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Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman

by Willie Walker Caldwell · English · Gutenberg #36282 · 524,667 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Donald McElroy, Scotch Irishman

Author: Willie Walker Caldwell

Illustrator: Frank T. Merrill


        
Release date: June 3, 2011 [eBook #36282]

Language: English

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DONALD McELROY

SCOTCH IRISHMAN

by

W. W. CALDWELL

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill







Philadelphia
George W. Jacobs & Company
Publishers

Copyright, 1918, by
George W. Jacobs & Company

All rights reserved
Printed in U. S. A.




[Illustration: NELLY STOOD READY TO RECEIVE THE GENERAL.]




ILLUSTRATIONS


   Nelly stood ready to receive the General

   I laid the floral wreath carefully upon the bright curls

   "You have evidently mistaken me for a villain"

   "Cousin Donald! Colonel Clark!" she called sharply




CHAPTER I


The life story of most men, who have lived earnest and active lives,
would doubtless be worth the hearing, if the various influences and the
many vicissitudes which compose it could be separated and skillfully
rearranged into some well wrought design. As I look back upon my own
life, it seems to me full of interest and instruction, yet I suppose not
more so than that of many another; wherefore, were personal experiences
and conclusions the sum of it, I should hesitate to write them down,
lest those events and struggles which to me have seemed notable and
significant, should prove in the telling of them to have been but
commonplace incidents to which all are liable. Because of the accident
of my birth in the year 1754, however, I have lived through a period
which will be ever memorable in the history of the world--a period so
crowded with worthy deeds and great men, especially on this continent,
that there is small danger its interest will be soon exhausted. Do not
conclude that I intend to venture upon a tale of the American
Revolution; only a master's hand can fill in with due skill and
proportion so wide a canvas, and that story waits. Where my own life's
story has been entangled with some of the events of that struggle I must
touch upon them, and the real purpose of my narrative--which is to
chronicle for future generations the noble part played in the great
drama of the nation's making by a certain worthy people--will require me
to review briefly a few of the battles and campaigns of our war against
autocracy.

The Scotch Irish of America, through the commendable habit of that race,
so it be not carried too far, to put their strength into deeds rather
than into words, have missed their meed of credit for the important work
they did in our struggle for liberty. Now, our honored fellow-countrymen
and co-patriots, the Puritans, have not made this mistake; they took
their part in action nobly, and also they have taken care to record in
history, song, and story the might and glory of their deeds. The "Boston
Tea Party" and the "Boston Massacre" will go down emblazoned on the page
of history, but the fight at Alamance, and the vehement petitions urging
resistance to tyranny sent up to state conventions, and the first
Congress, by the Scotch Irish counties of Virginia, North Carolina, and
Pennsylvania have scarcely been heard of.

It is my hope not only to show what the Scotch Irish have done for the
cause of liberty, but also to give a just idea of the character of this
people, a true picture of their home life, and a correct estimate of
that religion which is so dear to them, and which has had so much to do
with making them the freedom-loving, and withal broad-minded patriots
they are. Few men, I flatter myself, are better equipped to tell a
Scotch Irish story than I, Donald McElroy, who in blood am pure blue
Scotch Irish, who have been instructed by Scotch Irish divines in things
temporal and spiritual, have fought under Scotch Irish leaders, and
lived all my life among them: yet I think I may promise that my story
shall not be a mere idyl--a panegyric of a people, all whose virtues
will be exaggerated, all whose faults will be slurred, or kept out of
sight. I have seen too much of life not to know that for each height
there is a shadow, that every noble trait of character is closely
attended by a special weakness. I know the faults of my people as I know
their virtues, and through one dearer to me than all else the world
holds, I have suffered much from that narrowness of view and
stubbornness of purpose peculiar to some of them.

My boyhood was spent within the bounds of our own plantation, in the
valley of Virginia. Rarely was I allowed to venture beyond sight of the
house unless in company with my father, or some of the negro slaves;
then only to the plow lands, or the harvest fields, until I had learned
the use of rifle, knife and tomahawk. After that I was permitted to hunt
in the forest, being solemnly charged each time by my mother that I
should not go more than a few hundred yards into the woods in any
direction, nor be lured by deer or squirrel into the thickets. There
might be Indians lurking in the bushes any day, and the youthfulness of
a scalp did not impair its value. Later, when I could ride and run like
an Indian, and shoot a bounding deer through the heart, at a distance of
three hundred feet, I was not admonished so frequently, and used often
to hunt alone the day long, coming home at twilight, my horse strung
round with many kinds of game.

All this time with my uncle's eldest son, Thomas, I was being taught
English, Greek, Latin and Mathematics by an old Scotchman, who had
become one of my grandfather's household before the family left
Pennsylvania. He was a fellow of Edinburgh University, and but for the
disabilities of encroaching age was well fitted to bestow upon us all
the education we could imbibe.

Among the incidents of my boyhood, two stand out with peculiar
distinctness. Both were fraught with terrible danger, and yet, as they
come back to me, I realize with something of astonishment that except
for one brief moment, on each occasion, I felt only a sensation of
exhilarating excitement and grim determination. By living in the midst
of hourly peril, we pioneers were dulled to the sense of it. Our one
thought when peril overtook us was to do our utmost, in the full
assurance that the God of our fathers, who miraculously had preserved us
through so many dangers, would again interpose for our deliverance. In
such faith, and naught else could have served them, my mother went
singing about her work, and my father stood guard, alone, over his
slaves, day after day, as they felled the timber on the hill slopes, in
sight of the mountain pass through which the Indians were accustomed to
raid our valley, without cause or warning.

This Saturday afternoon, in the fall of the year, I had gone hunting
afoot. In hot pursuit after a deer, I penetrated a thicket deep in the
forest, there to lose track of my game. But in making my way out, came
full upon a panther's burrow, and so much admired the one striped and
mottled cub curled therein, that the fancy seized me to carry it home
and attempt to tame it. Hearing no sound of the parent beast, I put the
sleeping cub into my game bag, and started homeward. Scarcely half a
mile had been covered when there came from the thicket behind me that
nerve-shaking cry of the panther, resembling nothing else so much as the
scream of a child in mortal terror. My steady gait quickened into a run.
A second screech came from the pursuing panther. Knowledge of my danger
lent wings to my limbs, but the beast gained on me with long leaps of
her agile body. Louder and louder sounded her oft repeated cries, and
the cub in my bag answered with pitiable whines. I could hear her deep,
swift panting, and the soft thud of her feet upon the leafy ground. The
open field was gained but a few yards in advance of her, and turning to
face my foe a sudden panic seized me. To my amazement she paused at the
edge of the forest, and, after turning a scornful glance in my
direction, fixed a meditative eye upon a sunset more gorgeous than
usual. With that alertness of observation, and acuteness of
consciousness which most persons experience in moments of high tension,
I remember noting the rich coloring of the tan and brown rings on the
creature's sleek and mottled skin, and of thinking what a fine, soft
cover it would make for my mother's rocking chair.

Suddenly the panther turned toward me, uttering a still more
blood-curdling cry, and crouched for a spring. My ball met her as she
rose, but only to sting her, and make her the more furious. Her body
came against mine with the force of a cannon ball, and I went down under
it, my unloaded rifle being hurled from my hand. Fastened by the
animal's claws, together we rolled over and over in the dry, matted
grass of the meadow, struggling desperately.

The confused, doubtful struggle was presently over and not only was I
alive and fully conscious, but could even move my mangled arm, and stand
upon my feet. The hilt of my knife stuck straight upward in the long fur
upon the creature's breast, and I pulled it out, wiped it upon the
grass, and sheathed it, thinking I would not use it again, but keep it
for remembrance.

Again I was struck by the thickness and beauty of the panther's skin,
and wished to have it for my mother's chair. It was my custom to carry a
leathern thong in the outer pouch of my game bag; one end of it I now
fastened about the beast's body, the other about my own, and so dragged
the carcass after me across the level field. Slow and painful was my
progress, for my lacerated shoulder and arm smarted maddeningly, and
every few yards I was forced to drop upon the ground to rest.

The full moon was two hours high, when, at last, I came to the barn yard
stile, on which my father leaned, scanning the fields anxiously.

"Well, son, I'm glad you've come," said my father, "your mother is half
dead with anxiety."

I showed my trophy and told my story.

"You did a foolish thing, Don, when you stole the cub, but your mother
need have, I think, little further anxiety about you; you are as able to
take care of yourself as any seasoned woodsman."

The glow of pride my father's words gave me changed to a feeling of
remorse when I saw my mother's blanched face and trembling hands. She
would not consent to let me tame the cub. "Our lives were already close
enough to savagery," she said, "with Indians and wild beasts likely to
fall upon us at any moment; we do not want the sweet peace of our home
broken by any savage sight or sound." She kept the skin, though, used it
on her winter rocking chair, and prized it highly. Indeed I have more
than once overheard her tell how she came by it.

The second incident of my youth most vividly stamped upon my memory
happened just ten months after I killed the panther.

The occasion was the last Indian raid into our valley. Fortunately we
had two days' warning, and in that time the women and children were
gathered within the recently completed stockade around the church, with
provisions enough for a week's siege. Meanwhile the men took their
rifles and marched to the mountain pass through which the Indians were
expected to enter the valley, hoping to turn the savages back with a
bloody lesson such as would last them a while, and insure us some more
years of peace.

Much exalted in my own opinion by my recent exploit with the panther, I
begged to go with the men, and took it somewhat sullenly that I should
be left behind with the rest of the youths, under the captaincy of the
parson, to guard a church full of women and children. About half an hour
before sunset on the second day I was descending the hill behind the
church to the spring, a piggin in either hand, and my ever present rifle
under my arm, when I saw on the crest of the opposite hill a file of
Indians, their painted bodies and feather crested heads standing out
against the glowing sky, as distinctly as a picture on a white leaf.
Back I flew to the church, with the alarm hot on my lips, and found that
Parson Craig had assembled all within for evening worship. In an
instant, Bible and Psalm book laid aside, the doors of the church were
barricaded, and we youths, each with rifle or musket loaded and primed,
stood close about our parson, awaiting orders.

"Lads," he said, in tones that rang as they did when he preached one of
his famous sermons of warning to sinners, and dropping in a Scotch word
here and there, as he was apt to when excited, "keep cool and fire
carefully when ye ha'e taken good aim. We ha'e nae bullets to spare and
each ain maun hold himself responsible for half a dozen savages.
Remember, lads, ye are fightin' for your maithers, your sisters, your
kirk an' your hames, for a' that true men hauld dear, and if ye maun gie
your verra lives to save these dearer things count not the price, but
pay like brave men, and like brothers o' that dear Christ wha gladly
gi'ed His life a sacrifice for us a'. Fear not death, my lads--'tis but
the beginning of life, but fear for your maithers' and your sisters'
torture and dishonor."

Hardly had the brave pastor spoken the last word, when the stockade was
surrounded by whooping red skins, brandishing tomahawks and war clubs,
and yelling to each other unintelligible words of command or
exhortation. In another instant they were flying a shower of arrows and
bullets over the top of the stockade, and several savage faces appeared
above the wall.

A second, third and fourth attempt to scale the stockade was made. For a
while, however, I could render little assistance in checking our enemies
from without, for I was engaged in a hand to hand death grapple with one
of the three Indians who at the first rush succeeded in getting within
our enclosure. Never, before or since, had I so mighty a wrestle for my
life, and but for my superior height, and the strength of my strong
arms, my reader would have been spared this personal narrative.

The next half hour--it seems thrice as long--stays in my mind as an idea
of what Hell might well be like. Row after row of hideous, paint
streaked, savage faces rose about our wall; the crack of rifles, the
whizz of arrows, the yell of the red demons, the shrieks of the wounded,
the groans of the dying, mingled in a hideous clamor, and above all rose
the wailing of frightened children, and the moans of terrified women.
The one harmonious note amidst this frightful discord was the ringing,
cheerful tone of Parson Craig's voice, as he encouraged his lads between
the quickly succeeding shots of his own musket.

Again and again I fired my good rifle, and whenever a savage face fell
backward from the top of the stockade, I experienced a heart bound of
fierce joy. Not until there was almost complete silence about us and not
a living Indian in sight, did we boys cease the almost mechanical action
of loading and firing, and turn to look about us.

The ground both within and without the enclosure, was strewn with dead
and dying Indians, half a score of them at least, and some of the lads
were carrying our own injured, six in all, into the church, where tender
hands waited to dress their wounds. Presently I discovered clotted blood
upon my sleeve, and realized for the first time that a bullet had
pierced my leathern shirt and the flesh of my left arm between shoulder
and elbow.

Next day the militiamen joined us, and we learned that the Indians had
evaded them by seeking another pass higher up the range; also that they
had devastated all the valley, except our end of it. We had stopped
effectually the war party detailed against us, and had saved our homes
and crops, as well as the lives of our women and children. The valley
rang with praise of "the fighting lads," and my father's face beamed
with pride and tenderness as he shook my hand.

"I shall call you boy no longer, Donald," he said; "you have nobly
earned your majority; my advice is always at your service, sir, but no
longer I give you commands." I think I never had a promotion or an honor
that so pleasured me; and doubtless my father was shrewd enough to know
that by thus expressing his pride and confidence in me, he was fixing
upon me a sense of uplifting responsibility, as one from whom only noble
deeds were expected, which would prove a restraint stronger than any
which the most respected authority could impose--an obligation to right
and duty neither to be shirked, nor forgotten.




CHAPTER II


The mellow glow of September lay upon green hills and purple mountains,
sleeping in serene content against a tender sky. Over quiet woods, and
gliding river, bordered with ribbons of rich meadows, brooded a sweet
peace, as if nature, after a busy and fruitful season, took her well
earned rest in mood of conscious thankfulness. The very grapes, hanging
in heavy amber clusters below the sloping roof of the low-eaved porch on
which I sat, suggested fruition and content, as if they had stored all
the sweetness possible within their bursting skins, and now rested
thankfully upon their strong stems.

I could see my father salting sheep in the meadow, watered by the
spring-run, below the house, and I smiled as presently he sought the
shade of a spreading elm, and stretched himself full length upon the
ground. The droning of the bees, and the sleepy humming of the flies
added to the lazy influence of the fondling fruit-scented breeze; I
almost nodded over my bullet molding for a moment, then roused myself
and went to work. Saturday was my only holiday, and I could not laze the
morning away unless I were content to miss my one chance during the week
for an afternoon in the forest.

"Good morning, nephew," spoke suddenly a high, strong voice which I knew
to be Aunt Martha's. "Spend you all your spare time polishing firearms,
molding bullets, and shooting animals?"

I turned in my chair, and looked up to see my mother's sister, who was
as unlike her as one sister could be from another--coming up the
sidewalk, and my father leading her pacing mare from the stile,
stable-ward. Aunt Martha's erect and well formed shoulders had a square
set which gave her a masculine air, and she held her somewhat sharp chin
and nose tilted a little upward, as if she felt very sure of her own
convictions. Her brown hair was brushed back severely from her square,
high brow, and her gray eyes met your gaze steadily with a look that was
not unkind, though it was certainly not sympathetic, nor confidence
inviting.

"Good morning, Aunt Martha," I answered, in undisturbed, and cheerful
tones--for I never allowed Aunt Martha to disconcert or overawe me, as
she did her own son, Thomas, and even Uncle Thomas himself--"I'll clear
the way for you in a moment," and I began to push back my chair, rifle
and implements from the middle of the porch.

"Your time might be better spent, nephew, in my opinion," continued Aunt
Martha, as she stood waiting on the step, looking with stern disapproval
first at me, and then at the cluttered floor of the porch. "Our lads, it
seems to _me_," (Aunt Martha always accented the _me_ or the _my_) "are
growing up to be a turbulent and bloodthirsty race, with but the most
carnal ideas of life. Did we but serve God more entirely, and trust Him
more fully, we would depend less upon our own strength and skill, and
more upon Him to defend and take care of us. And after all what is man's
puny strength against the dangers of this life? It is our all powerful
Heavenly Father who must save and protect us."

"True enow, Martha, true enow," broke in the voice of my grandmother,
who appeared just then in the front doorway, her ever busy fingers
picking up and knitting off the stitches from her shining needles with
steady click, "but God has naewhere promised to do His ain work, and
man's as weel. He led the children o' Israel to the Promised Land, and
then bade them fight for a' they wanted o' it, nor did they get ony more
than they could win an' hauld. There's yet need, plenty, for men who can
shoot in this colony, and likely to be for mony lang days to come. Let
the lad alone, Martha; he's fearless, an' sometimes rash, but neither
bloodthirsty nor a brawler," and as my aunt stepped into my mother's
room, adjoining, to lay aside her bonnet, I heard my grandmother add in
somewhat impatient tones,

"I'm glad enow to ken ye're sae pious, Martha, but dinna get to be
fanatical, nor in the way o' going about a' the time with reproof in
your een, an' a sairmon on your lips. You but cheapen our holy religion
sae, an' harden the young an' the unconverted."

