd sentiment of admiration and pity for the Indian—which seems now to be coming into fashion. The generation of pioneers, and frontiersmen not long past, realize as others never can the inherent savagery of the Indians. Either we should never have come to America, or we must exterminate the savages. Indians and civilization repel each other like the opposite poles of a magnet.
When Tabac arose deliberately to his feet at last, his eyes roved around the circle, and were fixed upon me with an expression of defiance, rather than upon Captain Helm, at whose left I sat, showing that he had felt, and resented my scrutiny.
"Warriors of the Big-Knife," he began in slow, measured tones, that made an impression of rude eloquence, though we understood not a word he said until Givens had translated his speech; "I have reflected long—have taken counsel of my warriors, and of the Great Spirit himself. I have made my choice. I have reached a last decision. And when Tabac, chief of the brave and noble tribe of the Piankeshaws decides, it is the end—there is no more hesitation with him, nor with his people. We are friends to the Big-Knife, and his warriors. We make alliance with the tribes of Virginia. We, too, are Big-Knives, we stand or fall with our pale face brethren from the rising sun."
Captain Helm made gracious answer to this language, interspersed with much flattery of Tabac and his tribe, for their alliance was, really, of the greatest importance to us, and our apparent indifference but a part of the big game of bluff Clark was playing. Then the peace pipe was passed around, presents interchanged, and after bidding our new allies an elaborate farewell, we returned to the fort.
Just before he had sent me to Vincennes, Colonel Clark, as I neglected to mention at the proper time, had raised me to my old rank of Captain, and given me a place on his staff, as special attaché to himself—as the moving executive, so to speak, of the central authority. Clark remained at Kaskaskia, where one Indian deputation after another flocked to him to make treaties of peace or alliance, while I moved up the river to Cahokia, or across the prairies and marshes to Vincennes, carrying his orders, making reports, and gathering information.
Upon my return to Kaskaskia after my first trip to Vincennes, I found Ellen more than convalescent. Her vigorous youth had quickly vanquished the disease after the first crisis was safely passed, and she had made such rapid recovery as caused Madame Rocheblave to lift her hands, elevate her eyebrows, and exclaim over the marvelous physical powers of "zeze so veery strong Ameerikans."
I found Ellen not only bright-eyed, but plump and rosy, as she had never been before, and even gay among her new friends. They had already taken her to their hearts, partly, I suppose, because she was so devout a Catholic, partly because they had been called upon to befriend and care for her, and partly too, as any one must recognize, for her own charming personality. No wonder Thomas had been so infatuated! The thin, awkward, shy girl, I remembered, with the beautiful blue eyes, set in a slim, pale face, was become an indescribable compound of girlish roundness, bloom, and sparkle, of maidenly softness and brightness. Her new woman's clothes, constructed by Angelique's deft fingers of the delicate hued soft stuffs of the place, which were woven of home grown flax, or of buffalo wool, and dyed with native roots, hung about her in long, graceful folds, that made her figure look statuesque in its poses of natural grace. But even more than her beauty, her manner astonished me—its graciousness, piquancy, gayety, and ease. Not Nelly Buford herself, nor Miss Shippen, reigned with more charming assurance over her circle of admirers, than did Ellen over the court of adorers which soon gathered about her.
She had been enrolled as "John Givens" in Captain Dillard's company, and they laid now special claim to her; every one of the officers making himself the slave of her caprices, and vying one with another to flatter and to spoil her. Dr. Lafonte and young Legère, a distant kinsman of the commandant, promptly surrendered, and, presently, Colonel Clark enrolled himself among her devoted admirers. There were a dozen fresh faced, sweet voiced French girls of the peasant class in the village, but Ellen alone had qualities to attract men like Dillard, Clark, Thomas and me, who demanded more than rounded outlines, bright eyes, and soft skin.
If once I had patronized Ellen, it was her turn now, and she queened it over me ruthlessly. At our very first interview she proved her power. I had sought to see her alone, that I might give her in plain words my opinion of her late rashness, and insist that in future she take no step without consulting Thomas, or me, in lieu of closer kinsman, with better right to advise her. It seemed my duty to do this, since Thomas' infatuation made him dumb in her presence, and would allow him to recognize no fault in her.
After keeping me waiting a good fifteen minutes, she came, trailing a pale yellow robe behind her, and bearing herself like a princess.
