The Crossing
by Winston Churchill
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Go to Part 2 of 2

BY
WINSTON CHURCHILL

CONTENTS

BOOK I. THE BORDERLAND

CHAPTER                                               
I.     THE BLUE WALL
II.    WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS
III.   CHARLESTOWN
IV.    TEMPLE BOW
V.     CRAM'S HELL
VI.    MAN PROPOSES, BUT GOD DISPOSES
VII.   IN SIGHT OF THE BLUE WALL ONCE MORE
VIII.  THE NOLLICHUCKY TRACE
IX.    ON THE WILDERNESS TRAIL
X.     HARRODSTOWN
XI.    FRAGMENTARY
XII.   THE CAMPAIGN BEGINS
XIII.  KASKASKIA
XIV.   HOW THE KASKASKIANS WERE MADE CITIZENS
XV.    DAYS OF TRIAL
XVI.   DAVY GOES TO CAHOKIA
XVII.  THE SACRIFICE
XVIII. ``AN' YE HAD BEEN WHERE I HAD BEEN''
XIX.   THE HAIR BUYER TRAPPED
XX.    THE CAMPAIGN ENDS

BOOK II. FLOTSAM AND JETSAM

I.     IN THE CABIN
II.    ``THE BEGGARS ARE COME TO TOWN''
III.   WE GO TO DANVILLE
IV.    I CROSS THE MOUNTAINS ONCE MORE
V.     I MEET AN OLD BEDFELLOW
VI.    THE WIDOW BROWN'S
VII.   I MEET A HERO
VIII.  TO ST. LOUIS
IX.    ``CHERCHEZ LA FEMME''
X.     THE KEEL BOAT
XI.    THE STRANGE CITY
XII.   LES ISLES
XIII.  MONSIEUR AUGUSTE ENTRAPPED
XIV.   RETRIBUTION

BOOK III. LOUISIANA

I.     THE RIGHTS OF MAN
II.    THE HOUSE ABOVE THE FALLS
III.   LOUISVILLE CELEBRATES
IV.    OF A SUDDEN RESOLUTION
V.     THE HOUSE OF THE HONEYCOMBED TILES
VI.    MADAME LA VICOMTESSE
VII.   THE DISPOSAL OF THE SIEUR DE ST. GRE
VIII.  AT LAMARQUE'S
IX.    MONSIEUR LE BARON
X.     THE SCOURGE
XI.    ``IN THE MIDST OF LIFE''
XII.   VISIONS, AND AN AWAKENING5
XIII.  A MYSTERY
XIV.   ``TO UNPATHED WATERS, UNDREAMED SHORES''
XV.    AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A MAN

AFTERWORD

THE CROSSING

BOOK I

THE BORDERLAND

CHAPTER I

THE BLUE WALL

I was born under the Blue Ridge, and under that side
which is blue in the evening light, in a wild land of game
and forest and rushing waters. There, on the borders of
a creek that runs into the Yadkin River, in a cabin that
was chinked with red mud, I came into the world a subject
of King George the Third, in that part of his realm
known as the province of North Carolina.

The cabin reeked of corn-pone and bacon, and the odor
of pelts. It had two shakedowns, on one of which I slept
under a bearskin. A rough stone chimney was reared outside,
and the fireplace was as long as my father was tall.
There was a crane in it, and a bake kettle; and over it
great buckhorns held my father's rifle when it was not
in use. On other horns hung jerked bear's meat and
venison hams, and gourds for drinking cups, and bags of
seed, and my father's best hunting shirt; also, in a
neglected corner, several articles of woman's attire from
pegs. These once belonged to my mother. Among them
was a gown of silk, of a fine, faded pattern, over which I
was wont to speculate. The women at the Cross-Roads,
twelve miles away, were dressed in coarse butternut wool
and huge sunbonnets. But when I questioned my father
on these matters he would give me no answers.

My father was--how shall I say what he was? To
this day I can only surmise many things of him. He was
a Scotchman born, and I know now that he had a slight
Scotch accent. At the time of which I write, my early
childhood, he was a frontiersman and hunter. I can see
him now, with his hunting shirt and leggings and moccasins;
his powder horn, engraved with wondrous scenes;
his bullet pouch and tomahawk and hunting knife. He
was a tall, lean man with a strange, sad face. And he
talked little save when he drank too many ``horns,'' as
they were called in that country. These lapses of my
father's were a perpetual source of wonder to me,--and,
I must say, of delight. They occurred only when a passing
traveller who hit his fancy chanced that way, or,
what was almost as rare, a neighbor. Many a winter
night I have lain awake under the skins, listening to a
flow of language that held me spellbound, though I understood
scarce a word of it.

   ``Virtuous and vicious every man must be,
     Few in the extreme, but all in a degree.''

The chance neighbor or traveller was no less struck with
wonder. And many the time have I heard the query, at
the Cross-Roads and elsewhere, ``Whar Alec Trimble got
his larnin'?''