My grandmother spoke with a rich Irish accent that it is impossible to
indicate, for it was not a brogue, nor a dialect; it was merely a
full-throated, and somewhat rolling sound which she gave to certain
words. Her language too, was freely sprinkled with Scotch words, and
these she pronounced with broad Scotch accent. The combination was
delightful, and her blended speech added a peculiar charm to the
fascinating stories she could sometimes be beguiled into telling.

"It is strange doctrine, mother, that one may be too pious," answered my
aunt, who certainly did not number meekness among her Christian virtues.
Nor was my grandmother meek spirited, and a warm argument would likely
have followed had not my mother, whose sweet and placid temper was the
oil ready, at all times, to be poured on the threatening argument,
entered the back door at that moment.

With Dulce, the cook woman, to help her she had been making candles all
morning, in the back kitchen--my father having killed a fat beef but a
few days before--and on seeing Aunt Martha's horse led to the stable she
had but waited to hang up the last dipping, and to tidy herself before
coming in to welcome her sister.

"How do you do, Sister Martha," she began cheerily, "I'm more glad than
ordinarily to see you; indeed I was just wishing I could send for you to
eat some of the suet pudding we are boiling for dinner; I know you are
fond of it."

"Yes, suet pudding is a favorite dish of mine," said my aunt, solemnly
and with a deep sigh, "but I am little in the mood to enjoy anything
this morning, Rachael."

"And what troubles you noo, daughter?" asked grandmother kindly, but
with no note of anxiety in her cheery voice.

"I thought you looked pestered, child," added my mother in soothing
tones; "take this chair, it sits easier than that one, and tell us
what's on your mind."

"'Tis about the letter that came yesterday to Thomas," and Aunt Martha
paused, to whet still further her listeners' curiosity, and meantime,
heaved another deep sigh.

"Well, Martha, who writ the letter, an' what was't writ aboot?" somewhat
impatiently from grandmother.

"'T'was writ by a cousin of Thomas', in Baltimore, to bring him news of
his Sister Mary's death, and of her husband's, Owen O'Niel, of the small
pox plague within three days of each other," and again Aunt Martha
sighed.

"But you ken but little o' Mary O'Niel, child, and 'tis near fifteen
years syne you ha'e seen her," remarked my grandmother, a touch of
impatience still audible in her voice.

"They left an only daughter," continued my aunt, "and made dying request
that the child, Ellen, might be sent to Virginia to the care of Mary's
brother. And now Thomas says there's naught else to do but that he must
start at once to bring her to our house."

"Thomas is right, Martha; there's naught else to be doon;--the child
canna weal come sae far alone, e'en by the stages. But I see nae sic
sair trouble in that, though I'm nae denyin' 'twill be something of a
trial to you to spare Thomas for four or five weeks. At the same time
'twill be a welcome opportunity to get some muslins, cap laces, and sic
like things; and Martha, you micht hae him fetch you the table and bed
linens you hae wanted for sae lang," and grandmother's voice sounded as
cheery as a bird's morning carol, while she suggested these substantial
compensations.

"And William will be glad to come over every few days, sister, to advise
with Thomas, who, though he's but a boy yet, is a sensible, steady lad,
and can see that the negroes carry out his father's directions."

"'Tis not the sparing Thomas I am most troubled about, Rachael, though I
like not the prospect of his absence, and son Thomas is in all things a
child yet. That which kept me awake last night was the thought of having
an O'Niel and a Catholic in my household. 'Tis bitter, indeed, after all
our people have suffered from that name and that religion."

"Tut, tut, Martha; you fret me," said my grandmother, almost shrilly,
only shrillness was not possible to her rich voice. "I'd ne'er keep an
old sore running that I micht hae the nursing o' it. And was na' the
great, great grandmaither of yourself an O'Niel and a Catholic? 'Tis nae
fact we hae reason to be greatly proud of, I weel ken, yet O'Niel is nae
low Irish name, nor is the Catholic religion, though it be full of
superstition, sae bad as some folks believe. I hae known, indeed,
charitable and pious Catholics, and there was a time when an O'Niel
stood staunch friend to our family, else I misdoubt me there'd hae been
nae McElroys in America to-day."

"And Ellen is only a child, sister," put in my mother; "we'll make a
good Presbyterian of her in no-time."

"Ne'er by driving," said grandmother; "an O'Niel was ne'er yet driven to
do anything."

"She's fourteen or more, thinks Thomas, and knowing the bigoted and
stubborn spirit of the O'Niels I doubt not she is set in her idolatrous
religion by this time," sighed Aunt Martha.

"But she may be a sweet, tractable child, sister, and since you've no
daughter of your own, and I've always been sorry you did not
have--Jean's such a pleasure to us--this Ellen'll doubtless grow up to
be a great comfort to you."

Getting no response to this cheerful doctrine but another sigh, my
mother got up, and said briskly:

"Come, Martha, I want you to see my cheeses. I never made finer ones,
I'm sure."

The invitation proved too tempting to resist, and Aunt Martha followed
mother into the back entry, wearing still the look of a much burdened
woman. She would forget her role, presently, however, in the interest of
inspecting jellies, and butters, and sampling the new cheeses. My mother
was a famous housewife, and her domestic products were the admiration of
the neighborhood.

"Grandmother," I said, joining her as soon as they were out of hearing,
"who is this Ellen O'Niel who is niece to Uncle Thomas?"

"Well, laddie, 'tis a tangled story, but I will e'en try to unravel it
for you, if you'll hold this hank of yarn till I wind me a good ball."

There was nothing, save hunting, I liked so well as my grandmother's
stories; so I drew my chair in front of her and held my arms as still as
I could, while she wound dexterously, and told me the origin of Ellen
O'Niel.

To-day I can shut my eyes and call up the picture of the "big room" in
the comfortable log house where I was born and raised. Its walls of hewn
logs, brown from smoke and age, and chinked with yellow plastering, were
almost covered with wild skins, and stag antlers; these last used as
rests for muskets, and powder horns. Over its small paned, deep silled
windows hung speckless muslin curtains; upon its floor was spread a
gayly striped rag carpet; and the wooden rocking-chairs were made soft
with skins or feather cushions. The high mantel-shelf was ornamented, at
either end, with squat wide-lipped blue pitchers, and between them two
shining brass candle-sticks, having trays and snuffers to match. In
winter these pitchers were filled with dried grasses and "everlastings;"
in summer with flowers of the marigold, poppy, heartsease or
love-in-mist, and the great fireplace below with feathery asparagus
branches. At all times it was a homely, comfortable room, but cosier
perhaps on winter evenings, when great logs blazed high above the
dog-irons; when between the candles on either end of the long table
against the wall, sat plates of ginger bread, and pitchers of persimmon
beer; when apples sputtered on the stone hearth, filling the room with
spicy fragrance, and roasting chestnuts popped in the hot ashes.
Especially were we merry on such winter evenings as guests joined the
hearth circle around the blazing logs. Nor were they so infrequent as
you may suppose, for my father, being justice of the county and a man of
substance, kept open house for travelers of all degrees, and, since they
brought us all our news from the outside world, they were always
welcome. On such evenings I was bid to hurry with my lessons, that I
might play a tune for our guests on my fiddle--for music was so rare a
treat in our settlement that even my poor, self-taught efforts were
appreciated.

But I am wandering, as garrulous old age is apt to do, and meantime my
reader waits for my grandmother's story.

"The O'Niels, lad," she began, "lang syne, were a great family in
Ireland, the Earls O'Niel, or the Earls O'Tyrone, as they were called,
being hereditary chiefs o' a powerful clan, in the northern part o'
Ireland. But always they were a turbulent people, an' as was the custom
with mony o' the Scotch an' Irish lads in those days, lived for the
maist part by pillaging their neighbors. Continually, too, they were the
leaders in insurrection against the English power, and as far back as
the reign of King James part o' their lands were forfeited to the croon,
an' were granted or sold to English an' Scotch Protestants, with the
hope that a loyal an' peaceful settlement in the heart o' brawling
Ireland micht help to civilize the people, an' keep them quiet, or at
warst, help to subdue them. 'Twas then our ancestor came to Ulster frae
Scotland, though your father's people not until half a century later.
Our people were sheep graziers an' wool manufacturers, and always
thrifty and prosperous. The Irish, for the maist part, e'en the great
lairds, were idle and shiftless, and lived in a sort of squalid splendor
within their castles, surrounded by bands of clansmen and swarms o'
unpayed retainers.

"Our lands were close to the castles o' Sir Phelim O'Neil, an' I hae
heard my grandmaither say that mony's the time my great grandmaither wad
send welcome gifts o' cheese, an' meat to the maither o' Sir Phelim,
when he would be absent on one of his lang maraudin' expeditions.

"Twas in the year 1641, that the massacre of Protestants took place, and
the besotted, cruel Sir Phelim was thought to be at the head of the
dreadful plot. At first Protestants were only driven from their homes to
wander, starving an' shiverin', aboot the country, refused shelter or
food everywhere, till mony a woman and her bairns perished from hunger
and exposure, and all suffered cruelly.

"Presently the killing began, an' no Protestant in a' that part o'
Ireland escaped save the verra few who found refuge with Catholic
friends. My great grandmaither an' her two young children were amangst
those few fortunate ones, though my great grandfaither was killed. She
lay concealed for weeks in a disused wing o' the O'Niel castle itself,
an' was carefully guarded, an' provided for by old lady O'Niel.

"Afterwards when Cromwell an' his men marched into Ulster to take
revenge, my great grandmaither begged successfully for the lives o' Lady
O'Niel an' her two grandsons. They were not, tho' I am glad to say, the
children o' Sir Phelim, but o' a younger son, who had died before the
massacre. My grandmaither, when she grew up, married Owen O'Niel, an'
'tis there that the one strain o' Irish cooms into our bluid. But this
Owen died young, an' my grandmaither went back to her ain people, with
naithin' to show the Irish in her children, but the name an' accent. My
maither, Jeannie, married, as you know, a full blooded Scotchman,
William Irvine, an' I anaither, Douglas McIlwaine--yet they tell me the
Irish accent has descended as far as me," and my grandmother looked at
me with a half merry, half serious question in her eye.

"Just enough to make your speech roll musically, grandmother. So then I
am a cousin of Ellen O'Niel's as well as Thomas Mitchell?"

"Yes, but verra deestant. She's a direct descendant o' James, a brother
of the Owen who was my ancestor, an' who also married a Scotch lass as
his brother did, in spite of the law an' the custom. The grandson o'
James was amangst the first o' the Scotch Irish settlers who came with
the McElroys, an' aithers to Pennsylvania in the year 1729, in the good
ship, _George and Ann_. The Mitchells came a few years later, an' your
Uncle Thomas' sister married the youngest son o' this first emigrant,
some sixteen years syne."

"They moved from Pennsylvania to Baltimore?"

"Yes; James O'Niel was a shrewd man, and whilst made money in the ship
traffic; but when Thomas was last on, he brought news that James had
lost his ship, and that his business was being taken frae him by richer
traders. Thees child Ellen has nae aither heritage, I suppose, than her
name, an' mayhap beauty--her race are a comely people."

"Poor child!" said I, "'Tis a pity she must come here."

"The purposes o' God in His providences are inscrutable, lad; but that
He maun work final good out o' this event you need nae meesdoot.
Martha's a pious woman, an' her intentions are good, though without doot
she is overly selfrighteous, an' has nae understanding o' the feelings
o' the young. But remember, my son, 'twere better to hae o'er mooch
religion than not enow, an' what e'er experience life may bring you
ne'er lose reverence, lad, for the earnest and beautiful faith of your
forefaithers. Because there be some who pervert its solemnity to
sternness--do not conclude that Presbyterianism is a hard and narrow
faith. There be some, lad, that wad make it appear so, but 'tis in their
perverted minds, an' not in those lofty an' consoling doctrines which
turn life into a joyful though toilsome pilgrimage to a blissful
eternity."

"Should I ever be inclined to think Presbyterianism a cold, hard faith,
grandmother," I answered, "I shall but need to think of you."

"Aye, laddie, think o' your old grandmaither, an' that she told you
thees--that during a pilgrimage o' seventy-five years,--an' my life has
known mony vicissitudes, Donald, an' mooch hardship an' danger--nae
trouble e'er came to her that her religion dinna gie her strength to
endure calmly, and hopefully; and nae joy that her faith dinna make the
sweeter an' brighter--as being but a faint foretaste o' that perfect an'
eternal happiness to which she felt assured she was journeying."

As grandmother spoke these words, there grew upon her face a rapt and
absent look, and her lips parted in a smile of perfect satisfaction. I
like to remember her thus--the silky bands of her white hair shining
beneath her soft cap, her wrinkled hands crossed upon the finished ball,
her alert brown eyes dreamy and tender, and over all her kind, bright
face, that look of pure content--as of faith assured, and Heaven already
realized.




CHAPTER III


Some weeks later the news came that Uncle Thomas had returned, bringing
with him the "Irish lass," and a huge bundle of linens, muslins, laces,
tea, spices, and other goods and delicacies such as were difficult to
come by in our remote settlement. The horses were saddled as early the
next morning as my mother's energetic household management permitted,
and she and grandmother, who sat her horse as erectly as either of her
daughters, rode across the fields to my aunt's, even more eager to
inspect the contents of the bundles, which Uncle Thomas had brought,
than to see our new kinswoman. I accompanied them, on foot, to lay down
the fences, and to watch my grandmother's horse, lest he stumble, though
I did not dare avow the last named object to the dear old lady, who
liked not to be treated as if she were in any sense incapacitated by her
age.

When Thomas and I entered the big room, after stabling the horses, we
could see the three women in the adjoining spare room, gathered about
the bed which was piled so high with "feather-ticks" that my little
mother, standing, could not much more than see the top, on which was
laid out an array of fine dry goods, the like of which had seldom been
seen in our neighborhood.

Aunt Martha, mounted upon the bed-stool, was drawing to the edge of the
bed piece after piece of her treasures, and all were talking volubly as
they examined each article with eyes, fingers, tongues and even noses. I
smiled as the thought came into my mind that Uncle Thomas had used the
wisdom of a serpent combined with the harmlessness of a dove, according
to the Bible injunction, in thus diverting Aunt Martha's worrying spirit
for a while from the Irish lass thrown, so unwelcome, upon their
charities. Uncle Thomas would sacrifice anything for peace in his
household, though he lacked not courage where another than his wife was
concerned.

"Where is our new cousin, Thomas?" I asked, as I hung my hat upon the
stag antlers near the door.

"There," he said, pointing to the farthest window; then, after a
moment's hesitation, he approached her and said, with shy, off-hand
manner, "This is another cousin, Ellen, and his name is Donald McElroy."

The girl, who had been leaning listlessly on the window sill, turned a
thin pale face towards me, and nodded silently.

"You must be very tired, Cousin Ellen," I said as kindly as I could,
moved somehow with sympathy by the utter dejection of her attitude and
expression.

When I spoke directly to her she looked me full in the face, and I noted
the singular beauty of her eyes. They were large, almond-shaped, the
bluest I have ever seen, and rayed with minute, dark lines which
centered in the wide pupils. Moreover, the dark lashes, which fringed
thickly their white lids, curved upward, and when they were lifted
almost touched the gracefully arched black brows. Otherwise her face was
not pretty; it was too long, too thin and too pale; the nose was
somewhat sharp and the lips were compressed in an expression that
denoted either sullenness or restrained misery, while the black hair,
which had been cropped like a boy's, was stubbly and unbecoming.

"I am not tired," she answered, rather scornfully; "I'm very strong."

"But you are lonely," I said, "I wish we had brought Jean with us." Then
casting about in my mind for some more available resource to offer her,
I asked impulsively: "Would you like to go duck shooting this afternoon
with Thomas and me? Jean goes with me sometimes."

"I would like it, but I cannot go."

"And why not?"

"My Aunt Martha says that girls should be satisfied to keep busy within
doors. I am to learn to spin, and to weave, and then I'll not have time
to get lonesome, she says."

"Do you not know how to spin and weave, Ellen? Why, even Jean can spin,
and she's but thirteen," put in Thomas.