"Is this really Ellen O'Niel?" I asked, involuntarily, meeting her half way down the long room, and taking both her hands in cousinly greeting.
"None other than the forlorn little Irish lass you used to be kind to," and she flashed upon me an irradiating smile, and drew her hands out of mine with an air of gentle dignity that somehow embarrassed me. "But you did not know me in riflemen's uniform—my heart need not have fluttered so that day in the forest when you planted yourself before me, and looked me straight in the eye."
"It makes me tremble even yet, Ellen," I answered, "to think of your rash conduct during the last few months."
"All has turned out beautifully, Cousin Donald, and I would do it all over again," and she spoke gaily, but with more seriousness, as she added: "Are you not risking all for freedom; and is not liberty as dear to a woman as to a man? I took the risk and I have won. Had I died in the attempt 'twould have been better than the life of slavery and persecution. Besides, cousin, though your narrow Protestantism may find it hard to grant such grace to Catholics, we, too, have faith in an overruling Providence, believe in a power that can protect the helpless, and guide the orphan. I rode away from my Uncle Thomas' house that night, unguarded by man, but guided by the holy Christ and the gentle Virgin,"—Ellen's face shone with uplifted rapture as she spoke thus—"By them I have been brought in safety to this peaceful village of kindly, cheerful people, to the care of holy Father Gibault, kind Madame Rocheblave, and faithful Angélique. I shall not again lack friends nor suffer persecution for my religion. You are a distant kinsman, 'tis true, Cousin Donald, and I hold you in grateful affection for past kindnesses—but I will not be scolded nor upbraided. I am done with that, for always. Nor have I any apologies to make to any one. I was driven to what I did by those who were called to give me a home and affection. I repeat I would do over again what I have done. If you wish to treat me with a kinsman's kindness upon these terms I shall be glad—otherwise you must say farewell, and leave me to my new found friends."
Never was I so completely cowed by speech from the lips of any one, as by these quiet words from Ellen, as she sat before me in calm dignity. Scattered like summer smoke was my intent to reprimand her once for all, and set before her the suffering she had caused us.
"Did you not promise, the night we said good night at the spring, to be my friend and comrade always?" I answered, "and have not friends and comrades the right to speak the truth to one another? Once for all, Ellen, I must say I think you acted rashly, and beg that you will never again act upon impulse without taking counsel of Thomas or me who are your loyal kinsmen, and would risk our lives for you. I speak not to disapprove, but to warn; the dangers, the risks your independent, confident spirit may lead you into, frighten me. And, Ellen," I went on rapidly, lest I should never again be able to summon up the needful courage to say it—"you must not include Uncle Thomas, nor my mother, in your just condemnation of Aunt Martha; both are sincerely grieved, and Uncle Thomas half distracted with apprehension and remorse; neither had a thought that you were so very unhappy."
"Uncle Thomas had not the courage to take my side, nor your mother to offer me a refuge—both preferred family peace, and their own comfort to my salvation; they left no other course open to me than that I took. Not even Cousin Thomas, though he wished to befriend me, had the bravery to make a stand on my side against his mother; he, too, was cowed by her domineering spirit—were I a man, I would cringe to no one, not even to the woman that I love."
That last sentence I remembered, and afterwards it helped me to hold my own a little better against Ellen's growing power over me.
"You were most unkindly treated, Ellen, and it will always be a reproach upon us, something for which we must all hang our heads in shame,—but will you not try to forgive them? They have bitterly atoned for the wrong they did you, if unhappiness, and self reproach, can atone."
"Father Gibault says I must freely forgive them ere he can absolve me from the wrong thoughts, and actions of which I too have been guilty," answered Ellen—that catch in her voice, which so often I had recalled to mind, and had never heard in any other woman's—"but I find no consolation in their remorse. In you, Cousin Donald, I have nothing to forgive, you have always been good to me. I am still your friend and comrade, if you wish—though already you are a great and noble man, as I foresaw you would be," and again she gave me that flashing smile which made my head swim.
"And you will go home with Thomas and me when this business is ended?"
"I can never go back to that dreary, solemn valley, where people think of nothing but hard work, and long doleful prayers. As yet I have heard mass but twice, and only once have I been to confession; it seemed to me that the spirit of my dead parents were with me, and it brought me such joy and peace as you cannot conceive. I can never be separated again from the exercise of my religion. In truth I have a solemn and holy purpose set before me, of which I shall tell you, some day. Meantime let us not talk upon this painful subject, Cousin Donald,—life is so good to me now, so full of pure joy, and perfect happiness that I like not to recall the past five years."