The truth is, my father was an object of suspicion to
the frontiersmen. Even as a child I knew this, and
resented it. He had brought me up in solitude, and I was
old for my age, learned in some things far beyond my
years, and ignorant of others I should have known. I
loved the man passionately. In the long winter evenings,
when the howl of wolves and ``painters'' rose as the wind
lulled, he taught me to read from the Bible and the ``Pilgrim's
Progress.''  I can see his long, slim fingers on the
page. They seemed but ill fitted for the life he led.

The love of rhythmic language was somehow born into
me, and many's the time I have held watch in the cabin day
and night while my father was away on his hunts, spelling
out the verses that have since become part of my life.

As I grew older I went with him into the mountains,
often on his back; and spent the nights in open camp
with my little moccasins drying at the blaze. So I learned
to skin a bear, and fleece off the fat for oil with my
hunting knife; and cure a deerskin and follow a trail. At
seven I even shot the long rifle, with a rest. I learned
to endure cold and hunger and fatigue and to walk in
silence over the mountains, my father never saying a
word for days at a spell. And often, when he opened
his mouth, it would be to recite a verse of Pope's in a
way that moved me strangely. For a poem is not a poem
unless it be well spoken.

In the hot days of summer, over against the dark
forest the bright green of our little patch of Indian corn
rippled in the wind. And towards night I would often
sit watching the deep blue of the mountain wall and
dream of the mysteries of the land that lay beyond.
And by chance, one evening as I sat thus, my father reading
in the twilight, a man stood before us. So silently
had he come up the path leading from the brook that we
had not heard him. Presently my father looked up from
his book, but did not rise. As for me, I had been staring
for some time in astonishment, for he was a better-looking
man than I had ever seen. He wore a deerskin hunting
shirt dyed black, but, in place of a coonskin cap with the
tail hanging down, a hat. His long rifle rested on the
ground, and he held a roan horse by the bridle.

``Howdy, neighbor?'' said he.

I recall a fear that my father would not fancy him. In
such cases he would give a stranger food, and leave him
to himself. My father's whims were past understanding.
But he got up.

``Good evening,'' said he.

The visitor looked a little surprised, as I had seen many
do, at my father's accent.

``Neighbor,'' said he, ``kin you keep me over night?''

``Come in,'' said my father.

We sat down to our supper of corn and beans and
venison, of all of which our guest ate sparingly. He, too, was
a silent man, and scarcely a word was spoken during the
meal. Several times he looked at me with such a kindly
expression in his blue eyes, a trace of a smile around his
broad mouth, that I wished he might stay with us always.
But once, when my father said something about Indians,
the eyes grew hard as flint. It was then I remarked,
with a boy's wonder, that despite his dark hair he had
yellow eyebrows.

After supper the two men sat on the log step, while I
set about the task of skinning the deer my father had
shot that day. Presently I felt a heavy hand on my
shoulder.

``What's your name, lad?'' he said.

I told him Davy.

``Davy, I'll larn ye a trick worth a little time,'' said he,
whipping out a knife. In a trice the red carcass hung
between the forked stakes, while I stood with my mouth
open. He turned to me and laughed gently.

``Some day you'll cross the mountains and skin twenty
of an evening,'' he said. ``Ye'll make a woodsman sure.
You've got the eye, and the hand.''

This little piece of praise from him made me hot all over.

``Game rare?'' said he to my father.

``None sae good, now,'' said my father.

``I reckon not. My cabin's on Beaver Creek some forty
mile above, and game's going there, too.''

``Settlements,'' said my father. But presently, after a
few whiffs of his pipe, he added, ``I hear fine things of
this land across the mountains, that the Indians call the
Dark and Bluidy Ground.''

``And well named,'' said the stranger.

``But a brave country,'' said my father, ``and all
tramped down with game. I hear that Daniel Boone
and others have gone into it and come back with marvellous
tales. They tell me Boone was there alone three
months. He's saething of a man. D'ye ken him?''

The ruddy face of the stranger grew ruddier still.

``My name's Boone,'' he said.

``What!'' cried my father, ``it wouldn't be Daniel?''

``You've guessed it, I reckon.''

My father rose without a word, went into the cabin,
and immediately reappeared with a flask and a couple of
gourds, one of which he handed to our visitor.

``Tell me aboot it,'' said he.

That was the fairy tale of my childhood. Far into the
night I lay on the dewy grass listening to Mr. Boone's
talk. It did not at first flow in a steady stream, for he
was not a garrulous man, but my father's questions presently
fired his enthusiasm. I recall but little of it, being
so small a lad, but I crept closer and closer until I could
touch this superior being who had been beyond the Wall.
Marco Polo was no greater wonder to the Venetians than
Boone to me.

He spoke of leaving wife and children, and setting out
for the Unknown with other woodsmen. He told how,
crossing over our blue western wall into a valley beyond,
they found a ``Warrior's Path'' through a gap across
another range, and so down into the fairest of promised
lands. And as he talked he lost himself in the tale of it,
and the very quality of his voice changed. He told of a
land of wooded hill and pleasant vale, of clear water running
over limestone down to the great river beyond, the
Ohio--a land of glades, the fields of which were pied with
flowers of wondrous beauty, where roamed the buffalo in
countless thousands, where elk and deer abounded, and
turkeys and feathered game, and bear in the tall brakes of
cane. And, simply, he told how, when the others had left
him, he stayed for three months roaming the hills alone
with Nature herself.