"My mother did not make me do the things I detested," answered Ellen
with a flash of her eyes toward Thomas; then to me, with some show of
interest, "Who is Jean?"

"My little sister. What do you like to do, Cousin Ellen?"

"Nothing that's useful."

"Then what sort of play do you like?"

"To shoot, to climb, to swim, to chop wood, to drive sheep and to read."

I opened my eyes wide, I suppose, for I never heard of a girl who liked
such things. "And you can do these things?" I asked.

"Yes, my father taught me, and my mother said I needed outdoor life to
make me strong, and at night my father would read to us, or else my
mother would teach me."

"But you may like to spin; Jean does."

"No; I shall hate everything I have to do here; I would rather have died
than to have come." As she said this I noticed a singular quality in her
voice, though not until afterwards did I analyze it. There was a sort of
tremor in certain tones, though tremor is, perhaps, too strong a word,
since it was rather the suggestion of a harp-like vibration.--like the
faintest echo of a sob.

"I wish I might have died when my mother did," she continued, with
rising passion. "Why did God leave me alone in the world with no one to
love me?" and the strange child burst into a storm of weeping, and ran
out of the room, her face hidden by her arm, her slight body shaken by
sobs.

"Isn't she queer, Don?" said Thomas, while Aunt Martha came from the
room to inquire what was the matter, followed by my mother and
grandmother.

"O, 'twas Ellen," I explained, making as light of the matter as
possible; "she was answering our questions, and spoke of her mother,
which started her to crying."

"Poor child!" said my mother; "I do not wonder she is unhappy, having so
recently lost both her parents."

"She is by no means humbled by her afflictions, nor does she seem ever
to have been taught respect and obedience," replied Aunt Martha. "Last
night I stayed in her room to see that she said her prayers, and when
she kneeled down she began to count the beads about her neck and to kiss
the crucifix hung to them. I called her to me, and asked her if she did
not know they were idolatrous symbols, that she was breaking the second
commandment in using them, and that she ought to pray to the unseen God
rather than to a wooden cross; and then I bade her give me the beads
that I might put it out of her power to sin in that way again. But she
refused to give them up, said they were the last thing her mother had
kissed, and that her father had told her to say her prayers to them
every day; then she grew violent and said she would part with them only
with her life. I took her to her Uncle Thomas this morning, and urged
him to remonstrate with her, but she again became angry and wept and
stormed till Thomas bade me let the child's beads alone; since they were
the gift of her dead parents, he could not see how they could do her
harm, even though she did attach a superstitious importance to them. So
you see, mother, that already this Irish girl is bringing trouble to my
household, as I was forewarned she would. Last night was the first time
I have ever heard Thomas say a word in favor of idolatry, and not for
months has he spoken to me so sternly."

"But, Martha, you dinna use due discretion with the child," said my
grandmother; "couldna you hae waited till she hae gotten used to her new
surroundings, an' her grief for her parents had some abated, afore you
began to abuse her religion? You will soon hae the child set in stubborn
defiance, at this rate; hae na' I told you that ne'er yet micht an
O'Niel be driven--that they wad be easier led to hell, than driven to
heaven?"

"Such language sounds irreverent to me, mother," Aunt Martha replied,
with her most pious air, "and if that is the character of the O'Niels
they must be a stiff necked people. In my opinion anyone should be
grateful to be driven in the right way. But, be that as it may, I cannot
risk the effect of an idolatrous example upon my own children, even
could I bring myself to tolerate such practices in my house. If Ellen
persists in saying prayers to her beads she must do so without my
knowledge or consent, and I shall consider it my duty to speak out
against such practices whenever the opportunity is afforded."

"Well, Martha, you maun need take your ain way, and reap the fruit of
it," said my grandmother, in her sharpest tone; and my mother as usual
rushed in with soothing words, diverting the conversation into smoother
channels, by further laudation of the beauty of the table linens they
were already beginning to hem.

Ellen did not come into dinner, and no one appeared to notice her
absence, though Uncle Thomas watched the door, I thought. After dinner I
took my rifle on my shoulder, and went down to the canebrake where I
hoped to find a flock of wild ducks. Thomas had been sent by his father
with more seed to the fields, where the men were sowing wheat, so could
not go with me. I went by the dining room, and found platters of wheaten
bread, and spice cake still on the side table with which I filled my
pockets, for my appetite would be as hearty as ever in three hours, and
I might need bait for the ducks.

My way lay under a sycamore tree, on the edge of the creek behind the
barn, and as I stooped to pass beneath a low bough, something jumped
from a branch just before me. I raised my head quickly, and saw the
child, Ellen, standing in the path.

"May I go hunting with you, now?" she said, eagerly. "You asked me this
morning, so I brought my bonnet, and I have been watching for you."

"But you've had no dinner."

"I'm not hungry, and I can't eat when she looks at me."

"Who?"

"The one I must call Aunt Martha; do _you_ like her?"

"Well, I never thought about it, much, but I don't believe I am as fond
of her as I ought to be."

"Ought to be,--why?"

"She is my real blood aunt, you know--my mother's sister."

"That's nothing. She's hateful, just as much as if she weren't--this
morning she stole my crucifix--I left it on my dresser, and it's gone.
O, I know she stole it!"

"Don't let's talk about that now," I said, "but sit down here and have
lunch together. I'm hungry still, though I've had my dinner." This was
not strictly true, but I managed to eat enough to keep her at it till I
thought she was satisfied, and then I bade her follow me, and not to let
me walk too fast for her.

She scouted the idea, saying: "My father was tall, like you, and walked
fast always, and he never had to wait for me."

She kept up without seeming to try, and helped me to pile brush for a
blind on the edge of the brake, keeping as still as possible when we
were hidden behind it.

A flock rose presently, and flew straight over our heads toward the
river. I took aim, brought down one, then loaded quickly, and hit a
second, as the flock circled, calling noisily to each other.

Ellen ran fleetly into the marshy grass, and brought both of the dead
ducks to me.

"I wish you had two rifles with you," she said, her eyes shining with
excitement. "I might be loading one, while you shoot the other."

I smiled at her enthusiasm. "The next flock that rises is yours," I
said, "I want to see how well you can aim."

In less than half an hour we again heard a whirring in the brake, and
this time the flock flew low, and between us and the river, affording
Ellen a fine chance. She waited with a coolness that surprised me, then
took careful aim and shot the leader.

"Well done!" I said, seizing the gun to reload, and getting it ready to
pick off one of the scattered flock before they could all get back into
the brake.

By the time the light began to fail we had six ducks, two of which Ellen
had killed. Already we were good friends, and the child looked so happy,
as she tripped lightly beside me, that I could not believe that she
would ever again seem to me sullen and forbidding as she had that
morning.

"It's a pity you're a girl, Ellen," with the patronizing air of a youth
of nineteen.

"I wish I were a boy!" with a profound sigh; "I'd live in the woods, and
eat roots, berries, and game; I'd never have to weave and spin for my
keep, then. Why must I wear skirts and live in the house just because
I'm a girl, Cousin Donald?"

"I'm not sure I can give a better answer than the one Aunt Martha would
likely make you. God fixed it that way. He meant women for the home, and
men for the fields and for war. There's one good thing, maybe, about
being a girl--that is, some persons might think it a compensation,--you
will never have to fight, or go to war."

"I think fighting would be fine, a heap more fun than staying at home
and hearing about it. Don't women ever go to war?"

"Of course not, child, though in this valley they have more than once
helped to fight Indians."

"I do wish I were a boy," she repeated, "or I'd like better still to be
a splendid, big man like you."

This flattery, whether intentional or not, had its effect upon me, and I
constituted myself Ellen's champion from that moment. When we reached
the house I marched boldly in with her to Aunt Martha, and after
announcing that I had taken the child to the river to pick up ducks for
me, made Aunt Martha a peace offering of half of them.




CHAPTER IV


My father had destined me for a lawyer, there being at that time need
for one in our valley--a fact which sounds strangely now, when knights
of quill and ink horn are everywhere so numerous. An accumulation of
legal lore requiring, as was then thought, the deep laid foundation of a
thorough classical education, I was sent, after old David Ramsey had
imparted to me such measure of his learning as his failing powers
permitted, to the Augusta Academy, to continue my Greek and Latin, while
at the same time I read Coke and Blackstone, and practiced on legal
forms.

We had just begun a second session of eleven months, and I flattered
myself I was making some progress in comprehending the great underlying
principles of law, as well as in unlearning certain faults of
pronunciation and scanning acquired under old David, when my studies
encountered a sudden interruption in an event whose influence upon my
after life was of sufficient importance to justify me in briefly
recording it.

The class room that August afternoon was hot and buzzing, and most of
the lads in the Greek class awaited the coming of the master with a sort
of drowsy impatience, while a few bent their eyes upon well thumbed
books, and read the coming lesson over greedily, hoping to make up for
previous neglect by diligent use of an unexpected respite. When the
master did come, he had an absent and very serious look upon his face,
and he heard us recite with surprising indifference to mistakes. We knew
intuitively that he held something in waiting, to tell us as soon as the
lesson should be over, and a subdued inward excitement quickly
counteracted our drowsiness.

After the last line had been recited, he got on his feet, his tall gaunt
figure, stern mouth and Roman nose more impressive than usual, and told
us, as quietly as if he were announcing the next day's lesson, that news
had been received of a confederated rising of the Indians in the Ohio
Valley, and that Colonel Lewis had been ordered to call out the militia,
to enlist volunteers, and to march to the frontier to meet the savages.
He, the master, being a militia man, was in duty bound to go, and as it
was but two days to the one set for the mustering, he would not meet his
class again until his return--if it should be God's will to spare his
life and liberty, and allow him to come back to more peaceful pursuits.
Meantime, he hoped we would not neglect our studies, or grow careless of
our duty to our parents, and our country. That duty, at present, was to
train our minds by constant exercise, and to fill our brains with varied
knowledge, that we might become useful and honored citizens in a
commonwealth, standing upon the threshold of a future which promised to
be one of glorious and continued progress. Then he bade us good-by
feelingly, and left us, each one envying him his chance of adventure and
danger, and each sheepishly conscious of tears in his eyes. A moment
later I made a sudden but resolute decision, and having put my books,
desk, and other school belongings in the care of a fellow student,
struck out across the fields, and walked the twelve miles to the home
stile by sunset.

"Father," I said, before he had time to express astonishment, "I am
going with Colonel Lewis to whip the Indians."

The day after the next, my father accompanied me to the mustering, and
gave full consent to my enlistment for the campaign.

The long march we made through an almost trackless wilderness, and the
effectual check we gave Cornstalk and his warriors, are, now, facts of
history, and since they in no way serve to help on my story, I must
resist the temptation to dwell upon our brief campaign. I cannot even
stop to point out convincingly the far reaching and most important
consequences to the cause growing out of this victory. But this much of
a digression must be forgiven me--though my story halts while I say it.

Had not the strength and confidence of the Shawnees, and the tribes
confederated with them, been shaken at Point Pleasant, and the prestige
and influence of the brave and capable Cornstalk destroyed, the Indians
would, doubtless months before, have made impossible that intrepid
defiance of Washington, the memory of which we Scotch Irish cherish with
so much pride:--that he would never surrender but if driven to bay would
make a last stand in the mountain fastnesses of Augusta; and, rallying
to his aid those brave pioneers, yet bid defiance to the enemy and hope
to pluck victory from apparent defeat. Nor, had there been no battle of
Point Pleasant, would a dauntless rifle company have been available for
service under the gallant Morgan, to march to Quebec, to win the
decisive battle at Freeman Farm, and the telling victories of King's
Mountain and of Cowpens.

       *       *       *       *       *

Returned from the Ohio, I went back to my books, but I could not settle
down contentedly to Latin odes and Greek classics. The excitement of the
march, the battle, and the victory, had aroused within me a sleeping
aptitude for the life of a soldier, and I chafed at the prospect of a
safe and uneventful career.

At Christmas I had two weeks' holiday, and what time I was not tracking
game in the snow, was spent breaking the colts to the cutter, or
coasting on a plank down the steepest hills to be found, with Jean and
Ellen O'Niel behind me. My grandmother, who did not share the universal
disapproval of the Irish child's "defiant spirit," had persuaded my
mother to have Ellen over to spend the holidays with Jean, using the
adroit argument, with both my mother and Aunt Martha, that Jean's gentle
and tractable spirit might have a good influence over the untamed Ellen.
She had come, but not very graciously, and sat silent among us, for the
first day and evening, looking sullen and unhappy.

Few could resist, however, the contagion of our kindly home atmosphere,
and by the second morning, Ellen had melted sufficiently to smile at
grandmother's quaint jokes and stories of Ireland. By dinner time she
was ready to listen with interest to some of my father's pioneer
experiences, and that night when mother bade me give her a relation of
my fight with the panther, she listened with flushed cheeks and shining
eyes. We were by this time drawn in the usual family circle about the
glowing fireplace, from which roasting apples and chestnuts were sending
forth a rich odor. Mother sat in her special corner, her head resting
against the panther's skin, and father sat beside her, grandmother
opposite, and I near her on the settle, while Jean nestled close to me.
Thomas, who occupied the other end of the settle, wore a radiant face,
for he enjoyed the absence of restraint which he found nowhere but with
us, and all the sullen reserve was gone from Ellen's countenance.

Presently Ellen, who so far had deigned only to answer us, began to
talk. At first she barely asked a question into which interest or
surprise had betrayed her, or made an occasional impulsive remark. But,
as her reserve melted in the genial and sympathetic atmosphere, the
sluice gates of pent up memories seemed suddenly to open, and she talked
freely, relating anecdotes and reminiscences of her childhood, and
showing a depth and warmth of emotion which surprised us. These led her
on to repeat some of the stories her father had read or told to her.
They were chiefly tales from Shakespeare's "Tempest," "Winter's Tale,"
"Hamlet," and others of the more fantastical and tragic of these dramas.
None of her listeners had read them, then, though I had heard of
Shakespeare, the great English playwright. We were all charmed, as much,
perhaps, by the flashing expressions of intelligence and feeling which
transformed Ellen's face into one almost of beauty, as by the stories
themselves. Moreover that emotional quality of her voice, so prone to
subtle vibrations, added a special charm to all she said.

"Now, Donald," said my father, when Ellen seemed to have spent her
present memories, and had lapsed into her usual quiet, "get your fiddle,
and let's have a tune."

Jean ran at once to bring my violin, and I did my best to add my share
of entertainment to the evening's innocent pleasures.

"Ellen can sing sweeter than a lark, or a red bird," said Thomas, as I
paused to rest my arm.

"Can she?" from Jean with eager delight. "I do love singing; sing for
us, Ellen."

"I can sing only the Irish and Scotch ballads, and the Catholic hymns my
mother used to sing," answered Ellen, flushing. "I do not know the
solemn songs you people sing, and I shall never learn them"--the last
said in a defiant tone which the occasion scarcely called for.

"Our psalms are vera sweet an' sacred to us, my dear," remarked my
grandmother, with no apparent recognition of the challenge in Ellen's
voice, yet choosing her words with a precision that was evidence of
slight displeasure, "but we like aither sangs too, an' sing them except
on the Sabbath. I love the Scotch and Irish ballads, an' though you hae
already done your share aboot making the evening go by pleasantly for us
a', we'd greatly like a sang or twa, if ye dinna mind to pleasure us
further."

"It's a delight to please you, grandma," said Ellen impulsively, and she
rose from her chair, slipped behind the settle and dropped upon the
floor beside grandmother, kissing as she did so, one of the soft,
wrinkled hands folded in her lap. Then, resting her head against
grandmother's knee, she fixed her eyes upon the dancing flames, and
began to sing somewhat unsteadily, but with more fullness and
confidence, as she continued. Her voice did indeed soar and swell like a
redbird's, and she threw all her heart into her singing, while the
quaint words of the old ballads slipped meltingly from her lips, as
drops of dew from the petals of a flower.

"Why, my dear, I hae na' been up sae late for years," remarked
grandmother, in a tone of alarm as the clock struck midnight; then
stroking Ellen's hair, which was growing out in loose curls, "You g'ie
us mouch pleasure, dear, but it's bedtime now, for a'. Come, Jean and
Ellen! Good night a', and a merry Christmas to you."

