BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER I.
"Nature made Washington great; but he made himself virtuous."
he sun shines not upon a lovelier land than midland Virginia. Great rivers roll seaward through rich woodlands and laughing corn-fields and fair meadow-lands. Afar off the misty lines of blue hills shine faintly against the deeper blue of the sky. The atmosphere is singularly clear, and the air wholesome and refreshing.
Never was it more beautiful than on an afternoon in late October of 1746. The Indian-summer was at hand—that golden time when Nature utters a solemn "Hush!" to the season, and calls back the summer-time for a little while. The scene was full of peace—the broad and placid Rappahannock shimmering in the sun, its bosom unvexed except by the sails of an occasional grain-laden vessel making its way quietly and slowly down the blue river. The quiet homesteads lay basking in the fervid sun, while woods and streams and fields were full of those soft harmonious country sounds which make a kind of musical silence.
A mile or two back from the river ran the King's highway—a good road for those days, and showing signs of much travel. It passed at one point through a natural clearing, on the top of which grew a few melancholy pines. The road came out of the dense woods on one side of this open space, and disappeared in the woods on the other side.
On this October afternoon, about three o'clock, a boy with a gun on his shoulder and a dog at his heels came noiselessly out of the woods and walked to the top of the knoll. The day was peculiarly still, but only the quickest ear could have detected the faint sound the boy made, as with a quick and graceful step he marched up the hill—for George Washington was a natural woodsman from his young boyhood, and he had early learned how to make his way through forest and field without so much as alarming the partridge on her nest. No art or craft of the woods, whether of white man or Indian, was unknown to him; and he understood Nature, the mighty mother, in all her civilized and uncivilized moods.
A full game-bag on his back showed what his employment had been, but now he gave himself over to the rare but delicious idleness which occasionally overtakes everybody who tramps long through the woods. He sat down and took off his cap, revealing his handsome blond head. The dog, a beautiful, long-eared setter, laid his nose confidentially upon his master's knee, and blinked solemnly with his large tawny eyes into his master's blue ones. The boy's eyes were remarkable—a light but beautiful blue, and softening a face that even in boyhood was full of resolution, and even of sternness. His figure was as near perfection as the human form could be—tall, athletic, clean of limb and deep of chest, singularly graceful, and developed, as the wise old Greeks developed their bodies, by manly exercises and healthful brain-work and the cleanest and most wholesome living. Neither the face nor the figure could belong to a milksop. The indications of strong passions, of fierce loves and hates and resentments, were plain enough. But stronger even than these was that noble expression which a purity of soul and a commanding will always write upon the human countenance. This boy was a gentleman at heart and in soul—not because he had no temptation to be otherwise, but because he chose to be a gentleman. He sat in silence for half an hour, the dog resting against him, the two communing together as only a boy and a dog can. The sun shone, the wind scarcely ruffled a dying leaf. A crow circled around in the blue air, uttering a caw that was lost in the immensity of the heavens. The silence seemed to grow deeper every moment, when, with a quick movement, George laid his ear to the ground. To an unpractised ear there was not the slightest break in the quiet, but to the boy's trained hearing something was approaching along the highway which induced him to sit still awhile longer. It was some time in coming, for the heavy coaches in those days hung upon wide leather straps, and with broad-tired wheels made much commotion as they rolled along, to say nothing of the steady beat of the horses' hoofs upon the hard road. George's eyes were as quick as his ears, but he caught nothing of the approaching travellers until the cavalcade flashed suddenly into the sun, and with its roar and rattle seemed to spring out of the ground.
First came four sturdy negro outriders, in a gorgeous livery of green and gold, and mounted upon stout bay horses, well adapted for hard travel. Then came a magnificent travelling coach, crest-emblazoned, which would not have discredited the King's levee. It was drawn by four superb roans, exactly matched in form, color, and action. They took the road as if they had just warmed up to their work; but from the dust on the whole cavalcade it was plain they had travelled far that day. With heads well in the air, the horses threw their legs together with a style and at a gait that showed them to be of the best-blood in the horse kingdom. A black postilion in green and gold rode the off horse of the leaders, while a black coachman handled the reins. On the box, next the coachman, sat a white man, evidently a servant out of livery. One glance told that he was an old soldier. He had at his side one of the huge holsters of the day, in which he carried a pair of long horse-pistols; and a stout wooden box, upon which he rested his feet, showed that the party had means of defence had it been attacked.