``But did you no' meet the Indians?'' asked my father.

``I seed one fishing on a log once,'' said our visitor,
laughing, ``but he fell into the water. I reckon he was
drowned.''

My father nodded comprehendingly,--even admiringly.

``And again!'' said he.

``Wal,'' said Mr. Boone, ``we fell in with a war party
of Shawnees going back to their lands north of the great
river. The critters took away all we had. It was hard,''
he added reflectively; ``I had staked my fortune on the
venter, and we'd got enough skins to make us rich. But,
neighbor, there is land enough for you and me, as black
and rich as Canaan.''

`` `The Lord is my shepherd,' '' said my father, lapsing
into verse. `` `The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not
want. He leadeth me into green pastures, and beside
still waters.' ''

For a time they were silent, each wrapped in his own
thought, while the crickets chirped and the frogs sang.
From the distant forest came the mournful hoot of an owl.

``And you are going back?'' asked my father, presently.

``Aye, that I am. There are many families on the Yadkin
below going, too. And you, neighbor, you might
come with us. Davy is the boy that would thrive in that
country.''

My father did not answer. It was late indeed when
we lay down to rest, and the night I spent between waking
and dreaming of the wonderland beyond the mountains,
hoping against hope that my father would go. The
sun was just flooding the slopes when our guest arose to
leave, and my father bade him God-speed with a heartiness
that was rare to him. But, to my bitter regret, neither
spoke of my father's going. Being a man of understanding,
Mr. Boone knew it were little use to press. He
patted me on the head.

``You're a wise lad, Davy,'' said he. ``I hope we shall
meet again.''

He mounted his roan and rode away down the slope,
waving his hand to us. And it was with a heavy heart
that I went to feed our white mare, whinnying for food in
the lean-to.

CHAPTER II

WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS

And so our life went on the same, but yet not the same.
For I had the Land of Promise to dream of, and as I went
about my tasks I conjured up in my mind pictures of its
beauty. You will forgive a backwoods boy,--self-centred,
for lack of wider interest, and with a little
imagination. Bear hunting with my father, and an
occasional trip on the white mare twelve miles to the
Cross-Roads for salt and other necessaries, were the only
diversions to break the routine of my days. But at the
Cross-Roads, too, they were talking of Kaintuckee. For
so the Land was called, the Dark and Bloody Ground.

The next year came a war on the Frontier, waged by
Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia. Of this likewise
I heard at the Cross-Roads, though few from our part
seemed to have gone to it. And I heard there, for
rumors spread over mountains, that men blazing in the new
land were in danger, and that my hero, Boone, was gone
out to save them. But in the autumn came tidings of a
great battle far to the north, and of the Indians suing for
peace.

The next year came more tidings of a sort I did not
understand. I remember once bringing back from the
Cross-Roads a crumpled newspaper, which my father read
again and again, and then folded up and put in his pocket.
He said nothing to me of these things. But the next time
I went to the Cross-Roads, the woman asked me:--

``Is your Pa for the Congress?''

``What's that?'' said I.

``I reckon he ain't,'' said the woman, tartly. I recall
her dimly, a slattern creature in a loose gown and bare
feet, wife of the storekeeper and wagoner, with a swarm
of urchins about her. They were all very natural to me
thus. And I remember a battle with one of these urchins
in the briers, an affair which did not add to the love of
their family for ours. There was no money in that country,
and the store took our pelts in exchange for what we
needed from civilization. Once a month would I load
these pelts on the white mare, and make the journey by
the path down the creek. At times I met other settlers
there, some of them not long from Ireland, with the brogue
still in their mouths. And again, I saw the wagoner with
his great canvas-covered wagon standing at the door,
ready to start for the town sixty miles away. 'Twas he
brought the news of this latest war.

One day I was surprised to see the wagoner riding up
the path to our cabin, crying out for my father, for he
was a violent man. And a violent scene followed. They
remained for a long time within the house, and when they
came out the wagoner's face was red with rage. My
father, too, was angry, but no more talkative than usual.

``Ye say ye'll not help the Congress?'' shouted the
wagoner.

``I'll not,'' said my father.

``Ye'll live to rue this day, Alec Trimble,'' cried the
man. ``Ye may think ye're too fine for the likes of us,
but there's them in the settlement that knows about ye.''

With that he flung himself on his horse, and rode away.
But the next time I went to the Cross-Roads the woman
drove me away with curses, and called me an aristocrat.
Wearily I tramped back the dozen miles up the creek,
beside the mare, carrying my pelts with me; stumbling on
the stones, and scratched by the dry briers. For it was
autumn, the woods all red and yellow against the green
of the pines. I sat down beside the old beaver dam to
gather courage to tell my father. But he only smiled
bitterly when he heard it. Nor would he tell me what
the word ARISTOCRAT meant.