Not only were cider and persimmon beer drawn from the full barrels in
the cellar, but a big bowl of apple toddy was concocted early Christmas
morning, and flanked by plates of doughnuts, and ginger bread, raisin
and spiced cake, apples, and nuts, sat upon the long table in the big
room, all day, every one being free to eat and drink his fill. This
custom of my father, which usually drew to our house most of the men
within a ten mile ride, always scandalized my Aunt Martha, and but for
Uncle Thomas' backing we would never have gotten Ellen and Thomas to our
house until after Christmas day. Uncle Thomas himself always came,
however, and on this occasion Aunt Martha broke her rule and came with
him, bringing too their younger son, John.

I observed a change come over Ellen's face as soon as Aunt Martha
appeared in the doorway; she seemed to draw within herself, and her face
took on the sullen expression which so marred its comeliness, and
presently when I looked about for her, she was nowhere to be found.

"Ah, Rachael," said Aunt Martha, glancing toward the laden table between
the two southern windows, and shaking her head in solemn disapproval, "I
see you have not yet been able to persuade William of the sinfulness of
this habit of his, of offering the intoxicating cup to all comers, at
this season. Strange perversion, that this holy Christ festival should
be turned into an occasion for gluttony and rioting."

"William has his own ideas, Martha, and I do not set mine against him,"
I heard my mother answer, from the doorway, as she followed my aunt into
the bedroom. "The neighbor gentlemen will all be in presently, and a
warming cup will be needed by those who do not stay to dinner."

"You are too meek with William, Rachael, and so fail of due influence.
Wifely obedience is commanded in the Bible, it is true, but I do not
think the sacrifice of our principles is required."

"Preaching still, eh, Martha--" called my father's cheery voice from the
big room, having come in to put another log upon the roaring pile;
"well, you'll have to stop now, for I see Justices McDowell and Willson
riding up, and, as you know, we like not solemn faces in this house on
Christmas day," and he hurried out again to meet his guests, before Aunt
Martha was sufficiently recovered from her indignant surprise to make
him proper answer.

The ensuing hour brought a dozen others, the most substantial
freeholders in the community, nearly all of them members of the church,
as well as men of influence in public affairs. A few drank only cider or
beer, but most of them quaffed full cups of the spiced, apple-seasoned
toddy with evident appreciation, and ate the cakes, apples and nuts
without stint.

I sat about the fire with the men, proud of my privilege, but mother and
Aunt Martha, after ceremonious greetings were exchanged, retired, as was
customary for women when several men were met together. The talk was
animated, and at times exciting, though there was but small difference
of opinion among them. The Boston massacre, and recent unjust
restrictions upon our commerce, were indignantly condemned, and the
determined spirit of the colonists of Massachusetts warmly commended.
Presently it was proposed by Justice Willson, and warmly seconded by my
father, that the citizens of Augusta County, or a committee elected by
them, should draw up resolutions to be sent to the Virginia assembly,
expressing with no uncertain sound their fixed determination not to
submit to tyranny, and to sustain Massachusetts in her noble stand
against injustice and oppression at every hazard. In truth the leaders
of the New England "Town Meeting," could not have shown more fervor nor
more determination than these representative men of this Scotch Irish
settlement in the Virginia mountains. The discussion was unabated still,
and not a man had suggested returning home, when my mother announced
dinner. The table had been lengthened to its utmost, by raising all its
"wings" and putting the side tables at either end; but there was still
no seat for me, so I wandered into my mother's room, and then across the
yard to the kitchen to look for Jean and Ellen. Jean, and John Mitchell
I found, eating turkey livers, gravy and potatoes before the embers,
over which hung the now idle cranes, and Thomas was mending John's sled
at the work bench in the back kitchen. But Ellen was not to be found,
and no one had seen her for two hours. Returning to the house, I mounted
the steps to the room under the gable, where grandma and Jean slept, and
there found Ellen, wrapped in a blanket, and lying prone on the floor in
the stream of sunshine pouring through the western window. Her chin was
supported by her hands and an open book lay before her.

"Are you hiding from Aunt Martha, Ellen?" I asked teasingly.

"I slipped away while she was helping your mother set table," she
answered, "and stole up here to read. I don't often get a chance; your
Aunt Martha keeps me at work from sun up till dark, and then sends me to
bed. She says it is a wicked waste of time to read anything but one's
Bible--and the holy father in Baltimore told me that the way Protestants
presumed to read the sacred book, and determine for themselves its
sacred meaning is blasphemous."

"What book are you reading?" I asked.

"One of the Shakespeare books my father gave me. I have six more like
it," and she held up to my view a small leather bound volume, a good
deal the worse for wear. "I slipped it into my satchel when Aunt Martha
sent me up stairs to get my things, the morning you came for us, but
please don't tell her, Cousin Donald--she said she'd take the books away
from me if she saw me reading them again, for they were not fit reading
for me, and I had no time to waste on them."

"How did she know they were not fit reading for you?" I asked, curious
to learn if Aunt Martha had stopped work long enough to examine a book.

"She made Uncle Thomas read some out of one of the volumes to her,"
answered Ellen, smiling in response to my thought. "And she said, at
breakfast table next morning, that a great deal of it had neither sense
nor meaning, and the part she could understand was about fighting and
killing, or else foolish love stuff--all of it unfit for any young
person to hear. She wanted to burn my books, as she did my crucifix, but
I ran and hid them, and cried so, all day, that Uncle Thomas said 'Let
the child's books alone, Martha; her father gave them to her; if they
harm her it's no fault of yours.'"

"Is the reading as good as your telling of the stories, Ellen?"

"Oh, so much nicer. There are beautiful things I could never say;
listen," and she read me a passage from "Romeo and Juliet." "Isn't that
like music? The very words have a tune to them without thinking of the
meaning even."

"Could you lend me the book to read while you are here, Ellen? or
to-morrow, if you will, we'll come up here and you shall read aloud to
me."

"But your mother and father might find out, and tell Aunt Martha."

"We need not conceal our reading from them; they will make no objection
if I tell them the book is harmless--and I suppose it is, even for
girls. I know it is a famous book and counted among the English
classics. I've always meant to read it some day."

"And I'll lend you the other volumes, one by one, if you'll take me bear
hunting the next time you find a track," added Ellen.

"That's a bargain, if my mother will let you go. How old are you,
Ellen?"

"I shall be sixteen my next birthday."

"And when is that?"

"Next November."

"Then you are just fifteen."

"Fifteen and two months," she corrected.

"That is young for you to have read Shakespeare, and to be capable of
appreciating him. Your father taught you so carefully, and read to you
so much because he had no sons, I suppose."

"Perhaps; he used often to wish I were a boy. He used to say I was so
strong, and tall, and had more sense than most women; and when he was
taken sick, after mother's death, he said every few hours--'Oh if you
were only a boy, Ellen, I would not mind so much leaving you alone in
the world; you could soon be independent then, and make your own way!'"

"'Tis a pity, Ellen; you'd make a good man, I'm sure. You are as strong
now as a boy of your age is likely to be, and half a head taller than
John who is but six months younger."

"I dared John to a wrestle, one day in the barn, and threw him," laughed
Ellen, "but I promised not to tell, and you must not twit him about it."

"All right, I won't; but were I John I'd keep on challenging you till I
had proved my superior strength; no girl should throw me! Does Aunt
Martha know?"

"Of course not, Donald. Already she calls me a hoyden, and an untamed
Irish girl--which I am, the last I mean, and proud of it. Did she hear
of my wrestling with John, the bread and water she threatens me with
would be my only diet for a week."

"You'll not have bread and water diet while you are here, at any rate.
But there's my mother calling now; my mouth waters for her Christmas
dinner, for there's no better served in the neighborhood to-day, I
warrant you. Come on; let's go down," and I put the little book in my
pocket, seized Ellen by the hand and pulled her after me, pell-mell down
the stairway where we ran straight into Aunt Martha.

"Ellen O'Niel!" she stopped to say, fixing a stern eye upon her--"you
are the greatest hoyden I have ever seen. I thank a merciful Providence
you are not my daughter."

"Amen, and so do I," said Ellen, in my ear, and as Aunt Martha passed
into the next room, she turned toward me, and pulled her face down into
the most comical imitation of Aunt Martha's solemn countenance. I
laughed heartily, though in truth I did not approve of Ellen's
flippancy. Reverence for religion and respect for our elders were among
the virtues earliest and most faithfully instilled into the breasts of
Scotch Irish children.




CHAPTER V


"Two of the pigs are gone, and I see fresh bear's tracks behind the
barn, Ellen. If you want to go after the beast with Thomas and me, put
on your heaviest boots, get a rifle from the rack, and come on," and I
spoke with a degree of animation which turned upon me the gaze of the
entire family, assembled at the breakfast table. I was not then so sated
a huntsman that the prospect of big game could fail to excite me.

"Why, Donald, you are not thinking of taking Ellen bear hunting with
you?"

"And why not, mother? She wishes to go, she handles a rifle well enough,
and there's no danger with three guns against one poor bear."

"Oh, Aunt Rachael, please let me go; I have never seen a bear, and it
must be beautiful in the forest to-day."

"Might as well let her go, mother," put in my father; "the boys will
take care of her, and it will be an experience she will like to tell
when she is an old woman. Besides, it is well enough for her to learn
courage and coolness in facing danger--the women in this valley may need
such qualities in the future, as they have in the past."

"I can't see why you care to go," said little Jean, shuddering
involuntarily, her brown eyes fixed in amazement upon Ellen's eager
countenance.

"May I go, Aunt Rachael?" urged Ellen.

"Well, child, I suppose so, since your heart seems set upon it. Do be
careful, Donald, and get back before sundown."

We followed the print of the bear's feet across the meadow behind the
barn, and then around the curve of a low range of hills to the edge of
the forest, walking Indian file, Ellen between us, and stepping, as I
bade her, in my tracks. The air was so crisp and buoyant that we were
half intoxicated by long, full breaths of it, and went skimming over the
frozen surface as if, like fabled Mercury, we had wings to our heels.
The meadows gleamed and scintillated, and the edge of the hill's
undulating outline shone in opalescent lines, as if the prying rays of
the sun, forcing their way through the thin snow clouds at the eastern
horizon, were disclosing a ledge of hidden jewels. The world all about
us was downy soft, radiantly pure, and familiar fields and hills took on
a strange newness, in which perspective was confused and outlines
blurred; white fields melted into white hills, hills merged into white
sky, and one might, it seemed, walk out of this world into the next
without noting the point of transition.

The forest was stranger still, and even more beautiful. There was but
little snow on the ground, and the dry leaves under it rustled beneath
one's feet with homely, cheerful sound, but overhead stretched a
marvelous canopy of graceful feather laden branches, each giant of the
forest being powdered as carefully as any court dame, and, like her,
gaining a sort of distinction for its beauty by this emphasis to its
height and grace.

"Am I walking too fast for you, Ellen?" I asked soon after we had
started.

"No; but you step too far," she called back merrily. So I shortened my
stride a little, and again insisted on carrying her rifle, getting this
time her consent.

"The forest is like a place enchanted," said Ellen with rapt face, as we
waited at the edge of the woods for Thomas to catch up. "How warm and
snug one could sleep under that low boughed pine, yonder; I'd like to
live in the forest were there no panthers, wolves, or bears."

"But the beasts have possession, and sometimes I almost wonder if we
have a right to drive them with gun and knife out of their inherited
haunts."

"As we do the Indians."

"I have more sympathy for wild beasts than for the red savages; the
beasts are not treacherous, nor cruel for sport."

"Have you lost the bear's track, Don?" interrupted Thomas; "if not, what
are you stopping for?"

"We are admiring the forest--but I have kept my eye on the track, all
right. There it goes off to the left; we'll find him, I suspect, fast
asleep in some hollow log."

My surmise was correct, for the track led us to a large fallen tree a
mile within the forest. The bear, having gorged himself on the pigs, was
curled within for a good nap.

"We'll have to smoke him out," said Thomas, beginning to look about for
dried leaves and twigs. We piled them into the smaller end of the log,
and then lit them with our tinder-boxes, after which we stood about the
larger opening and waited watchfully.

"You shall have the first shot, Ellen," I said. "Stand a little to one
side, and aim either at his throat, or behind one of his ears."

The bear could not stand long the stifling smoke of the pungent leaves,
and with a muffled roar, interrupted by a wheezing cough, he backed
awkwardly out of the tree, then turned to look about him for an avenue
of escape. But his captors, with ready rifles, stood in close range
around him, and behind him burned the log, its murky smoke and lapping
blaze limning weirdly the beast's shaggy bulk, against the white forest.

"Shoot, Ellen!" I called, for she stood as if spellbound, her eyes fixed
upon the crouching, growling animal. She pulled her trigger then, but
with nerveless fingers, and her ball whizzed just above the bear's head,
cutting off one-half of his right ear. With a roar of pain the furious
animal was upon her, the weight of his huge body throwing her down, and
half burying her in the snow. For an instant my brain rocked with
horror; I dared not shoot, for I could not distinguish Ellen's form from
the bear's in the cloud of flying snow which surrounded them, and every
instant I feared to hear a cry of agony, and the crunching of Ellen's
skull between the creature's iron jaws.

"I must risk it," I swiftly concluded; and with quick intake of my
breath, I raised my rifle to my shoulder, stepped back a pace, and took
the aim of my life. Providence guided the ball, which severed the
beast's spinal column just at the base of his brain. In another instant
I was dragging his shuddering bulk from Ellen's body, lest he crush her
in the death struggle.

Ellen was as pallid as the snow she lay upon, and as motionless. Her
long lashes made a light shadow on the waxen cheeks, and the dark
ringlets dropping over the brow were like charcoal by contrast with its
marble. When I lifted her head upon my arm, I saw a ragged wound upon
her neck, just behind her right ear, and from it ran trickling a crimson
rill, down the soft throat to the still bosom. Her clothes were torn
from her right shoulder, and there the flesh showed marks of the
animal's teeth in the midst of an ugly bruise.

Thomas had dropped white and limp upon a log, and, great boy as he was,
began to cry.

"She's dead, Don, she's dead! Oh, why did we let her come--what shall we
do?"

"Hush," I said angrily; "she's not dead, only stunned, I hope," and I
gathered handfuls of snow, which I rubbed gently upon her forehead and
cheek, and then forced between her lips a few drops of gin from my
pocket flask. Seeing that she swallowed the gin mechanically, I poured a
good spoonful upon her tongue, and chafed her hands vigorously till she
opened her eyes and recognized the faces bending over her.

"Where's the bear, Donald?" she asked, as quietly as if she had just
wakened from a vivid dream.

"Dead," I answered cheerfully; "you shall have the skin for a rug."

"But I didn't kill him," in disappointed tones. "I got frightened and
aimed badly--I'd never do for a man, after all."

"You'd make a better man than Thomas; he began to cry as soon as he saw
you were hurt, and you haven't yet complained of the scratches the bear
gave you."

"They sting some," she said with a grimace, putting her hand to her
wound, and sliding it down to her shoulder. "Why, Donald, my clothes are
torn," and a faint flush tinged her cheeks, while she tried to sit up
and to pull her shredded garment together.

"The bear bit you there; it is well mother made you put on this buckskin
jacket over your pelisse. Does the place hurt you much?" and I knelt
beside her to examine her shoulder more carefully.

"It aches, while the hurt on my neck smarts," and she flushed again, and
shrank from the touch of my fingers on her bare flesh.

And I, too, was suddenly embarrassed, while a new thrill went through
me. "The shoulder bone is not crushed," I said, after a careful
examination which gave Ellen some pain, "nor is the wound very deep;
doubtless, though, it will hurt a good deal, besides making your
shoulder stiff and helpless for a while. We must bandage the wound
somehow, till we can get home, and we must find a way to exclude the
cold air from it."

Thomas, who had sat by, flushed and silent since I had chidden him for
blubbering, picked up the torn jacket I had stripped from Ellen's
shoulders, and disappeared behind the tree. Presently he came back with
his own flannel shirt and a bunch of linen strips across his arm,
himself reclad in the torn jacket, which had been pinned together, after
some sort, with small thorns.

"I beg your pardon, Thomas," I said, grasping his hand as I took the
bandages from it.

"'Twas the sight of her so white and still," replied Thomas, looking yet
mortified and hurt.

"Thank you, dear Thomas," said Ellen, smiling upon him; "your tears were
only symptoms of a tender heart. I'm glad you were sorry for me; Donald
did not care enough to cry."

Now that was very unkind of Ellen, for I had been sick with fright and
apprehension for her, and would have rather been torn in pieces by the
beast, myself, than to have carried home in my arms that still, white
form. But I made no response to Ellen's accusation; I only set my lips,
and plastered and bandaged her wounds as best I could.

