“I think not, mother.”
“Is that fair to Dorothy?”
“We cannot marry if her father will not consent. Would you have me give up being a preacher to become Dorothy’s husband?”
“Certainly not, John, nor can you. You have been called and you will preach, though carried to your destination [pg 191] in a whale’s belly. That is Calvinism. But you must go to Dorothy; and no time is to be lost. Besides you should have a finishing course before starting in on your work and a few months training at Rev. David Rice’s Seminary will do you good. Your father and I have talked it over and we can spare you until next harvest. Go out and feed your horse and go in the morning. We will miss you; but your father and I can be happy together; we are still sweethearts.”
“Mother, I am glad you think I should go. That was my desire; but I feared desire had warped judgment and had decided to remain, fearing that in the end I might give up my work. It strengthens your faith to believe that you are a part in God’s plan and must do your part of his service.”
“Dorothy is a girl of good judgment. She knows just the life that will be hers as your wife; she is prepared for it and may not count it a sacrifice but a privilege. It is right that you should wait for her father’s consent, which he will give in time. The Lord answers my prayers but not always my way. Before you marry you must be better fitted for your work and it must be established. A year or so seems a long time now but if you both are busy it will soon pass by and will give you time to demonstrate if her father’s wish is to be Dorothy’s future. Good night, John. Call me at daylight.”
When John awoke, the waning light of the morning star, which he could see through the sashless window, heralded the birth of a clear October day. He arose and pushed together the back-logs that had burned apart through the night, adding fresh fuel. A great crackling of wood and dense, pungent smoke poured forth, followed by a bright and cheery glow, which filled the room with light. He finished dressing, called his mother and went [pg 192] out into the red frosty morning to feed the horses and milk the cows.
When he came in again ruddiness of sky had given place to the golden glow of sunrise and the morning sun tinted the mountain tops. His breakfast was ready and his mother had packed his best clothing into the saddle bags which his father had carried at Monmouth, at King’s Mountain and at Yorktown; two home-made blankets of fine, long wool, light of weight and soft and warm, were rolled and wrapped to be tied behind his saddle, with a small sack containing his mess kit and provisions and lying over all was the Mingo girdle. He was probably the only person in Kentucky who would undertake such a journey without carrying a rifle. He felt no need for one.
At noon, twenty miles from home, he unsaddled and rested an hour, picketing his horse. Twelve miles below Flat Lick, near Brown’s Station, he came upon Dick Martin and his family in a sorry plight. Two days before they had passed Campbell Station traveling to Danville from Tidewater, Virginia. The night before in crossing a stream, their wagon had been swept by high water below the ford and one of their two horses had been drowned. It was impossible to continue their journey with but one.
Martin, a shiftless fellow, had not even removed the harness from the drowned horse. The wagon stood with the rear wheels in the edge of the receding flood; and their scanty chattels were spread about drying in the sun. While his wife was rustling the fire wood, looking after the children and attempting to cook a few potatoes and slices of bacon, he sat by the camp fire smoking a corncob pipe, while the youngest of the children sat near him [pg 193] on a dirty piece of rag carpet munching a raw bacon rind.