That winter we spent without bacon, and our salt gave
out at Christmas. It was at this season, if I remember
rightly, that we had another visitor. He arrived about
nightfall one gray day, his horse jaded and cut, and he
was dressed all in wool, with a great coat wrapped about
him, and high boots. This made me stare at him. When
my father drew back the bolt of the door he, too, stared
and fell back a step.

``Come in,'' said he.

``D'ye ken me, Alec?'' said the man.

He was a tall, spare man like my father, a Scotchman,
but his hair was in a cue.

``Come in, Duncan,'' said my father, quietly. ``Davy,
run out for wood.''

Loath as I was to go, I obeyed. As I came back dragging
a log behind me I heard them in argument, and in
their talk there was much about the Congress, and a
woman named Flora Macdonald, and a British fleet sailing
southward.

``We'll have two thousand Highlanders and more to
meet the fleet. And ye'll sit at hame, in this hovel ye've
made yeresel'' (and he glanced about disdainfully) ``and
no help the King?''  He brought his fist down on the pine
boards.

``Ye did no help the King greatly at Culloden, Duncan,''
said my father, dryly.

Our visitor did not answer at once.

``The Yankee Rebels 'll no help the House of Stuart,''
said he, presently. ``And Hanover's coom to stay. Are
ye, too, a Rebel, Alec Ritchie?''

I remember wondering why he said RITCHIE.

``I'll no take a hand in this fight,'' answered my father.

And that was the end of it. The man left with scant
ceremony, I guiding him down the creek to the main trail.
He did not open his mouth until I parted with him.

``Puir Davy,'' said he, and rode away in the night,
for the moon shone through the clouds.

I remember these things, I suppose, because I had nothing
else to think about. And the names stuck in my memory,
intensified by later events, until I began to write a diary.

And now I come to my travels. As the spring drew on
I had had a feeling that we could not live thus forever,
with no market for our pelts. And one day my father
said to me abruptly:--

``Davy, we'll be travelling.''

``Where?'' I asked.

``Ye'll ken soon enough,'' said he. ``We'll go at crack
o' day.''

We went away in the wild dawn, leaving the cabin
desolate. We loaded the white mare with the pelts, and my
father wore a woollen suit like that of our Scotch visitor,
which I had never seen before. He had clubbed his hair.
But, strangest of all, he carried in a small parcel the silk
gown that had been my mother's. We had scant other
baggage.

We crossed the Yadkin at a ford, and climbing the hills
to the south of it we went down over stony traces, down
and down, through rain and sun; stopping at rude cabins
or taverns, until we came into the valley of another river.
This I know now was the Catawba. My memories of that
ride are as misty as the spring weather in the mountains.
But presently the country began to open up into broad fields,
some of these abandoned to pines. And at last, splashing
through the stiff red clay that was up to the mare's
fetlocks, we came to a place called Charlotte Town. What
a day that was for me! And how I gaped at the houses
there, finer than any I had ever dreamed of! That was
my first sight of a town. And how I listened open-
mouthed to the gentlemen at the tavern! One I recall
had a fighting head with a lock awry, and a negro servant
to wait on him, and was the principal spokesman. He,
too, was talking of war. The Cherokees had risen on the
western border. He was telling of the massacre of a
settlement, in no mild language.

``Sirs,'' he cried, ``the British have stirred the redskins
to this. Will you sit here while women and children are
scalped, and those devils'' (he called them worse names)
``Stuart and Cameron go unpunished?''

My father got up from the corner where he sat, and
stood beside the man.

``I ken Alec Cameron,'' said he.

The man looked at him with amazement.

``Ay?'' said he, ``I shouldn't think you'd own it. Damn
him,'' he cried, ``if we catch him we'll skin him alive.''

``I ken Cameron,'' my father repeated, ``and I'll gang
with you to skin him alive.''

The man seized his hand and wrung it.

``But first I must be in Charlestown,'' said my father.

The next morning we sold our pelts. And though the
mare was tired, we pushed southward, I behind the saddle.
I had much to think about, wondering what was to become
of me while my father went to skin Cameron. I had not
the least doubt that he would do it. The world is a story-
book to a lad of nine, and the thought of Charlestown filled
me with a delight unspeakable. Perchance he would leave
me in Charlestown.

At nightfall we came into a settlement called the
Waxhaws. And there being no tavern there, and the mare
being very jaded and the roads heavy, we cast about for a
place to sleep. The sunlight slanting over the pine forest
glistened on the pools in the wet fields. And it so
chanced that splashing across these, swinging a milk-pail
over his head, shouting at the top of his voice, was a red-
headed lad of my own age. My father hailed him, and he
came running towards us, still shouting, and vaulted the
rails. He stood before us, eying me with a most
mischievous look in his blue eyes, and dabbling in the red
mud with his toes. I remember I thought him a queer-
looking boy. He was lanky, and he had a very long face
under his tousled hair.