Our homeward journey was very unlike the cheerful tramp of the morning,
for Ellen tottered as she walked, and I had need to support her with my
arm, while Thomas carried the guns and powder-horns. The snow no longer
gleamed and sparkled, for the afternoon light was hazy and dull, and the
sky a cold, smeary gray. Forest, field and hill were but the component
parts of a commonplace winter landscape, and bear hunting something else
than a glorious adventure through an enchanted forest.

And I was not the same, nor Ellen. She was become all at once a woman,
shy, reserved, conscious of my touch, leaning on my arm no more than
necessity required. And I, though half vexed at the change in her, and
grieved that I had lost so congenial a comrade--for I knew intuitively
that our intercourse would never again be so unrestrained--nevertheless
found her more interesting, more alluring because of this very change
which put a distance between us, and which had in it a touch of
mystery:--as the forest had been that morning the fairer, for that
unnameable magic with which nature veils herself in her stiller haunts.




CHAPTER VI


The conversation around our Yule fire, to which I had listened with such
eager absorption, had caused my budding convictions to bloom in an hour
into fully expanded principles. I had caught the fever of patriotism
running like an epidemic through the land. Were not we of Scotch Irish
race and Presbyterian faith pledged already to the cause since the first
blood shed for American liberty was the blood of the Scotch Irish
Presbyterians, spilled at the battle of Alamance, when the stern North
Carolina "Regulators" had risen, like Cromwell's "Ironsides," against
the tyranny of their royal governor? The "Boston Tea Party," therefore,
found quickest sympathy among the Scotch Irish of the Southern and
Middle States, and the earliest and grimmest of the resolutions sent up
to the several assemblies, urging that Massachusetts be sustained, and
kingly tyranny determinedly resisted, came from the towns and counties
settled by these people. "Freedom or death" was the consuming sentiment
in the hearts of many Scotch Irish Americans for months before the
typical orator of that race thrilled a continent by speaking those
immortal words, "Give me liberty, or give me death."

       *       *       *       *       *

The first call issued by Congress for troops named seven rifle companies
to be recruited in Pennsylvania, Maryland and Virginia. Again I put
aside my books, only this time I gave them to a fellow student who
sorely needed them, and went home to tell my father that I meant to
enlist. I recall as vividly as 'twere yesterday that calm spring
afternoon when I took the short cut across flower spangled meadows, and
bosky, sweet scented woods to the humble home which had given me a youth
so rich in love and happiness, but which I was so soon to leave for
privations, dangers, and temptations such as had not yet entered into my
imagination.

It was the year of my majority, and I was already mature in physical
development. Even in our neighborhood of "brawny Scotchmen" I was called
tall, measuring six feet three inches in my moccasins, and though
somewhat spare, was broad of shoulder, long of limb, muscular, agile,
and deep winded; moreover, I could ride and shoot with the best man in
the valley. More proud was I, at this time, of my strength, and the keen
sight of my gray eyes, than of my brown, curling hair, and the general
comeliness of my appearance, in which my mother took such pride. A few
months later I was to have my hour of vanity, and to eat the fruit of
it.

Few men, I imagine, can separate their lives sharply into boyhood and
manhood, but mine I can. That last Christmas holiday of my schooldays
marked the line of division, and I took the first step across it the day
I saved Ellen from the bear's fangs, and the second the hour I formed
the resolution to shoulder my rifle for American liberty. My father, it
is true, had chosen to treat me as a man, since the Indian raid, but
from the hour I made up my mind to enlist I put aside childish things,
and bore myself with a consciousness of manhood's power.

       *       *       *       *       *

A stranger sat on our porch who, hearing me announce impetuously to my
father, as he came to the top of the porch steps to meet me, that "I
meant to enlist in one of the rifle companies," sprang up from his
chair, seized my hand, shook it heartily, and said with a genial smile,
and cordial tone that made my spirit go out to him at a leap,

"You're a lad after my own heart, sir! Are there many more like you in
this valley? How old is your son, Justice McElroy?"

"Not long past twenty, sir. Donald, this is Captain Morgan, the renowned
Indian fighter of whom you have so often heard. He is in the
neighborhood to enlist men for his rifle company, so you have not far to
go to fulfill your purpose."

I looked now, you may be sure, with fresh interest at the powerful but
graceful figure before me. He was nearly as tall as I, but broader and
heavier; his tanned, handsome face was marred by a scar on the right
cheek, and I noted even in this first hasty scrutiny an indication of
stubborn will in the set of his lips, and a dare devil gleam in his fine
eyes that would make one hesitate to pick a quarrel with him.

"I have found my captain," I thought, my pulse throbbing joyously, just
as he spoke again, with that ring of cheerful courage in his voice which
I was to learn to know so well, and so often to be inspired by.

"That we shall win admits no doubt if I can enlist a company of muscular
young giants like you. Can you shoot, lad?"

"Aye, that he can," laughed my father, well pleased, I could see, by
Captain Morgan's manner toward me. "Cut off a squirrel's head at a
distance of three hundred yards. And there are other marksmen in our
valley that can fully equal him, though few as tall as my son Donald,"
and he laid a caressing hand upon my shoulder.

"You shall be one of my sergeants, lad," continued Captain Morgan,
seizing my hand again, "and to-morrow you must ride with me to enlist as
many like you as this neighborhood affords."

"Unfortunately, Captain Morgan," said my father, "some of those who
would like nothing better than the opportunity to strike a blow for our
rights, dare not leave their families and homes here unprotected,
subject as we are to the raids of the savages from across the mountain.
Enough able-bodied men must be left in the valley to turn back Indian
forays, though, since our victory over them at Point Pleasant, our
danger is not near so great. Still a score or more recruits may be had
in this neighborhood, I doubt not."

"May I ask, Captain Morgan, whither we are to march after our quota has
been recruited?" I questioned.

"Straight to Boston, where we will have a chance to drill."

"And to fight also, I hope."

"Amen, lad, say I to that! and may there be other of your brave spirit.
I like not this dallying, this parleying with the stubborn king, who but
deludes us with promises while he gains time to equip and to land his
troops upon our shores. And I am beginning to think that this talk of
our Congress that we take up arms as loyal subjects of England, to force
from the crown redress of our grievances, goes not far enough. Only a
democracy where all are free and equal, and where the stakes are worth
the risks and privations to be endured, is suited to the genius of this
vast and virgin continent. Under no other form of government may she be
rightly developed."

"Nor are you alone, sir, in that opinion," replied my father. "None
other is held in this valley, as the memorial sent up to the assembly by
the county committee of Augusta in February last can testify. Were the
Scotch Irish settlers of this country consulted, Captain Morgan, our
declaration of independence would be speedily proclaimed; Patrick
Henry's burning words but voice the sentiment of his race."

"The timid and the half-hearted may not yet be safely set in opposition,
perhaps," answered Captain Morgan, "and Congress is beset with many
difficulties. But 'tis for the independence of the American States I
have drawn my sword"--and as he spoke he sprang suddenly to his feet,
straightened his imposing figure and keyed his voice to a clarion
pitch--"nor will I sheathe it again, save death or bodily infirmities
intervene, till the glorious cause of America's liberty has been
won--till we are a free, self-governing people!"

"I take that oath with you, sir," said I, springing also to my feet.

Then my father, looking up at us from his arm chair, unwiped tears upon
his cheeks, said, in deep, reverent tone: "God grant us victory, and
make this goodly land the home of freedom--a refuge for the oppressed of
all nations!"

       *       *       *       *       *

We found no trouble in enlisting men enough in our valley to complete
the company Captain Morgan was to command, and in three weeks I was
ready to march the Augusta boys to Frederick County, where we were to
join our captain and the rest of the men. The twenty-two boys from our
end of the valley bivouacked all night in our yard, that we might get an
early start the next morning; and that evening the neighbors came from
far and near to give us farewell, and a blessing. Uncle Thomas and his
family came with the rest, Aunt Martha helping to cook the hot supper
which my mother insisted on serving the lads under the trees, that their
home-filled haversacks might be saved for the march.

Thomas wandered about among the men, lying in groups upon the grass in
the shade of the oaks and elms, with a look of distress upon his face
that surprised me. At last he called me to one side, and said with
trembling lips,

"Don, I'd give the next ten years of my life to go with you."

"You are too young, Thomas. Why, you are not nineteen yet."

"There are four boys in the squad no older than I, and I am strong, and
a fair shot."

"Then enlist; it's not too late yet, and the more the merrier."

"But my mother made me give her a solemn promise that I would not. She
wishes me to be a minister, and once I thought I was called, but now I
believe I was mistaken. I couldn't be so wild to go to the war if I had
received a call from heaven to the ministry; but mother says it will
kill her if I turn soldier, after she has solemnly consecrated me to the
Lord. Oh, Donald, what must I do?"

"I cannot advise you to disobey your mother, Thomas," I answered, "but I
am sorry for you."

"Ellen says my life is my own, to live as I please, and that not even my
mother has a right to dictate to me whether I shall be preacher or
soldier," sighed Thomas.

Now I half agreed with Ellen, but the doctrine seemed an irreverent one
to a youth of Scotch Irish raising, so I only repeated, "I think you had
best obey your mother, Tom," which afforded him small consolation. He
answered me with a suppressed groan, and presently went back to the
soldiers.

Hot and tired from the day's labors, I decided, after supper, to cool
myself by a last drink of my mother's delicious buttermilk. The footpath
to the spring wound its careless way down a grassy slope starred with
dandelions, and dusted with milky ways of daisies and pale bluets.
Apple, pear, and peach trees grew in the angles of the worm fence which
separated the garden from the meadow, and they were so full of bloom
that they looked like masses of pink and white clouds drifted down to
earth. There was a crab apple tree among them, and its elusive fragrance
came and went upon the zephyrs which swayed the dandelions and rustled
the blossoms upon the trees. The world about my feet was as fair and
full of mystic charm as the moon-glorified, star-spangled heaven. The
talk, the work, the plans which had filled the last weeks of my life,
seemed out of tune with God's purposes, as revealed in nature--out of
keeping with His beneficent plans for all His handiwork.

Pondering this strange anomaly, of the tendency of God's creatures to
make war continually upon each other, in the midst of a world so fair,
so beneficent, and so peaceful--the solemn mystery of death always
treading close upon the heels of life--of the desolation always
threatening beauty, I passed the springhouse before I knew it, and found
myself at the foot of the hill, where the spring breaks forth to fall
into a natural basin overhung by a broad, jutting rock. As I raised my
eyes to this rock, a vision greeted me which startled me into an
instant's consciousness of superstitious terror. Did I see a ghost at
last--after all my jeering unbelief? Was that slim shape, wrapped in a
white robe standing so motionless on the white rock, the spirit of some
Indian maiden, seeking again the haunts where in life she had met her
lover?

Of course not; it was only Ellen, for now I saw a hand lifted, to push
back the wind blowsed curls from her forehead. Softly I climbed the hill
behind her, and stood at her side, but so rapt was she in her own
thoughts, she did not hear me till I spoke.

"What are you looking at, Ellen?" I asked.

Had I not thrown my arm quickly about her, she would have sprung from
the rock in her startled surprise, yet she did not scream, but regained
her poise in an instant, disengaged herself from my arm, and answered me
calmly--

"At the moon, Cousin Donald."

"'Tis only a round, bright ball, Ellen; why gaze at it so long and
fixedly?"

"'Tis more than a silver ball when one looks at it so. It grows bigger
and deeper, and within there are mountains and caverns, and seas and
plains; mayhap there are people there who suffer and think as we do.
Would you not like to have great wings, Cousin Donald, and fly and fly
through the soft blue air, till you reached the moon?"

"Such fancies have never come into my mind, Ellen. You must have clear
eyes, and a vivid imagination," and I smiled down upon her, not a little
amused by her fanciful conceits.

"If I did not I should die;" then, turning hotly upon me, "How would you
like to walk back and forth, back and forth along a bare floor, with
bare garret walls about you, whirring a great, ugly wheel, and twisting
coarse, ill-smelling wool all day long, day after day? One dare not
_think_, for then one gets careless and breaks or knots the thread, and
yet to keep one's mind upon so dreary, and so monotonous a task is
maddening. Do you wonder I run away, and talk with the flower-fairies,
or the stars, whenever I get the chance?"

"No, Ellen, I don't. I have often thought that women's tasks must be
very wearisome, the endless spinning, weaving, and knitting. I wonder
they have patience for such work."

"I wish I might go to the war with you, Cousin Donald."

"You could never stand the hardships."

"But I think I could. I'd love to sleep out of doors, under the winking
stars, and the friendly moon; I'd love to walk through trackless
forests, across wide, unknown plains, and to come now and then upon some
town or settlement where every one would feast and praise the patriots."

"But what of the cold, hunger and fatigue? of wounds and capture and the
sights and sounds after a battle? It tries even the souls of brave,
strong men to bear such things."

"The soul of a woman might endure as much, and I think I should mind
even those things less than eternal spinning, Cousin Donald."

I laughed now. "You are not yet a woman, Ellen, and you are not doomed,
I trust, to eternal spinning. When I come back from the war we'll go
hunting every day, even though we will have to run off from Aunt
Martha."

"I shall not have a friend left except grandma."

"And Thomas."

"Thomas likes me, yes, but he is too much afraid of his mother to help
me have my way. When you come back you may not find me here."

"Of course I shall; and remember, Ellen, we are always to be good
friends and comrades," and I held out my hand to her.

"Good friends and comrades," repeated Ellen; "I shall remind you one day
when you come home famous, and dignified--if I am able to endure life
with Aunt Martha so long as that," and she put her hand in mine in the
old way of confident comradeship which had gone out of our intercourse
for months. Hand in hand we went back to the house, talking intimately,
she of her thoughts and feelings, I of my plans and hopes.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before sun-up the next morning we were on the march. I had left Jean
weeping bitterly on grandmother's shoulder, and I doubt not the dear old
lady wept, too, when I was out of sight. My mother stood in the doorway,
shading her brave, loving eyes with her hand, that I might not see fall
the tears glittering on their lashes. Father walked beside me at the
head of my little troop for a mile, and, before he left me, took me in
his arms in sight of them all, straining me for an instant to his
breast, and pouring out a patriarch's blessing upon my bowed head.

Our valley looked very fair that day, as we marched northward across it.
The rank wheat rolled in billows of rich green, the springing corn
showed narrow gray green blades, which moved gently to and fro above the
loamy uplands, and the forests, which enclosed the cleared lands on all
sides, were fresh robed in verdure of many hues. Edging the forest like
a jeweled braid grew masses of red-bud, dogwood and hawthorn in full
blossom, and singing along its sparkling way, the river wound in and out
of velvety meadows with deep curves and bold sweeps of bountiful intent,
embracing as much as possible of this fair land that it might scatter
widely its fertilizing influences.

"Boys," I said, pausing on an eminence from which we could see all our
end of the valley, and pointing outward, as I stopped to take a long,
last look, "is it not a land worth fighting for?"

"Aye, aye, sergeant!" came in hearty chorus.

"Then fight for it we will, like brave men and true, nor look backward
again till freedom be won."

"Aye, that we will!" again in deep, full accord, and when all had taken
a lingering look, I gave the command--

"Right about face! Forward!"

Without a backward glance, we tramped onward, our faces forever toward
the enemies of freedom.




CHAPTER VII


Under Morgan we marched to Boston, and a long and weary tramp it seemed,
though in comparison with later ones, I learned to look back upon it as
a pleasant summer's journey. Our uniforms, patterned after Morgan's
habitual dress, consisted of buckskin breeches, leggins and moccasins, a
flannel shirt, over which we usually wore an unbleached linen hunting
shirt, confined with a leathern belt at the waist, and a huntsman's cap
on the band of which was inscribed, "Liberty or Death." From each man's
belt hung a knife, a tomahawk, and a bullet pouch, and each rifleman
carried in his pockets a bullet mold, and a bar of lead; across one
shoulder passed the strap from which hung his powder-horn, and over the
other he carried his rifle with its whittled ramrod of hickory wood.

Our uniforms, our size, and our marksmanship won for us immediate
notoriety and consideration, and not many days were we permitted to be
idle, though it was but comparative idleness we enjoyed, even in camp,
since we were drilled two hours each morning and afternoon, and did our
share of guard duty in the trenches around Boston. In our leisure hours
we taught the Yankees to chew tobacco, and to mold bullets, and learned
in return to rant eloquently upon liberty and natural rights in the
language of Samuel Adams, and John Hancock, and to eat beans baked with
hog middling.