CHAPTER XIX
During the months of August and September, Clark was kept busy receiving the Indian deputations which came weekly to Kaskaskia to sue for peace and alliance, with the famed Big-Knives and his warriors. Each visit was an affair of state, and must be received with due ceremony. Did the deputation consist only of the chief of some petty sub-tribe, and two or three warriors, they must have audience at the fort with Colonel Clark himself, surrounded by an armed body-guard; speeches, presents, and wampum belts must be ceremoniously exchanged, and the peace pipe smoked solemnly, after which Clark must tender them a feast.
Born to administer large affairs, Colonel Clark showed in his pacification of the Northwest Indians, a remarkable shrewdness, and knowledge of human nature. He used much the same tactics as those found so successful in dealing with the French:—he over-awed them by dauntlessness of spirit, and a show of far greater strength than he really possessed. When the desired impression had been made upon them, and they had offered alliance, he would adroitly win them to his purposes by friendliness and flattery. He could meet them with a counter stoicism and subtlety that confounded them, and sent them back to their tribes to tell marvelous stories of the great white warrior chief, the redoubtable Big-Knife, whose course of conquest had started at the rising sun, and would be stopped only by the big river towards the sun's lodge. One edict of Colonel Clark well serves to illustrate his far-seeing wisdom, and the extent of his power. He forbade any soldier, any citizen of Kaskaskia, or trader on the river, to sell or to give a single gill of liquor to an Indian within so many miles of the town and fort, under heavy penalties; and the few infringements of this rule were severely punished. Ceremony, presents and feasting were dealt out generously to the savages, but their expectations of fire-water were invariably disappointed. Some of them went away sullen, but there was no rioting in Kaskaskia, and no more bloody fights such as had been customary between panins and Indians.
Between these and other duties, Colonel Clark found some leisure for diversion, and sought it usually in the long room of the Commandant's house, where Ellen held her court with a constantly increasing number of subjects. Madame Rocheblave had left Kaskaskia soon after Ellen's recovery, to visit friends in Detroit, while awaiting the release of M. Rocheblave, who had been sent to Virginia with several other prisoners. But Angélique had consented to accept services as Ellen's maid, and was in constant attendance upon her.
Among Ellen's admirers the most indefatigable and determined were Monsieur Légère, Colonel Clark, Thomas and I; and for each of us she had a special course of treatment that kept us hovering between hope and despair. Monsieur Légère's manner of attack was nightly to serenade Ellen with voice and guitar, and daily to present her with passionate love poems, hidden in bunches of gorgeous wild flowers, which he had gathered at risk of limb and life from the most inaccessible spurs of the bluff across the river. These offerings she would receive with just enough appearance of pleasure, and expression of appreciation to prevent that emotional youth from committing suicide. Thomas, she treated as she would a brother, took him to mass with her, and alternately commanded, scolded, and coaxed him. He alone failed to see that there was naught but cousinly regard, and a degree of gratitude and pity in her heart for him.
Colonel Clark sued, as he did everything else, masterfully. It was plain, too, that this had a certain effect upon Ellen, who moreover, could not fail to be attracted by his handsome person and winning manners. That personal charm felt so strongly by men, even by savages and foreigners must produce a more sure effect upon the feelings of the woman whom he condescended to woo. Yet Ellen did not acknowledge his power, but rather took pleasure in making him yield to her. There was almost daily warfare of words between them. She would be starting to vespers with Thomas perhaps, just as Clark would be mounting the porch steps.
"You are not going this afternoon, Miss Ellen," in his firm tone of command; "I want you to stay and talk to me."
"But I always go to vespers, Colonel Clark."
"Except when I come to see you."
"No matter who comes to see me."
"You need make exception in my case only; I have many duties, and can not choose my hours of recreation; you can say your prayers all day, if you wish."
"Vesper hour is sacred; I cannot profane it by staying away from service to amuse even you, Colonel Clark. Moreover I am neither Frenchman, Indian, nor soldier; I do not take orders from the Long-Knives," and she would flash upon him a look of smiling defiance, and pass on.