My father asked him where he could spend the night.

``Wal,'' said the boy, ``I reckon Uncle Crawford might
take you in. And again he mightn't.''

He ran ahead, still swinging the pail. And we, following,
came at length to a comfortable-looking farmhouse.
As we stopped at the doorway a stout, motherly woman
filled it. She held her knitting in her hand.

``You Andy!'' she cried,'' have you fetched the milk?''

Andy tried to look repentant.

``I declare I'll tan you,'' said the lady. ``Git out this
instant. What rascality have you been in?''

``I fetched home visitors, Ma,'' said Andy.

``Visitors!'' cried the lady. ``What 'll your Uncle
Crawford say? And she looked at us smiling, but with
no great hostility.

``Pardon me, Madam,'' said my father, ``if we seem to
intrude. But my mare is tired, and we have nowhere to
stay.''

Uncle Crawford did take us in. He was a man of
substance in that country,--a north of Ireland man by birth,
if I remember right.

I went to bed with the red-headed boy, whose name was
Andy Jackson. I remember that his mother came into
our little room under the eaves and made Andy say his
prayers, and me after him. But when she was gone out,
Andy stumped his toe getting into bed in the dark and
swore with a brilliancy and vehemence that astonished
me.

It was some hours before we went to sleep, he plying me
with questions about my life, which seemed to interest
him greatly, and I returning in kind.

``My Pa's dead,'' said Andy. ``He came from a part of
Ireland where they are all weavers. We're kinder poor
relations here. Aunt Crawford's sick, and Ma keeps house.
But Uncle Crawford's good, an' lets me go to Charlotte
Town with him sometimes.''

I recall that he also boasted some about his big brothers,
who were away just then.

Andy was up betimes in the morning, to see us start.
But we didn't start, because Mr. Crawford insisted that
the white mare should have a half day's rest. Andy, being
hustled off unwillingly to the ``Old Field'' school, made
me go with him. He was a very headstrong boy.

I was very anxious to see a school. This one was only
a log house in a poor, piny place, with a rabble of boys
and girls romping at the door. But when they saw us
they stopped. Andy jumped into the air, let out a war-
whoop, and flung himself into the midst, scattering them
right and left, and knocking one boy over and over. ``I'm
Billy Buck!'' he cried. ``I'm a hull regiment o' Rangers.
Let th' Cherokees mind me!''

``Way for Sandy Andy!'' cried the boys. ``Where'd
you get the new boy, Sandy?''

``His name's Davy,'' said Andy, ``and his Pa's goin' to
fight the Cherokees. He kin lick tarnation out'n any o'
you.''

Meanwhile I held back, never having been thrown with
so many of my own kind.

``He's shot painters and b'ars,'' said Andy. ``An'
skinned 'em. Kin you lick him, Smally? I reckon not.''

Now I had not come to the school for fighting. So I
held back. Fortunately for me, Smally held back also.
But he tried skilful tactics.

``He kin throw you, Sandy.''

Andy faced me in an instant.

``Kin you?'' said he.

There was nothing to do but try, and in a few seconds
we were rolling on the ground, to the huge delight of
Smally and the others, Andy shouting all the while and
swearing. We rolled and rolled and rolled in the mud,
until we both lost our breath, and even Andy stopped
swearing, for want of it. After a while the boys were
silent, and the thing became grim earnest. At length, by
some accident rather than my own strength, both his
shoulders touched the ground. I released him. But he
was on his feet in an instant and at me again like a wildcat.

``Andy won't stay throwed,'' shouted a boy. And
before I knew it he had my shoulders down in a puddle.
Then I went for him, and affairs were growing more
serious than a wrestle, when Smally, fancying himself safe,
and no doubt having a grudge, shouted out:--

``Tell him he slobbers, Davy.''

Andy DID slobber. But that was the end of me, and the
beginning of Smally. Andy left me instantly, not without
an intimation that he would come back, and proceeded
to cover Smally with red clay and blood. However, in the
midst of this turmoil the schoolmaster arrived, haled both
into the schoolhouse, held court, and flogged Andrew with
considerable gusto. He pronounced these words afterwards,
with great solemnity:--

``Andrew Jackson, if I catch ye fightin' once more, I'll
be afther givin' ye lave to lave the school.''

I parted from Andy at noon with real regret. He was
the first boy with whom I had ever had any intimacy.
And I admired him: chiefly, I fear, for his fluent use of
profanity and his fighting qualities. He was a merry lad,
with a wondrous quick temper but a good heart. And
he seemed sorry to say good-by. He filled my pockets
with June apples--unripe, by the way--and told me to
remember him when I got TILL Charlestown.

I remembered him much longer than that, and usually
with a shock of surprise.