Early in September we were ordered to join Colonel Arnold's command for
a raid into Canada. In addition to our arms, ammunition, and blankets we
must take turns at carrying the light canoes necessary for a part of our
journey, and many miles of our way lay through the tangled undergrowth
of dense forests, or across the treacherous slime of trackless bogs. It
was not long before many of the men were bare footed, half naked, and
weak from insufficient food; for our rifles were soon our dependence for
rations, and game grew scarce as we proceeded northward. Several of the
companies ate their sled dogs with relish. Morgan's men fared better
than the rest, for it was our rule to share equally whatever game we
killed, and we were sure to get a large proportion of all there was to
be found. Moreover, our clothes, being of leather, stood the wear of the
march better than the uniforms of the rest, and many of us could make
rude moccasins of wolf or dog skins.

After two months of toils and privations such as I wonder now we were
able to endure, we reached Quebec with but seven hundred of the thousand
men with whom we had started from Boston. In response to Arnold's daring
summons to fight or surrender, the garrison shut the city's gates in our
faces, and we were compelled to lie in our trenches, and wait for
General Montgomery's reinforcements. On the last day of December, 1775,
in the midst of a blinding snow storm, we attacked Quebec. General
Montgomery soon received the bullet that ended his career, and Colonel
Arnold was wounded shortly after. But for these two untoward
misfortunes, I truly believe we had won the day, and over all Canada and
all British America would now be waving the Stars and Stripes. Be that
as it may, we riflemen came very near to taking Quebec alone and
unsupported, for Morgan took the battery opposed to him, and penetrated
to the very center of the town. Meanwhile, General Montgomery's troops,
broken and disorganized for lack of a leader, and Arnold's, in like
case, were falling back; our opponents were left free to concentrate
their forces upon us, so that, after a fierce resistance, we were
completely surrounded, outnumbered, and compelled to surrender.

We lay in prison at Quebec for nine long months, treated with as much
kindness as is usually accorded to prisoners of war, but chafing like
wild animals in a cage. Captain Morgan told me of the offer, made to him
by one of the garrison officers, that he should be made a colonel in the
British army, if he would but desert "a doomed and hopeless cause," and
of the hot reply he made.

"Sir, I scorn your proposition, and I trust that you will never again
insult me in my present distressed and unfortunate condition, by making
me an offer which plainly implies that you consider me a scoundrel."

At last we were discharged, Captain Morgan on parole, and were carried
in transports to New York. I saw Morgan as he stepped off the boat, in
the brilliant light of a harvest moon, stoop and kiss the soil, and
heard him whisper in a sort of ecstasy, "My country, my country!" My own
heart swelled within me, and I could have done likewise with full
meaning.

Great things, of which we had heard but vague rumors, had happened in
our absence. Boston had been evacuated by the enemy, the attack on Fort
Moultrie had failed, and the Declaration of Independence had been
declared by all the thirteen States. On the other hand, General
Washington had been compelled to yield New York to Howe, and to fall
back to New Jersey, and England was making ready to send army after army
across the ocean to conquer her rebellious colonies.

Though my term of enlistment had already expired, I could not go home in
the midst of such stirring events, so I made haste to Morristown, there
reenlisted, and was put to service as special courier to General
Washington. And now, for the first time, I saw the man to whom all
patriotic hearts turned with hope and pride. His soldierly, dignified
bearing, the look of resolute, yet not arrogant self-consciousness upon
his face, his courteous manner, and the perfectly controlled tone of
voice in which he issued a command, or uttered a rebuke, impressed me
with a confidence that made me from that hour sure of our cause. "With
such leaders as Washington, Arnold and Morgan," I thought, with fervid
enthusiasm and pride, "how can we fail to win?"

       *       *       *       *       *

Not many weeks later my beloved captain, who had been exchanged, and
made a colonel by act of Congress, marched into our camp with one
hundred and eight recruits, most of them from the valley, at his back. I
could hardly wait till he had reported at headquarters before I sought
him.

"'Tis my old comrade, Donald McElroy!" he said, scarcely less moved than
I. "Have you been on duty all this time, lad, with no furlough, no rest?
Ah, many's the time I've told Arnold, that with ten thousand such troops
as my Scotch Irish riflemen, I'd undertake to whip all the armies that
could be sent to these shores."

"I believe you could do it, Colonel," answered I, "but your health, sir?
Are you quite strong again?"

"Never better, lad; even my rheumatism is gone. I've been home, you
know, for five months, and have had nothing but coddling from that good
wife of mine. Six months more of it, and I'd have been unfitted for
further service to my country. My lad, you should marry--how old are
you, sir?"

"In my twenty-third year, Colonel, but as yet I have had no time to look
for a wife," and I blushed like a lass.

"There's yet time enough, without doubt, but a man needs a wife to keep
him from mischief--especially a soldier. I was but a half tamed animal
till Abigail took me in training; ever since I have lived the life of a
gentleman, I hope, and been as happy as a lord. You deserve a good wife,
Donald, and I shall help you to find one, sir."

Despite the embarrassment which such personal interest caused me, I was
greatly pleased to be so noticed by my colonel, and when, a few days
later, he sent for me to tell me that he had named me as one of the
captains who were to command the eight companies of which his regiment
would be composed, I was filled with such joy and pride as I have since
experienced but once--and then upon a very different occasion.

"Donald, lad," said Colonel Morgan, standing at the door of my tent on
an April morning, when the sweet scents and cheerful sounds of early
spring had started a longing in my heart for a look at our valley, "I've
a secret for your ear, and an expedition to propose to you."

"Come in, Colonel," said I, smiling with pleasure of his visit, and
offering my one chair; "I'll be proud to know the secret, and I promise
to keep it well."

"We are shortly to be ordered North to join General Gates, who is to
check the advance of General Burgoyne upon New York, if possible, and
we'll see active service, and mayhap a big battle or two, at last.
Meantime I'm riding home on ten days' furlough, to say good-by to
Abigail, and would you ride with me, I'll grant you leave to go."

"Your invitation is an honor I much appreciate, Colonel, and it will
give me pleasure to go."

"Then be ready, by sun up."

It was about ten o'clock at night, and our horses were stiff jointed,
and without spirit, after three days' hard traveling, when we rode
through the double gates that opened into the driveway circling the lawn
of "Soldier's Rest"--Colonel Morgan's home in Frederick County. The
spacious brick house with its columned porch was in darkness, save for
one brightly lighted room on the left, and a single candle burning in
the hall. Colonel Morgan's spurs and sword clanked noisily on the bare
floor of the hallway, and he called to me, in hearty tones, "Come on,
lad! we'll find Abigail in the red room." As he spoke the door flew
open, warmth and light streamed forth to meet us, and also the sweet
tones of a woman's voice in eager greeting.

"Well, Dan'l! what good fortune brought you back so soon? Oh, but it is
good to see your dear face again!" I hung back in the shadow, with a
lump in my throat, while Mrs. Morgan laid her head on her husband's
breast, and was for a moment clasped in his arms.

"Captain McElroy is with me, Abigail," said the Colonel. "Where are you,
Donald?"

"Here, Colonel," said I, stepping into the light.

"It is a pleasure to welcome you to our home, Captain McElroy," in Mrs.
Morgan's kind tones. "I've heard the Colonel speak of you, and of your
family; walk in, and be resting while I have supper served; you are both
hungry and tired, I am sure."

"That we are, Abigail," and the Colonel set me the example of divesting
himself of muddy leggins, spurs, and top coat--"The smell of your coffee
and fried ham has been in my nostrils for two hours past. Donald, she's
the best housekeeper in the Old Dominion," and he smiled proudly upon
the round, comely, beaming little woman, who, as I soon discovered,
deserved all his praise, for she was equal to my own mother as
housewife.

As I followed Mrs. Morgan into the living room, which was brightly
lighted by half a dozen candles in brass candle-sticks with crystal
pendants, and a pile of roaring logs upon the hearth, I realized
suddenly the presence of a very pretty young woman sitting beside a
candle stand, on one side of the fire place, with a piece of needle work
in her hands. She looked up as we entered, then dropped her eyes again
to her work.

"Colonel Morgan, this is my cousin, Nelly Buford, and this is Captain
McElroy, Nelly."

The young lady rose, dropped me a graceful courtesy, then turned and
held out her hand to Colonel Morgan.

"You do not remember me, Cousin Daniel, but I well recall you, and the
day you came to our house to see Cousin Abigail. I had heard of you as a
famous Indian fighter, and I peeped at you through the half open door,
expecting to see a string of scalps around your waist."

"I had no eyes nor ears then for any woman save Abigail," replied
Colonel Morgan, shaking her hand in his hearty fashion, "but I'll never
forget your pretty face again, Cousin Nelly--be sure of that."

She laughed merrily, and her ease of manner indicated that she was as
much used to pretty speeches as she deserved them. There was a witchery
in her laughing hazel eyes, in the curves of her saucy, full lipped
mouth, in the very tendrils of blonde hair which looped and ringed in
riotous fashion about the small pink ears, and low, white brow, which
few men tried to resist. Before we retired that night, I was completely
fascinated. I lay wide awake in spite of my weariness until past
midnight, recalling each curve of her pretty, piquant face, each
modulation of her cooing voice; and then I set over against her many
charms my own awkwardness, the boorishness of my manners, and my
ignorance of everything except camp life and public topics. I longed
ardently for that polish of manner, and that faculty of polite
conversation I had heretofore esteemed so lightly.

There were no girls in our neighborhood near my own age, and I had known
scarcely any other women besides those of our own family, and the
matrons of our church congregation. I had grown up, therefore, like a
maiden, with no temptations, and small knowledge of passion, and later
my mind had been so fully occupied with hunting, studying, Indians, and
public matters, that all the vanities and snares of youth had passed me
by. But nature is not easily starved into subserviency, and upon the
first opportunity takes vengeance for former neglect by more violent and
unreasoning possession.

So madly in love was I with Nelly Buford before another sunset that all
my past was forgotten, and all my future weighed as naught. I cared for
nothing, wished for nothing but to be with her; had no dream or ambition
beyond pleasing her. I blushed when she spoke to me, trembled if her
hand or her dress touched me, and could scarcely refrain from kissing
the handkerchief she now and then let fall, and which I restored to her
with a sense of proud privilege. I scarcely heard the remarks of Mrs.
and Colonel Morgan, but every word Nelly spoke was registered in my mind
and conned over and over like a lesson. When they left me alone with
her, as they often did--for they were daily going about the place
together, to take counsel as to its management during the Colonel's
absence--I experienced a sort of ecstasy which made my blood surge
through my brains, and my heart flutter as if I were frightened.

Nor was Miss Nelly slow to perceive my infatuation, or so little woman
as to fail to take pleasure in it. I think she beguiled me, indeed, with
an audacity she would not have dared to use toward a youth more worldly
wise, or more experienced in the emotions of the heart. I recall one
instance which will illustrate the coquetry which she practiced for my
deeper ensnaring. We were walking through the orchard flush with bloom,
when she stopped beneath a low boughed apple tree, and asked me to pluck
a spray for her, then twisted it into a wreath, and laughingly bade me
crown her queen of May. I took the wreath from her fingers, and would
have dropped it awkwardly upon her blonde curls almost two feet below
me, but she stopped me with a merry laugh, and said in playful tones,

"How stupid you are! The queen must be enthroned before she is crowned.
Help me to a seat upon this curving limb, and then I'll be just high
enough for you to lay the crown upon my sacred head, with due reverence
and solemnity."

I lifted her to the bough she indicated, and when she had settled
herself gracefully, and said with pretty affectation of dignity, "Now,
Sir Knight, the Queen awaits your service," I laid the floral wreath
carefully upon the bright curls, and would have stepped back to admire
its effect, only something in the eyes that met mine, and the perfume
breathing lips, which were on a level with my own, made my head reel,
the blood surge in my ears, and many colored motes float between me and
the canopy of blossom bending over us. In another instant I had kissed
her full upon the lips, and then emboldened by their touch, I threw my
arms about her, and kissed her again and again, upon brow, cheek, eyes
and lips, paying no heed to her commands, and only desisting when she
began tearfully to entreat me.

[Illustration: "I LAID THE FLORAL WREATH CAREFULLY UPON THE BRIGHT
CURLS."]

No sooner was the madness passed than I was deeply penitent, and begged
her forgiveness so humbly that Nelly gracefully consented to pardon me,
on condition that all should be between us as if the incident had never
occurred. My promise was easier given than fulfilled, however, for the
memory of those kisses lingered with me for years, and came near to my
undoing. Yet I never again entirely lost self-control, and all fear of
consequences in a woman's presence. The realization of the strength of
this heretofore unknown force of my nature sobered me and put me on my
guard against myself, in future.

Even Colonel Morgan saw presently my infatuation, and tried to warn me.
"Nelly is a pretty lass, and bewitching enough, in all conscience," he
said to me, one morning as we rode over the place together, "but I fear,
lad, she's a sad coquette, and moreover she's an ardent Tory. It was not
she I meant to pick out for a wife for you, indeed I did not know we
should find her here."

"A Tory? Is she not your wife's cousin?"

"Aye, lad, 'tis only in our valley that all men are patriots. Nelly is a
cousin to my wife, and the families have always been intimate; but the
Bufords live in Philadelphia, are well to do, and strong Tories. The
stringent orders of General Washington against English sympathizers
compelled Nelly's brother to join the British army and Nelly to take
refuge with us--her mother having gone to New York to nurse a sister who
is ill."

Colonel Morgan's warning came too late, however, even if I had been
inclined to mix politics with love, or to think that the fact of a
woman's opinion being adverse to my own made her any the less lovable.
Age and experience are needed to teach a man that congeniality of mind
and temperament count more for happiness in the marriage relation than
the sparkle of a bright eye, or the enchanting curve of a rosy mouth.
But I was disappointed, and ventured that afternoon to sound the depths
of my charmer's disloyalty.

"Colonel Morgan tells me that you are a Tory, Miss Nelly."

"Yes, and why not?"

"I cannot understand how an American citizen can take sides with the
oppressors of our country."

"That is such stuff as Colonel Morgan and all you self-styled patriots
talk--saying nothing of the ingratitude of turning against our mother
land that has lavished her treasures and the blood of her sons, to plant
and protect these colonies; nor of the absurd folly of thinking there
can be aught else but defeat, and years of poverty before us, as the
fruit of this rebellion. Great Britain is sure to win in the end, and
then, sir, mayhap you'll be glad of a friend at court. It were well to
treat me courteously, and my views with respect while I am forced thus
to take refuge among you--the day may come when I can return the favor,"
and Miss Nelly's eyes flashed, and she held her small self very erect in
her chair. I had thought her all gayety and softness, and this evidence
of spirit made her but the more charming to me.

"At all events let us not quarrel," I begged. "I trust I am not so
narrow minded as to be unable to recognize that there may be something
to say on the side of England, especially since it is the tyranny of
King George and not the will of the people which oppresses us. But I can
never agree with your views nor admit the probability of your prophecy.
Should the patriots win, as they will, I may have an opportunity to show
my appreciation of the offer you have just made me. Meantime, while we
await results, let us declare a truce--do not spoil my brief holiday by
withdrawing your smiles."

"Since you put it so gallantly, I must consent--truce for the present,
alliance for the future."

"Then I dread nothing the future holds for me--even defeat would be
tolerable with your favor to soften it."

"You may hold my yarn, Sir Blarney," she laughed; "no need to tell me
there's Irish blood in your veins."

So I held her yarn, and delayed the winding process all I could, that
she might be the longer over her task, and her soft finger tips touch my
hands the oftener in untangling the threads I snarled. So our first
quarrel resulted in my more certain entanglement in the net of Nelly's
wiles.

       *       *       *       *       *

The sense of loneliness and regret, of distaste for the life of hardship
before me that oppressed me, as we took horse to return to camp, was
entirely new to me. So quickly had a week of ease and luxury, of woman's
society, and idle trifling enervated me! I was too far gone even to have
proper contempt for myself, and rode all morning by Colonel Morgan's
side, silent and morose, answering his cheerful talk with rude
monosyllables.

"Look here, my lad," said the Colonel, after a while, "I fear your
holiday has done you harm, rather than good. I meant to give you a brief
rest and change that would hearten you for the work before you, and, if
instead I've led you into a snare, Donald, I'm very sorry."

"What snare, Colonel Morgan?" I enquired somewhat haughtily.

"The snare that a pretty woman's face and a frivolous woman's mind has
laid for many a strong man before you, Captain McElroy," answered
Colonel Morgan, "but I obtrude neither admonition nor advice, sir," and
he spurred his horse forward and rode on in front of me.

