“It seems an age since father went away,” added Dave Morris.
With these words the boy turned away from the bank of the creek and, axe in hand—for he had been helping his uncle cut down some scrub timber on the edge of a small clearing—moved quickly through a patch of corn and then into a belt of timberland composed of beautiful walnut, hickory, and mountain ash. Beyond the belt was a second clearing, long and narrow, spread out upon both banks of a brook flowing into the creek previously mentioned. In the midst of this was a rude but comfortable log cabin, long, low, and narrow, the eaves at one end coming down in a porch-like roof to shelter the kitchen door. There were four rooms in this home in the wilderness and all upon the ground floor, the upper floor under the roof tree being little more than a loft in which to store certain winter supplies.
David Morris was a youth of fourteen, tall, strong, and by no means ill looking. His manner was open and frank, and this disposition made for him ready friends wherever he went. Since earliest childhood he had been used to a life in the open, and this made him appear somewhat older than his years. He could plow a field or cut down a tree almost as well as a man, and he was far from being ignorant of the use of firearms. Indeed, the winter before, he had gone out hunting with old Sam Barringford, one of the best of the hunters and trappers in the Virginia valley, and had acquitted himself in a manner to earn the ardent praise of that individual. As a matter of fact, Dave would rather have gone hunting and fishing any time than stick to the work on the farm, but he knew his duty to his uncle and his aunt and did not seek to evade it.
Dave’s taste for woods and waters—for hunting, trapping and fishing—came to the lad naturally. His grandfather had been of New Jersey stock, and had drifted into Pennsylvania with the thrifty German pioneers who afterward did so much to make that great state what it is to-day. But old Ezra Morris could not remain in sight of the farms and plantations and had gone on south-westward, into what was then termed the great Virginia valley, between the Shenandoah and the upper Potomac Rivers. Here he had built himself a cabin, and it was here that James Morris, the father of Dave, was born and raised. The surroundings were wild, and the majority of neighbors—if those living half a mile or more away could be called such—were Indians.
Although Ezra Morris always sought to be fair with the red men, others in that district cheated the Indians in numerous ways, and as a result the Indians arose one wintry night and slew nearly all the settlers for miles around. Among the victims were Ezra Morris and his wife; and the son James, then a boy of twelve, barely escaped by hiding in a snow-bank behind the cabin. He was found in the woods two days later, nearly frozen to death, and was taken to Winchester by parties living there. At Winchester was his brother Joseph, several years older, who was visiting at the time, and thus escaped the horrors of the massacre.
For several years after this Joseph and James Morris remained in and around Winchester, then a frontier post of considerable importance, and during that time the elder brother married Lucy Smiley, who had just come over from England with her brother, who was in the employ of William Fairfax of Belvoir. Several years later James Morris also married, and both families settled near what was called Will’s Creek, not a great distance from the present city of Cumberland. It was here that Dave was born and also his cousins, Rodney, Henry, and little Nell.
At first all went well with both families, but one day Rodney Morris had a bad fall from a tree which injured his leg and rendered him lame. This was a great misfortune, for the young man had been a much needed help to his father and his uncle, but a greater trial followed in the sudden and unexpected death of James Morris’ wife, who was taken with a chill one Saturday noon and expired on the following Sunday morning.
This blow almost stunned both the husband and the son, and it may truly be said that the former never got over it. As soon after the funeral as possible the father placed his son in his brother’s care and took to the woods, and none of his folks saw him for nearly a year. When he returned his pale and haggard face showed plainly that even in the depths of the wilderness beyond the Blue Ridge he had not been able to get away from his great grief.
During his wanderings James Morris had gone West as far as a stream of water called by the Indians Kinotah. He described the river as very lovely and one upon which a trader with a little means might set up a trading-post to great advantage. One particular spot, which he named Ella Dell, in memory of his wife, continually haunted him, and he told his brother and his son that some day he intended to go back to it. He reported that the Indians were now very friendly and that many of those who had conducted the massacre of years gone by were dead.
Neither of the brothers was blessed with much money, and the opportunities for making any were small, so the idea of opening a trading-post had, for the time being, to be abandoned. All the Morrises, with the exception of Rodney the cripple, worked hard on the farm, and even Rodney did what he could to keep himself employed. During this time Henry Morris made a trip as far East as Annapolis, and on returning told of a stop-off at Lawrence Washington’s magnificent estate at Mount Vernon, so called in honor of Admiral Vernon, under whom Lawrence Washington had served in West Indian waters.