CHAPTER III

CHARLESTOWN

Down and down we went, crossing great rivers by ford
and ferry, until the hills flattened themselves and the
country became a long stretch of level, broken by the
forests only; and I saw many things I had not thought
were on the earth. Once in a while I caught glimpses of
great red houses, with stately pillars, among the trees.
They put me in mind of the palaces in Bunyan, their
windows all golden in the morning sun; and as we jogged
ahead, I pondered on the delights within them. I saw
gangs of negroes plodding to work along the road, an
overseer riding behind them with his gun on his back;
and there were whole cotton fields in these domains blazing
in primrose flower,--a new plant here, so my father
said. He was willing to talk on such subjects. But on
others, and especially our errand to Charlestown, he would
say nothing. And I knew better than to press him.

One day, as we were crossing a dike between rice
swamps spread with delicate green, I saw the white tops
of wagons flashing in the sun at the far end of it. We
caught up with them, the wagoners cracking their whips
and swearing at the straining horses. And lo! in front
of the wagons was an army,--at least my boyish mind
magnified it to such. Men clad in homespun, perspiring
and spattered with mud, were straggling along
the road by fours, laughing and joking together. The
officers rode, and many of these had blue coats and buff
waistcoats,--some the worse for wear. My father was
pushing the white mare into the ditch to ride by, when
one hailed him.

``Hullo, my man,'' said he, ``are you a friend to Congress?''

``I'm off to Charlestown to leave the lad,'' said my
father, ``and then to fight the Cherokees.''

``Good,'' said the other. And then, ``Where are you
from?''

``Upper Yadkin,'' answered my father. ``And you?''

The officer, who was a young man, looked surprised.
But then he laughed pleasantly.

``We're North Carolina troops, going to join Lee in
Charlestown,'' said he. ``The British are sending a fleet
and regiments against it.''

``Oh, aye,'' said my father, and would have passed on.
But he was made to go before the Colonel, who plied him
with many questions. Then he gave us a paper and
dismissed us.

We pursued our journey through the heat that shimmered
up from the road, pausing now and again in the
shade of a wayside tree. At times I thought I could bear
the sun no longer. But towards four o'clock of that day
a great bank of yellow cloud rolled up, darkening the
earth save for a queer saffron light that stained everything,
and made our very faces yellow. And then a wind
burst out of the east with a high mournful note, as from
a great flute afar, filling the air with leaves and branches
of trees. But it bore, too, a savor that was new to me,--
a salt savor, deep and fresh, that I drew down into my
lungs. And I knew that we were near the ocean. Then
came the rain, in great billows, as though the ocean itself
were upon us.

The next day we crossed a ferry on the Ashley River, and
rode down the sand of Charlestown neck. And my most
vivid remembrance is of the great trunks towering half a
hundred feet in the air, with a tassel of leaves at the top,
which my father said were palmettos. Something lay heavy
on his mind. For I had grown to know his moods by a sort
of silent understanding. And when the roofs and spires
of the town shone over the foliage in the afternoon sun,
I felt him give a great sigh that was like a sob.

And how shall I describe the splendor of that city?
The sandy streets, and the gardens of flower and shade,
heavy with the plant odors; and the great houses with
their galleries and porticos set in the midst of the gardens,
that I remember staring at wistfully. But before long we
came to a barricade fixed across the street, and then to
another. And presently, in an open space near a large
building, was a company of soldiers at drill.

It did not strike me as strange then that my father
asked his way of no man, but went to a little ordinary in
a humbler part of the town. After a modest meal in a
corner of the public room, we went out for a stroll. Then,
from the wharves, I saw the bay dotted with islands, their
white sand sparkling in the evening light, and fringed
with strange trees, and beyond, of a deepening blue,
the ocean. And nearer,--greatest of all delights to me,
--riding on the swell was a fleet of ships. My father
gazed at them long and silently, his palm over his eyes.

``Men-o'-war from the old country, lad,'' he said after a
while. ``They're a brave sight.''

``And why are they here?'' I asked.

``They've come to fight,'' said he, ``and take the town
again for the King.''

It was twilight when we turned to go, and then I saw
that many of the warehouses along the wharves were
heaps of ruins. My father said this was that the town
might be the better defended.

We bent our way towards one of the sandy streets where
the great houses were. And to my surprise we turned in
at a gate, and up a path leading to the high steps of one
of these. Under the high portico the door was open, but
the house within was dark. My father paused, and the
hand he held to mine trembled. Then he stepped across
the threshold, and raising the big polished knocker that
hung on the panel, let it drop. The sound reverberated
through the house, and then stillness. And then, from
within, a shuffling sound, and an old negro came to the
door. For an instant he stood staring through the dusk,
and broke into a cry.

``Marse Alec!'' he said.

``Is your master at home?'' said my father.

Without another word he led us through a deep hall,
and out into a gallery above the trees of a back garden,
where a gentleman sat smoking a long pipe. The old
negro stopped in front of him.

``Marse John,'' said he, his voice shaking, ``heah's Marse
Alec done come back.''

The gentleman got to his feet with a start. His pipe
fell to the floor, and the ashes scattered on the boards and
lay glowing there.

``Alec!'' he cried, peering into my father's face, ``Alec!
You're not dead.''

``John,'' said my father, ``can we talk here?''