The "Captain McElroy" brought me to my senses, for I was not used to
hearing anything but "Donald" and "lad" from his lips. I felt heartily
ashamed of myself, and presently spurred to his side, and humbly begged
his pardon.

"I forgive you without stint, lad," he answered me; "your feelings are
very natural, and 'tis hardly my privilege to preach to any young man,
for my own youth was reckless and dissipated. But I can say with
knowledge that there is no influence a young man needs so much to dread
as that of his own ungoverned passions, and none he should so carefully
guard against. You've heard the old hymn:--

    'Lo, on a narrow neck of land
    'Twixt Heaven and Hell I stand';

"Well, if there's a single situation in life these words describe it is
that point in a young man's life when he makes his first clear decision
between right and desire, between yielding himself the sport of youthful
inclinations, and following the clean path of duty. When the time comes
for you to win honestly a good woman's love, she will be very proud and
glad to know that you can offer her an unsullied manhood. It's the one
thing that ever comes between Abigail and me:--that even yet I'm ashamed
to tell her some of the episodes of my youth."

"Thank you, Colonel! I shall try to remember your words."

Remembering was easy enough, but making application was more difficult.
I could not see, then, that Colonel Morgan's caution applied to my
infatuation for Nelly, further than to put me on my guard against
letting that infatuation interfere with my steadfastness and courage as
a soldier. I took the warning to heart, therefore, only so far as to set
my face sternly toward my duty again. Its true application was made
clear to me, almost too late.




CHAPTER VIII


There was little time for moping after we got back to headquarters, for
on the very next day, Colonel Morgan issued orders to his captains to
get their companies in marching order, and a few days later we filed out
of camp in double column, bands playing, colors flying, and our faces
northward. The men cheered us as we passed, for Morgan's rifle rangers
were famous by this time, and were always greeted vociferously.

General Gates gave us an enthusiastic welcome when we came up with him,
lying intrenched along the Hudson River from Stillwater to Halfmoon; and
from the first he paid us the compliment of giving us the positions of
greatest danger and responsibility, issuing a command that we were to
receive orders from himself alone. It was ours to do most of the scout
and picket duty during the three weeks that the British army waited on
the opposite bank of the river about thirty miles above us, their rear
protected by Fort Edward.

Burgoyne wearied presently of inaction, and determined to wait no longer
for Lord Howe's continually delayed reinforcements. He began, too, to
suspect that his position was fast becoming a critical one, for news now
reached him that the forces of Baum and St. Leger had been destroyed at
the battle of Oriskany, and that the attack upon Fort Stanwix had
failed, so that the blow from the west could no longer be counted on;
the New England militiamen were gathering in force in his rear, and his
Indian and Canadian allies--frightened it was said by the report that
Morgan's rifle rangers had joined Gates--daily deserted him. There was
no alternative left to General Burgoyne but to cross the river and
attack Gates, ere this time well fortified, by the skill of Kosciusko,
on Bemis Heights.

For six days longer, Burgoyne hesitated, or awaited reenforcements. On
the morning of September the nineteenth, one of the outlook, stationed
in a tree top, reported a movement of Burgoyne's army which indicated a
concerted rear and front attack upon our position. General Gates decided
to await the attack behind our fortifications; but Arnold, who commanded
our left wing, argued vehemently in favor of a charge upon Burgoyne's
advance column, and at last won Gates' consent that he should lead
Morgan's riflemen, and Dearborn's infantry against the approaching
enemy. The riflemen were given the lead, and we fell upon Burgoyne with
telling energy, Morgan all the time exposing himself recklessly, and
shouting encouragement to his men above the incessant crack of their
rifles, and the responsive roar of the enemy's guns.

It was a picture worth seeing--our regiment in action, their tall
commanding figures in their huntsmen's garb scattering or forming as the
ground suggested, and each man firing as coolly as if he had nothing
more than a brace of partridges in range.

We had been but a short while in action, when General Frazier turned
eastward to help General Burgoyne; and Riedesel, seeing Burgoyne was
hard pressed, hurried up to his assistance from the river road, along
which he was marching to attack Gates' position, in front, while, as
they had planned, Generals Burgoyne and Frazier should simultaneously
attack our position in rear. We had, therefore, successively diverted
the entire force, marching to charge Bemis Heights, and fought, with our
three thousand backwoods riflemen and raw infantry, four thousand of the
best troops in the British army, led by their bravest and most skilled
officers.

The fight was waged with desperate determination on both sides for two
hours, while Arnold and Morgan galloped hither and thither, animating
the men by their voice, presence, and example. Again and again Arnold
sent couriers to Gates begging for re-enforcements, and assuring him
that with two thousand more men he could crush the army of Burgoyne. But
the self opinionated Gates, who preferred to lose by his own judgment,
rather than win by any other man's, sat calmly in his tent, watching the
fight below, and steadily refused us assistance. In defiance of his
narrow stupidity Arnold fought on till dark, and though Burgoyne was
left in possession of the battle field, he had lost heavily, and his
attack upon our position had been foiled. We, also, had lost heavily,
and of our brave riflemen far more than we could by any means afford to
spare.

General Burgoyne did not venture another attempt for nearly three weeks.
Meanwhile we did not lack excitement in camp, for the long brewing
difficulties between Gates and Arnold came rapidly to a head,
culminating in a rash speech of Gates that "as soon as General Lincoln
should arrive he would have no further use for General Arnold," and the
withdrawal from Arnold's command of Morgan's and Dearborn's regiments,
the two he counted most upon. Arnold was furious and all the officers
under Gates, except two or three, were indignant. We had as much
confidence in Arnold's courage and military skill, then, as we had doubt
of Gates possessing either of these qualities. General Arnold sent in
his resignation, which General Gates accepted; but after all the other
officers had met and signed a petition entreating Arnold to remain, he
was induced to withdraw his resignation, and Gates submitted sullenly.

It fell also to the lot of Morgan and Arnold to check the second
concerted movement of the British, and upon almost the same ground as
before. But the second battle of Freeman's Farm was a far more decisive
victory for us. Again Morgan's men led the attack, were the first men on
the field, and the last to withdraw. This might well be called the
battle of the Colonels, for until General Arnold led the famous charge
upon Frazier's wavering line late in the afternoon, which completed the
rout of the British, no officer higher in command than a colonel was
engaged in the fight on our side.

General Burgoyne now found himself surrounded by the American army, and
next discovered that every ford along the river for miles was strongly
guarded--Gates was a better general at reaping the fruits of others'
victories, than at winning them for himself. A few days later Burgoyne
asked for terms of surrender, and on the seventeenth of October--seven
was our lucky number during this campaign--the "Convention of Saratoga"
was carried into effect by the British army marching into a meadow, and
laying down their arms, while General Burgoyne handed his sword to
General Gates. Our men stayed within their entrenchments, not caring to
look upon the humiliation of a brave enemy, and not a single cheer was
heard as the disarmed and dejected British repassed our lines; we
realized then, as more than once afterwards, that Americans and
Britishers could never really be enemies and that the aims and destinies
of Anglo-Saxon peoples were and always would be much the same.

In General Gates' report of the surrender he failed to mention Colonel
Morgan's name, or to give any credit to the riflemen for the important
service they had rendered. A few days after the capitulation, General
Gates gave a dinner to a large number of British and American officers,
but he did not include Colonel Morgan. During the progress of the dinner
Colonel Morgan was compelled to make some important report to the
general in chief, and was ushered into the banqueting room. He saluted
formally, made his report, and withdrew.

"And who, General Gates, may be that soldierly and magnificent looking
colonel?" enquired a British officer.

"It is Colonel Morgan of the Virginia Riflemen," answered Gates, with as
gracious an air as he could command.

"What, is that the famous Colonel Morgan! Pardon me, but I must shake
hands with him," and he rose from the table, and followed Morgan,
several of the other British officers doing likewise, thus compelling
General Gates to recall and introduce him.

"Sir," said General Burgoyne, "you command the finest regiment in the
world."

Colonel Morgan proudly repeated this to his men, and each man of the
regiment treasured it in his memory to the end of his life, as being the
highest compliment troops could receive, for it came, unsolicited, from
a gallant enemy.

A few days afterward we rejoined the main army at Whitemarsh, Morgan's
command taking part in the battle of Chestnut Hill. It was there I got
my first and only wound during the Revolution, and was for a second time
taken prisoner. I was leading my men in a headlong charge upon the
enemy's works, when a small body of British cavalry dashed suddenly upon
us from an unexpected direction, and threatened to cut us off from the
main body of our troops; I gave the order to retreat at double quick,
and remembered no more, till I found myself a prisoner with a bullet in
my left thigh.

The next day I was taken to a prison hospital in Philadelphia, and laid
on a straw pallet in a row of other groaning, tossing, half delirious
unfortunates. For some days--I lost count of time--I lived in a troubled
dream, with but one definite need, one clearly defined longing, and that
for water. Oh, for a fountain of cool sweet water, that I might drink
and drink, then rest and drink again! That which some one brought me
from time to time was muddy and flat, but I drank it as if it had been
the ambrosial cup of Jove, and in the confused visions which floated in
and out of my mind, there was always a sparkling spring gushing out of a
green hillside, and falling with a splashing sound into a pebble paved
basin. Sometimes I seemed to lie flat upon my chest in the cool grass,
and to plunge my head into the cool water. Again I saw the spring, as on
that last night at home, silvered by the moon's rays, and Ellen standing
on the rock above, wrapped in her white robe, her face mystical with
strange thoughts. She smiled at me, and gave me to drink from a golden
cup the sweetest water I had ever quaffed.

One of the first things to arouse me from my semi-stupor was the
beseeching cry of a poor lad, who lay on the pallet next mine, for
"water, water,"--over and over again, in tones first petulant and
insistent, then entreating and pitiful, then weary and despairing. The
next time the bucket and dipper came around, I begged the man who
distributed our dole to give my share to the lad, though my throat was
like cast iron within, and my heavy tongue as slick as if coated with
varnish. The boy fell asleep afterwards, and the brief quiet of his
tossing limbs with the smile his dreams brought to his pale lips so
rested my nerves, as to enable me to endure the hours which ensued
before the next bucketful was distributed.

"This is Captain McElroy, I believe, sir," I heard a prison official say
one day, standing over my pallet--I do not know whether it was morning
or afternoon, or how many days after I had been brought to the hospital.

"Do we not provide better accommodations than this for wounded
officers?" said another in lowered voice.

"We cannot make our own wounded comfortable, Captain," answered the
first; "we must do as we can in this half savage country."

I opened my eyes now, and met those of a slim young man in British
uniform,--"Can you tell me, sir," he asked, "where I may find Captain
Donald McElroy, of Morgan's rifle company?"

"I'm Captain McElroy of the Virginia Riflemen, sir," and I sat up with a
mighty effort, and managed to salute him with a trembling hand.

"You have not lost your pluck with your strength, I see, Captain
McElroy," returning my salute; "I'm Captain Buford, a brother of the
young woman you met at the home of Colonel Morgan, last April. Nelly saw
your name in the list of wounded prisoners, several days ago, and has
waited impatiently for my return to the city, that she might set me to
searching for you. She tells me that you two entered into a friendly
compact, pledging each other help and protection while the war lasts,
whenever one is needed, and the other possible. It was your pleasure
once, she bade me say, to extend courtesy to a Tory, it is hers now to
show her appreciation of that courtesy, and also of the valor of a brave
opponent,--the word enemy she charged me _not_ to use."

The little blood left in my body all mounted to my face, and I knew not
if it were weakness, or pleasure that made my brain reel so. "Will you
convey to your sister my most grateful thanks, Captain Buford, and say
to her for me that any obligation she may feel to my friends--for she
can owe none to me, since she but honored me with her society--is doubly
discharged by her gracious interest in my fate. If it is in my power to
do so, I shall call to express my gratitude in person, as soon as I am
strong enough. Will you be so good as to leave your address with me?"
But I had used up all my will power, in this long speech, which had come
faltering from my dry throat, and now I fell back on my pallet almost in
a swoon of weakness.

"You need more practical assistance, if I mistake not, Captain McElroy,
than a mere expression of interest. And our Cousin Abigail will never
forgive us the neglect of a friend of her husband. If it is possible to
get permission, and I think there will be no difficulty, we wish to take
you to our house as a paroled prisoner. With a comfortable bed, and
nourishing diet we shall have you well in no time."

"I am too unsightly an object to risk being seen by your mother and
sister, Captain Buford--would it not be well to wait until I am strong
enough to be shaven and dressed," I protested, weakly.

"You need only fresh garments, and a comb to be entirely presentable."

"Then I am in your hands."

When Captain Buford returned, he was accompanied by a physician and his
own body servant, and had my parole in his hand. The last he showed me,
while the physician administered a cordial hardly more stimulating,
after which the negro valet made me as decent in appearance as my state
permitted. Before they carried me to the ambulance in waiting, I stopped
a moment, beside the lad's pallet to say good-by, and speak a cheering
word to him. His fever had abated, now, but I feared he would die of
exhaustion, aided by extreme dejection.

"Cheer up, comrade," I said; "my friends here have promised me they will
have you paroled or exchanged, if you'll only set your mind to it, and
get well."

"I'm glad for your good luck," he answered wearily, "but I don't expect
to hear another friendly voice this side of Heaven."

"That is not soldier-like talk, lad--a patriot must learn to defy
suffering, and mischance."

"Yes, I know, and I'm trying to learn to endure as a soldier should,"
but he shut his eyes, and the weak grasp of his fingers on mine relaxed.

"That's right, lad, keep up a brave heart; my friends will not forget
you."

I could trust myself to say no more, and as I took a last look at the
smooth, girlish face of the lad, I thought with a fresh heart pang, "How
much do the horrors of war outweigh its glories!"




CHAPTER IX


The Buford mansion reached, I was at once assisted to my room, and put
to bed, a special servant being assigned to attend upon me. A week later
I was able to sit up each morning in a cushioned chair before my
cheerful fire, and presently to walk about my room. I spent many of my
waking hours listening to the voices which floated up to me from the
lower floor, trying to distinguish Nelly's gay sweet tones among them.
Now and then I recognized a light footfall, as she flitted past my door,
and hoped vainly that she would stop to speak to me. At last I grew
desperate, demanded paper and quill of my man, Hector, and wrote this in
scrawling characters:

     "Am I never to have the honor and privilege of thanking my
     generous deliverer? The weight of my gratitude oppresses me;
     will you not add another deed of gracious kindness to my debt,
     and give me the opportunity to ease my soul by expressing a
     part of the thankfulness and devotion which fill it to
     overflowing? Only let me see you, and I shall be, for as long
     as it pleases you, sweet Nelly.

    "Your most willing captive,

    "DONALD MCELROY."

Then I sealed, and addressed the note, and bade Hector take it to his
young mistress. He came back in a few moments with the message that
"Miss Nelly would see me in half an hour." The interim was spent by me
in making as careful a toilet as any young girl robing for her first
ball. I had had Captain Buford purchase for me two suits of citizens'
clothes of latest cut and pattern, and I flattered myself that the plum
colored breeches and coat, the sprigged velvet waistcoat, black silk
stockings, and silver buckles set off my heroic proportions to some
advantage. I had been daily clean shaven since I had been strong enough
to stand it, and my "curling chestnut locks," had grown long enough to
admit of their being gathered into a respectable resemblance to a queue,
which I tied with a black satin ribbon.

Just as I had satisfied myself that I was not ill to look at, a liveried
footman came to my door to say that Miss Buford awaited me in the second
floor reception room, and that I was to follow him thither. I found her
standing by the window, a plume covered brown felt scoop hiding all her
blonde head, except the airy curls upon her forehead, and about her
throat a dark fur tippet, from which her fair face rose, like a flower
set in rich leaves.

"I'm just going out, Captain McElroy," she said, after she had given me
a gracious greeting, "but I could not resist your gallant appeal, nor go
until I had relieved you of your heavy burden--though I'm sorry, sir,
you should feel it as a burden, the small service it has been our
pleasure to render you."

"I feel not your kindness as a burden, Miss Nelly, it has been accepted
as freely as bestowed--'twas the longing to see and to thank you that I
could endure no longer. I have now no further cause for unrest, save
this threat of yours to leave me, before I have had time to clothe my
gratitude in adequate words."

"Will't say you're glad I'm a Tory--and that even a Tory may be honest
and a Christian? If you will, I shall call it fair quittance of all you
owe me," and she laughed the rippling saucy laugh that had been ringing
through my dreams for months.