"You are as cruel as fair, Miss Ellen," in hurt, gentle tones; "you cannot guess how weary, and heart-hungry I am, or you would be more merciful. Are you not the one bit of home, and comfort, and cheer we soldiers have in this wilderness? Now, after a day of toil, with the prospect of an hour of delight with you as my only recompense, you leave me thus without a word of regret."
"I must to vespers, Colonel Clark, but I shall hasten back; you can wait here for me."
And Clark would wait impatiently, Ellen returning promptly, as she had promised, to put forth for him, during the rest of the evening, the utmost of her powers of fascination.
Her treatment of me was less flattering, I thought, than that she accorded any of the others. I was no more her best friend, her openly favored comrade. On the contrary, she treated me with alternate indifference, haughtiness and patronage; she would seem to seek occasions of difference, and then, when I was lashed into answering her, would flaunt me angrily, or mock me with sarcasms. Afterwards she would repent her rudeness, and beg my pardon with the sweetest humility and gentleness. But this playing hot and cold on her part kept me in a sort of inward fever, and made me what I had never been in my life before, irritable and quarrelsome. To the men under me, I was peremptory; I was testy with Thomas, and often almost rude with Clark. In truth I was half frenzied with jealousy. A score of times in the day, I would compare myself with Clark—set my appearance and qualities over against his, and cast up the balance between us; but, with all my leaning to my own side, I could not blind myself that neither in manner, person, nor gifts could I rival him. There could be little doubt as to which one of us Ellen would choose when a final choice was forced upon her.
The wild grape vintage was a customary festival with the Kaskaskians. The woods along the river were wreathed with the vines, which looped from branch to branch, or from tree to tree, and even the berry thickets had become trellises to support their luxuriant meanderings. These wild grapes made a rich, delicious wine, much prized by the people as a beverage, and by the priests as an antidote to the far less innocent fire water, peddled by the traders, in boat loads, up and down the river. Colonel Clark not only consented to the celebration of this one of their frequent holidays, but agreed that the soldiers might take part on condition that no liquors be dispensed.
All assisted in the morning's work of gathering the grapes, and piling them in the calèches, or two-wheeled carts, to be hauled to the wine vats, then the afternoon was given up to pleasure and feasting. Games were interspersed with trials of strength and skill, upon the public square of the village; shooting at a mark, hurling the tomahawk, wrestling and racing were the chief contests, which were participated in by Frenchmen and soldiers on equal terms. Colonel Clark, Captain Montgomery, and myself were the chosen judges, and we were careful to distribute the prizes equally, with no very strict regard to merit.
The free half-breeds and the panins, with a few straggling Indians, had also their games apart, presided over by three of our men from the fort, who acted as judges. The supper was provided by Colonel Clark, and besides the usual pancakes and maple syrup, served at nearly all their feasts, there were maize cakes, barbecued venison, corn parched, ground and sweetened, wild duck and plover eggs boiled and roasted, melons, pawpaws, mulberries and sangaree. This supper was served by the cheery matrons of Kaskaskia, from calèches backed in a circle around a part of the green. Later, smiling maidens bedecked with flowers, came out of the low eaved houses, and with the youths and gayer soldiers fell a dancing on the green to the sound of banjo and guitar, in the light of a bright full moon, beneath a star-studded dome of clearest azure. It was a picture of simple Arcadian happiness, which needed only the embellishments of nature to beautify it, only the impulses of nature to stimulate it.
Ellen had been named "Queen of the Festa" by Clark, and the day seemed diverted into an occasion to honor her. It was she who pressed with dainty fingers the juice from the first bunch of grapes, ere they were put into vats for trampling; she who presented the prizes to the victors, or crowned them gracefully with the laurel wreaths. And when the music sounded, Clark led her forth to tread a stately measure alone with him upon the green, ere the general dancing began. I did not know before that either of them could dance—for never had I seen such sport until Nelly Buford had shown me the latest steps at Colonel Morgan's. But Ellen was a daily astonishment, and Clark had learned much in his adventurous life.
When they had thus inaugurated the evening's gayety as also they had presided over the day's festivities, Ellen and Clark wandered through the village together, in the moonlight, she leaning on his arm, and he bending over her like an accepted lover. Half an hour later I saw them seated side by side on the steps, under the nave of the church, absorbed in each other, and entirely unconscious of me, as I passed them on the opposite side of the street. Ellen was all in white, save for a black lace scarf she wore Spanish fashion, about her head, and shoulders, and in the moonlight she was a radiant vision of girlish loveliness—as Clark by her side was a picture of handsome young manhood. "They would be well mated," I thought with a sigh as I passed on, homesick and heartsick. In the darkness of the deserted barracks, I sought my soldier's couch, and lay a long time awake, thinking longingly of home and loved ones and wrestling with the demon of jealousy which threatened to master me.