``Good God!'' said the gentleman, ``you're just the same.
To think of it--to think of it! Breed, a light in the
drawing-room.''

There was no word spoken while the negro was gone,
and the time seemed very long. But at length he returned,
a silver candlestick in each hand.

``Careful,'' cried the gentleman, petulantly, ``you'll drop
them.''

He led the way into the house, and through the hall to
a massive door of mahogany with a silver door-knob. The
grandeur of the place awed me, and well it might. Boy-
like, I was absorbed in this. Our little mountain cabin
would almost have gone into this one room. The candles
threw their flickering rays upward until they danced on
the high ceiling. Marvel of marvels, in the oval left clear
by the heavy, rounded cornice was a picture.

The negro set down the candles on the marble top of a
table. But the air of the room was heavy and close, and
the gentleman went to a window and flung it open. It
came down instantly with a crash, so that the panes rattled
again.

``Curse these Rebels,'' he shouted, ``they've taken our
window weights to make bullets.''

Calling to the negro to pry open the window with a
walking-stick, he threw himself into a big, upholstered
chair. 'Twas then I remarked the splendor of his
clothes, which were silk. And he wore a waistcoat all
sewed with flowers. With a boy's intuition, I began to
dislike him intensely.

``Damn the Rebels!'' he began. ``They've driven his
Lordship away. I hope his Majesty will hang every
mother's son of 'em. All pleasure of life is gone, and
they've folly enough to think they can resist the fleet.
And the worst of it is,'' cried he, ``the worst of it is, I'm
forced to smirk to them, and give good gold to their
government.''  Seeing that my father did not answer, he
asked: ``Have you joined the Highlanders? You were
always for fighting.''

``I'm to be at Cherokee Ford on the twentieth,'' said my
father. ``We're to scalp the redskins and Cameron, though
'tis not known.''

``Cameron!'' shrieked the gentleman. ``But that's the
other side, man! Against his Majesty?''

``One side or t'other,'' said my father, `` 'tis all one
against Alec Cameron.''

The gentleman looked at my father with something like
terror in his eyes.

``You'll never forgive Cameron,'' he said.

``I'll no forgive anybody who does me a wrong,'' said
my father.

``And where have you been all these years, Alec?'' he
asked presently. ``Since you went off with--''

``I've been in the mountains, leading a pure life,'' said
my father. ``And we'll speak of nothing, if you please,
that's gone by.''

``And what will you have me do?'' said the gentleman,
helplessly.

``Little enough,'' said my father. ``Keep the lad till
I come again. He's quiet. He'll no trouble you greatly.
Davy, this is Mr. Temple. You're to stay with him till
I come again.''

``Come here, lad,'' said the gentleman, and he peered
into my face. ``You'll not resemble your mother.''

``He'll resemble no one,'' said my father, shortly.

``Good-by, Davy. Keep this till I come again.''  And
he gave me the parcel made of my mother's gown. Then
he lifted me in his strong arms and kissed me, and strode
out of the house. We listened in silence as he went down
the steps, and until his footsteps died away on the path.
Then the gentleman rose and pulled a cord hastily. The
negro came in.

``Put the lad to bed, Breed,'' said he.

``Whah, suh?''

``Oh, anywhere,'' said the master. He turned to me.

``I'll be better able to talk to you in the morning, David,''
said he.

I followed the old servant up the great stairs, gulping
down a sob that would rise, and clutching my mother's
gown tight under my arm. Had my father left me alone
in our cabin for a fortnight, I should not have minded.
But here, in this strange house, amid such strange
surroundings, I was heartbroken. The old negro was very kind.
He led me into a little bedroom, and placing the candle on
a polished dresser, he regarded me with sympathy.

``So you're Miss Lizbeth's boy,'' said he. ``An' she
dade. An' Marse Alec rough an' hard es though he been
bo'n in de woods. Honey, ol' Breed'll tek care ob you.
I'll git you one o' dem night rails Marse Nick has, and
some ob his'n close in de mawnin'.''

These things I remember, and likewise sobbing myself
to sleep in the four-poster. Often since I have wished
that I had questioned Breed of many things on which I
had no curiosity then, for he was my chief companion in
the weeks that followed. He awoke me bright and early
the next day

``Heah's some close o' Marse Nick's you kin wear, honey,''
he said.

``Who is Master Nick?'' I asked.

Breed slapped his thigh.

``Marse Nick Temple, Marsa's son. He's 'bout you
size, but he ain' no mo' laik you den a Jack rabbit's laik
an' owl. Dey ain' none laik Marse Nick fo' gittin' into
trouble-and gittin' out agin.''

``Where is he now?'' I asked.

``He at Temple Bow, on de Ashley Ribber. Dat's de
Marsa's barony.''

``His what?''

``De place whah he lib at, in de country.''

``And why isn't the master there?''

I remember that Breed gave a wink, and led me out of
the window onto a gallery above the one where we had
found the master the night before. He pointed across the
dense foliage of the garden to a strip of water gleaming in
the morning sun beyond.