"That a Tory may be honest and a Christian, I admit most freely,--but
that I am glad you are one is more than I can say, with aught of truth.
I would have you all on my side if I could; still more, I would have no
one with half so good a claim to you as I."

"But 'tis the other way, Sir Patriot--no one else has so good a claim to
you as have I; since you are my paroled prisoner. Do they treat you
well, poor captive?"

"As an honored guest, fair jailer; there's but one thing lacking to my
comfort."

"And what may that be? It shall be supplied."

"A daily interview, and a long one, with my jailer."

"You have been very slow, sir, to signify a wish to see her. Two weeks
ago to-day it has been since you came, and this is the first intimation
I have had that my presence would be welcome."

"And daily I have hoped you would stop at my threshold to ask of my
improvement--you could not fail to know that I have been pining for one
look at your bright face."

"Young women must not take things for granted, sir; you, however, are
not like the British officers and the city macaronis, you are both
honest and modest, and if you have not made great haste to be gallant, I
feel sure you are sincere. But I must say good-by for the present, a
skating party waits for me, down stairs."

"When may I hope to see you again?"

"To-morrow, if you wish."

"At what hour, that I may count the minutes!"

"Eleven o'clock, shall we say? If I might read to you an hour each
morning, would that help you to pass less irksomely the tedious days of
your captivity?"

She called this back to me over her shoulder, her saucy face fairer for
its frame of soft plumes and rich fur.

"'Twould make me rejoice in the midst of my misfortunes, most merciful
jailer," I answered, striking an attitude with my hand upon my heart.

The hours crawled by like a slow procession of half torpid serpents till
I fell asleep, and the next morning passed in eager expectancy.

"Which of these shall I read from?" began Miss Nelly, entering the small
reception room with her arms full of books.

"I have chosen a variety, one of which will, I hope, suit both your
taste and your mood. Here is Ossian, if your literary appetite calls for
the mystic and lyric; or Pope if it demands the caustic and humorous; or
Lady Mary Montague if you have a weakness for gossip; or Shakespeare's
'Romeo and Juliet,' Ben Jonson's 'Mourning Bride,' should your mood be
tragic; or 'Evelina,' the most popular of the new novels, if you have a
fancy for fiction. Which shall it be this morning?"

"First, a few extracts from Ossian, then, a bit of Lady Mary, and
lastly, a chapter from the new novel," I answered with shameless greed.

But we did not get to the novel that morning, for the reading of Ossian
ended in an animated discussion of the claims of McPherson that his
poems were a genuine translation from the old Gaelic. I strongly
maintained, that the true spirit of the ancient Gaelic people was in
these poems, and that it would be well nigh impossible for a modern to
conceive or to reproduce the feelings and sentiments of these primitive
bards with such absolute truth of conception. Miss Nelly, however, held
stoutly to the views of the critics, as became her conservative habit of
mind.

Then came a few extracts from "Lady Mary" after which she seemed weary,
so that I picked up her volume of plays and read from it some of my
favorite quotations.

"Why, Captain McElroy," she exclaimed, "you read well. After this you
shall read to me, sir, while I finish hemstitching my ruffles."

"I have a favor to ask of you, Captain McElroy," said Miss Nelly one
morning when my hour of bliss was about to end. "I want you to take a
part in the play we are rehearsing,--'tis the latest comedy written by
the late great London playwright, Sheridan, and you could do the part of
Sir Peter Teazle to perfection."

"But I have never so much as seen a play, Miss Nelly," I answered in
consternation.

"Never mind that, you will be sure to say your lines with true
expression, and the rest I can teach you. Do consent, Sir Patriot, I
have told the girls and the British officers about you, and they all
desire greatly to meet you; even the belle and beauty, Miss Margaret
Shippen, said last evening to me, 'I hear, Miss Nelly, you have captured
a rebel captain, and hold him imprisoned in your castle--are not we to
have the pleasure of meeting him? 'Tis said he is a Goliath for size; a
David for skill, though with rifle instead of sling; and an Absalom for
beauty of person.' Now, Sir, can you resist a compliment like that from
the fairest Tory maiden in Philadelphia; will you not come in the
drawing room this evening, and be introduced to her?"

"And meet British officers, who might resent my impertinence!"

"All who come to this house are gentlemen, sir--nor would they show the
least disrespect to a friend of mine."

"I am not fit for polite society, Miss Nelly, and I wish not to play the
part of Samson--to make sport for my enemies."

"The suggestion is insulting, Captain McElroy, and I urge you no more,"
and Miss Nelly left the room, her head poised haughtily. Next morning
she did not join me in the library at the usual time, and after an
hour's waiting I sent to beg her presence.

"I apologize with deep humility of soul for my rudeness of yesterday," I
said, as soon as she came in. "I'll meet your friends gladly, and try
the part of Sir Peter if 'twill gratify you. Do not I owe my life to
you, and have you not made my very captivity a time of delight? Will you
not forgive me, since the speech was prompted by the stupidity of a
blunt soldier, and not by any doubt of you or your friends?"

"Only upon condition that you stop abusing yourself, will I forgive you,
sir, and moreover that you speak before these British, and Tory friends
of mine with the same bold spirit of independence you have ever used to
me. I like you for it, though, at times, it nettles me."

"You need have no fear of that," I laughed, "but I shall endeavor so to
act that you may not blush for having honored me with the name of
friend."

"You know well that I shall be proud of you, Captain McElroy, there's
not so handsome a man in the British army. I would give a great deal to
see you in a British captain's uniform, that I might show them such men
as this land, which they sometimes flaunt and laugh at, produces. Though
a Tory, Captain McElroy, I love America, and Americans, and allow no one
to slur either at our country, or our people."

O wily, bewitching Nelly; how was it possible to resist you. And yet I
cannot believe that you were from the first playing a part, nor that you
coldly schemed to entrap me. You were my true friend when much I needed
one, and if afterward you became a snare, it was greatly my own fault.

That evening I donned my best, having sent Hector out to purchase a
white silk vest embroidered with pink rosebuds, and a white silk, lace
trimmed stock, that I might be behind none of the macaronis, nor give
the foppish British officers cause to scoff at my provincial appearance.
A man of gentle blood and sound principles needs scant time for
acquiring society polish, and by saying little, and watching and
listening closely, I soon learned the approved ways of doing the little
things. They thought me shy, and kindly left me a good deal to myself,
at first. Miss Shippen--a stately, beautiful, and most gracious mannered
maiden--called me to her side the second evening, and entered into a
conversation in regard to the comedy. "Like you the part of Sir Peter?"
she asked.

"Rather better than any of the others, I think."

"Then I infer you do not find the other characters to your liking?" and
she smiled, and glanced sideways at the officer who sat on her other
hand.

"The comedy is doubtless a fine satire upon certain gay London circles,"
I replied, "but there are but two characters one can like. Maria, and
Sir Peter, and both are shamefully cozened. I must except too the old
uncle, he is quite likable."

"And you like not that fascinating rake, Charles Surface, nor delicious
Lady Teazle, with her boisterous snobbery, and her irrepressible good
nature? Are you of Quaker faith, Captain McElroy?"

"No, Miss Shippen, I'm a Scotch Irish Presbyterian."

"Then we shall shock you, I fear."

"But whatever may be your religious views, sir, you wish surely to know
something of life?" put in the British officer, a well made blonde man
with straight nose, and large mouth. "Would you take advantage of your
present opportunities, you shall learn things you have not dreamed of in
your mountain wilds."

"Adventure has ever appealed to me, sir, and lately my life has been
o'er tame," I answered, determined to be no milksop among these British.
"So you do not ask me to go a backbiting with Sir Benjamin, and the
rest, there's little you can offer me, promising excitement, that you
will not find me ready for."

"Glad am I to hear it, Mr. McElroy--

"Captain McElroy, an' you please; having won my humble title by hard
service, and not by court favor, I am very proud of it, sir."

"Beg your pardon," somewhat haughtily; "I was about to say I like not a
soldier, Captain McElroy, who cants and prays between battles, as did
the hypocritical Cromwellians. A gay life in barracks is proper reward
for arduous work during a campaign;--to-morrow, an' you will, I shall
call to take you to our quarters, where you may lunch with four as jolly
good fellows as are to be found in the British army."

I had just assented to this invitation of Captain Wheaton's, when Miss
Shippen introduced me to the latest comer, as Colonel Forbes; he was a
small, wiry, swarthy man who had been making the round of the room, and
now leaned over Miss Shippen's chair, whispering in her ear.

"One of Morgan's Riflemen, said you, Miss Margaret?" eyeing me with most
evident curiosity, as I rose to return his salutation; "a famous leader,
and brave troops; they did the work for us at Saratoga. To your colonel
and his men belongs the glory of that victory, Captain McElroy--yet I
hear it has been filched from you by that braggart Gates, and that
Colonel Morgan has not even been accorded a promotion. This so-called
Continental Congress knows naught of the art of warfare, nor can
recognize the qualities of a true leader, or else it has its favorites
whom it is determined to advance, regardless of merit."

Though all this was true, I burned inwardly to hear him say it;
determined, however, to repress the rash words which rose to my lips, I
set them firmly, folded my arms, and bowed in grave silence.

"Captain Morgan is devotedly loved by his men, I hear," put in Miss
Shippen. "Is he very genial with them, Captain McElroy?"

"He treats them as sons, or as brothers; there's not one but would
follow him cheerfully to certain death."

"But," said Miss Shippen, "I am much more interested in the comedy, than
in any talk of war, or comparison of leaders, for Captain McElroy it is
I who am to act Maria--do you not think I'll look and act the character
to the life?"

"To perfection, and now I wish I were to play Charles Surface."

"Hear him, Nelly," called Miss Shippen to that young lady, crossing the
room to the spinet, attended by half a dozen gallants. "He pretends to
wish that he were going to be Charles Surface in our comedy, didst ever
hear of such shameless deceit?"

"Or such base ingratitude, for I see he has already transferred his
allegiance--but why should we be surprised by any fresh evidence of
masculine perfidy--have we not long since learned that 'Men were
deceivers ever'?" and Nelly's manner and tone showed that she would be
no amateur upon the stage.

"And women were ever our innocent victims, I suppose. There's not a
coquette among you!" jeered Captain Buford, who had just joined our
circle, a brown haired Quakeress upon his arm, who was going to sing
duets with Miss Nelly.

"We but use nature's weapons for our just defense, Captain Buford,"
answered Miss Shippen. "The more skillful and wary one's enemy, the more
adroit one needs be. Women have learned to guard, to parry, and to
thrust by long practice in the art of self-defense."

       *       *       *       *       *

The lunch in Captain Wheaton's quarters the next day was not the last of
the entertainments proffered me by my hospitable enemies, especially by
Buford's and Wheaton's mess. Not only did I lunch with them, dine with
them, and drink with them; I also diced and played with them, and was
invited to join their riding parties. Once Wheaton, who seemed to have
conceived a liking for me which I returned heartily, carelessly allowed
me to inspect with him the city's fortifications, and to see how
inadequate they were to resist attack from any strong, well equipped
force. Afterwards this incident, which was purely accidental, and seemed
of small importance as I thought at the time, counted heavily against
me, and proved to be the small silent hinge on which turned the door
opening to me the high road of my destiny. Far more important events
have turned upon still smaller hinges.

       *       *       *       *       *

The British soldiers were most of them fine soldiers, and genial
comrades, and their treatment of me was all courtesy and kindness.
Through an odd streak of luck attending me, for surely skill had nothing
to do with my triumph, I won at nearly all the games of chance so
prevalent among them. Quinze, Piquet, Hazard, and other games, besides
all sorts of wild betting, were their chief diversions. They even bet at
whist, a slow, deep thinking game, well worth the playing without a
wager. Whatever the game, I won indifferently, and soon my depleted
pockets jingled merrily with English gold pieces.

"The Scotchman's luck" became a proverb in the captain's messes. But in
all the dissipation of that time I was watchful never to drink to
excess. I am not fanatical against strong drinks, and to this day can
find no harm in one's warming and cheering himself with a cup of good
sack, or a finger of rum, but it has ever filled me with disgust to see
a man's legs wabbling and tangling as he walked, and to hear maudlin
words mixing themselves in unintelligible gibberish upon a thick and
lolling tongue.

And all this time my infatuation for Nelly Buford took daily stronger
possession of me. I spent in her society every hour she would allow me,
and became the slave of each of her pretty, womanish caprices. Her
deference to me as her captive guest led me on as subtly as her
coquetry, and so little skill or wish had I to hide my infatuation, that
I must have seemed to all Miss Nelly's acquaintances to stand to her in
the attitude of an accepted lover. Once or twice I did venture to tell
her that I loved her, but was easily checked by a doubting word, or an
attempt to change the subject. Now, at any rate, I considered, I could
not ask her to marry me, and to avow my love for other purposes were
dishonorable. I yet had not the courage to resign hope, nor the will to
see less of her.

My habit to drink sparingly has more than once stood me in good stead,
but never more so than at a banquet given to General Howe by the
officers, about the first of February, to which I was most graciously
invited; and to which, being urged by Buford and Wheaton, I foolishly
consented to go. I did not realize the unpleasantness of the position in
which I had put myself until the time came for toasts and speeches.
First the health of the king was drunk with enthusiasm, all standing
with heads held proudly, and brimming glasses tossed high, while a lusty
cheer went up from many throats. I stood, also, not to make myself
conspicuous, but neither drank nor cheered. To General Howe's health, I
drank for courtesy's sake, but when "Success to British arms" was
proposed, I found my stock of politeness completely exhausted, and sat
down abruptly, to the amusement of Forbes on my left and the scorn of
the officer opposite.

And now began the serious business of the evening; brave soldiers, and
cultivated gentlemen set themselves valorously to the task of drinking
each other under the table; as gradually they waxed uproarious, free
talk was interchanged as to the supposed plans of the British
government, and its unswerving determination to subdue the revolting
colonies at whatever cost of men or money. Meantime Colonel Forbes and
the captain next to him diverted me from the general talk by asking
questions as to the part Morgan and his men had taken in the attack
against Quebec, and the battles which led to Saratoga; throwing in
frequent adroit compliments to the riflemen, and expressions of
admiration and sympathy for Colonel Morgan. Finding me noncommittal as
to the treatment Arnold and Morgan had received from the Continental
Congress, they branched off into an argument meant to convince me of the
hopelessness of our cause, and the uselessness of sacrificing life and
property by further resistance; declaring that Great Britain was willing
to yield all we asked and wanted, short of complete independence, and
that only a few fanatics believed that to be possible, or desirable.

To this I responded, with perfect calmness, that nothing less than
complete independence from autocratic will would satisfy the American
people and that since we could never be conquered at such distance it
would be wiser to grant us the independence we claimed and to make of us
loyal allies. That we were not warring against the British nation which
we honored and esteemed above all other souls, but against the
tyrannical notions of the King and his courtiers, themselves aliens to
the English blood. That our independence would but hasten theirs and
bring the sooner that freedom of the human race and that universal
democracy which was the dream of all true men and real patriots. Indeed,
I affirmed, waxing more and more enthusiastic for my most cherished
belief, "It would yet be the proud privilege of England and America to
stand side by side for the cause of liberty and self-government."

Colonel Forbes but laughed at my wild theories and as he got drunker and
drunker grew more and more friendly 'til, presently, he wished I were
his comrade, since I was too good a fellow for a rebel; and then, with
the effusive confidence of a man deep in his cups, began a jumble of
protestations and insinuations, hinting at the high honors, and rich
emoluments which awaited me if I would only consent to give up my
foolish devotion to rebellion and become once more a loyal British
subject.

I thought his talk but the foolish babble of a drunken man, and turned
it aside with jest and banter.

When presently the more sober arose to depart, the officer who had sat
next to Colonel Forbes, and who, since the latter had waxed so
confidential, had lapsed into silence, took me by the arm and asked me
to go with him to a small cloak room adjoining the banqueting hall.

"Captain McElroy," he said when we were seated and alone, "Colonel
Forbes has prematurely made you an offer we have been contemplating for
some days, and in regard to which I was authorized to sound you. We have
good reason to believe there is an officer in the rebel ranks well
affected to our cause; we need some one who can freely communicate with
him--if you will consent to help us, a captain's commission in the
British army, with promise of speedy promotion, and any sum of ready
money you may name is yours. Only sign this paper, and the compact is
closed."

I took the paper he handed me, opened and read it, then rose to my feet,
and slowly tore it into bits, throwing them, as I did so, into the fire.

[Illustration: "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 Moliere,
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 lo

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