A deep sigh aroused me after awhile, from the half dream into which I had slipped, and I heard Thomas' voice, praying in low tones. Poor Thomas. He was even more unhappy than I, for he had deserted home, parents, and religion for his idol, who but treated him with cousinly kindness. Yet I rejoiced, though I pitied him; there was hope for Thomas, since his sorrow and disappointment but drove him back to God, and his prayers.
Colonel Clark sent for me next morning, and began, in his most peremptory manner to announce that he desired me to make ready to start to Virginia immediately, to deliver certain dispatches to the Governor and the Assembly. He wished his appointments confirmed, and the conquered territory of the Northwest formally annexed to Virginia. Also, he must have money, supplies, and reënforcements for a prompt advance on Detroit, and later on, Quebec. All Canada might be taken, with the aid of our French and Indian allies, had we but a nucleus of American soldiers, and sufficient means to forward the enterprise. I must not only deliver his request to that effect, but urge the members of the Assembly, publicly and privately, as I had opportunity, to support the project, and to vote money and men for it.
When he had said all this, without asking my opinion, I stopped him by suggesting that perhaps I could not be earnest and eloquent enough in a cause my reason and judgment did not sanction; that I had once helped to storm Quebec, and knew the almost insurmountable difficulties of the attempt without a large army and plenty of cannon; that I did not believe our allies would be of any value in such an enterprise, and that in my opinion we would only be risking what we had secured, or abandoning it more probably, for a success dependent upon a hundred unlikely chances.
Colonel Clark had gazed at me haughtily as I spoke—a manner the more nettling because of his previous friendliness and comradeship with me—and now he reprimanded me sharply for having forgotten my position as a subordinate, whose business it was to obey, not to advise, and then added:
"Can you start, sir, to Virginia to-morrow, with my dispatches and commands?"
"No, Colonel Clark," I answered with a haughtiness that matched his own: "I remain in Kaskaskia till it is my pleasure to leave; my term of enlistment expires next week, after which I am no longer under orders. Confine me if you please, in the guardhouse, while I am still in your service, but I shall not go to Virginia on this errand."
"And I know your reason for this act of disrespect and disobedience, sir. You are jealous of my suit to Ellen O'Neil."
"As my cousin's lawful protector, I stay by her side until she is safely placed with the guardian she shall choose upon reaching her legal majority."
"Your jealousy has been made evident before, Captain McElroy, but know this, I recognize not your right to interfere with me in any way, nor to dictate to Miss O'Neil upon any subject. I shall warn her, sir, and watch you," and Clark had grown so angry that he talked now half random foolishness, and glared at me savagely.
No less angry, I replied, "And I shall watch you, Colonel Clark. A man who can take advantage of his position of authority to send his rival across the continent with dispatches that a common courier might as well carry is capable of taking other and less honorable advantages, perhaps."
"No man dare insult me, McElroy, without knowing that he must apologize or fight. Take your choice; I am no longer your superior officer," and he threw aside his epauleted coat, and plumed hat, and drawing his sword, stood before me, pallid and rigid with anger.
"Sir," I answered, fully as furious as he, "you have so lorded it over Frenchmen, panins and Indians, that you seem to have forgotten the respect due a comrade—your equal in all save military rank. Your challenge, Colonel Clark, I accept with pleasure!" I bowed to him, drew my sword and stood at guard.
Neither of us were practiced swordsmen, but both were lithe, active, and possessed of trained eyes, and arms. We fought with small science, yet with some skill, and in deadly earnest. Without doubt one or the other of us would have been killed or badly wounded, had not a startling interruption paralyzed the arm of each, just when both were wrought up to the killing frenzy. I was fighting desperately and so was Clark, when, suddenly, Ellen's voice rang above the clash of our swords, and the panting emission of our breath:
"Cousin Donald! Colonel Clark!" she called sharply, and each lowered his weapon and turned to face her. She stood in the doorway, her eyes glowing, her face quite pale, and Father Gibault stood behind her, looking more perturbed than I had ever seen him.