``See dat boat?'' said the negro. ``Sometime de Marse
he tek ar ride in dat boat at night. Sometime gentlemen
comes heah in a pow'ful hurry to git away, out'n de harbor
whah de English is at.''

By that time I was dressed, and marvellously uncomfortable
in Master Nick's clothes. But as I was going out of
the door, Breed hailed me.

``Marse Dave,''--it was the first time I had been called
that,--``Marse Dave, you ain't gwineter tell?''

``Tell what?'' I asked.

``Bout'n de boat, and Marsa agwine away nights.''

``No,'' said I, indignantly.

``I knowed you wahn't,'' said Breed. ``You don' look
as if you'd tell anything.''

We found the master pacing the lower gallery. At
first he barely glanced at me, and nodded. After a
while he stopped, and began to put to me many questions
about my life: when and how I had lived. And to some
of my answers he exclaimed, ``Good God!''  That was
all. He was a handsome man, with hands like a woman's,
well set off by the lace at his sleeves. He had fine-
cut features, and the white linen he wore was most becoming.

``David,'' said he, at length, and I noted that he lowered
his voice, ``David, you seem a discreet lad. Pay attention
to what I tell you. And mark! if you disobey me, you
will be well whipped. You have this house and garden to
play in, but you are by no means to go out at the front of
the house. And whatever you may see or hear, you are
to tell no one. Do you understand?''

``Yes, sir,'' I said.

``For the rest,'' said he, ``Breed will give you food, and
look out for your welfare.''

And so he dismissed me. They were lonely days after
that for a boy used to activity, and only the damp garden
paths and lawns to run on. The creek at the back of the
garden was stagnant and marshy when the water fell, and
overhung by leafy boughs. On each side of the garden
was a high brick wall. And though I was often tempted
to climb it, I felt that disobedience was disloyalty to my
father. Then there was the great house, dark and lonely
in its magnificence, over which I roamed until I knew
every corner of it.

I was most interested of all in the pictures of men and
women in quaint, old-time costumes, and I used during the
great heat of the day to sit in the drawing-room and study
these, and wonder who they were and when they lived.
Another amusement I had was to climb into the deep
windows and peer through the blinds across the front garden
into the street. Sometimes men stopped and talked
loudly there, and again a rattle of drums would send me
running to see the soldiers. I recall that I had a poor
enough notion of what the fighting was all about. And
no wonder. But I remember chiefly my insatiable longing
to escape from this prison, as the great house soon became
for me. And I yearned with a yearning I cannot express
for our cabin in the hills and the old life there.

I caught glimpses of the master on occasions only, and
then I avoided him; for I knew he had no wish to see
me. Sometimes he would be seated in the gallery, tapping
his foot on the floor, and sometimes pacing the garden
walks with his hands opening and shutting. And one
night I awoke with a start, and lay for a while listening
until I heard something like a splash, and the scraping of
the bottom-boards of a boat. Irresistibly I jumped out
of bed, and running to the gallery rail I saw two dark
figures moving among the leaves below. The next morning
I came suddenly on a strange gentleman in the gallery.
He wore a flowered dressing-gown like the one I had seen
on the master, and he had a jolly, round face. I stopped
and stared.

``Who the devil are you?'' said he, but not unkindly.

``My name is David Trimble,'' said I, ``and I come from
the mountains.''

He laughed.

``Mr. David Trimble-from-the-mountains, who the devil
am I?''

``I don't know, sir,'' and I started to go away, not
wishing to disturb him.

``Avast!'' he cried. ``Stand fast. See that you
remember that.''

``I'm not here of my free will, sir, but because my
father wishes it. And I'll betray nothing.''

Then he stared at me.

``How old did you say you were?'' he demanded.

``I didn't say,'' said I.

``And you are of Scotch descent?'' said he.

``I didn't say so, sir.''

``You're a rum one,'' said he, laughing again, and he
disappeared into the house.

That day, when Breed brought me my dinner on my
gallery, he did not speak of a visitor. You may be sure I
did not mention the circumstance. But Breed always told
me the outside news.

``Dey's gittin' ready fo' a big fight, Marse Dave,'' said
he. ``Mister Moultrie in the fo't in de bay, an' Marse
Gen'l Lee tryin' for to boss him. Dey's Rebels. An'
Marse Admiral Parker an' de King's reg'ments fixin' fo' to
tek de fo't, an' den Charlesto'n. Dey say Mister Moultrie
ain't got no mo' chance dan a treed 'possum.''

``Why, Breed?'' I asked. I had heard my father talk of
England's power and might, and Mister Moultrie seemed
to me a very brave man in his little fort.

``Why!'' exclaimed the old negro. ``You ain't neber
read no hist'ry books. I knows some of de gentlemen
wid Mister Moultrie. Dey ain't no soldiers. Some is
fine gentlemen, to be suah, but it's jist foolishness to fight
dat fleet an' army. Marse Gen'l Lee hisself, he done
sesso. I heerd him.''

``And he's on Mister Moultrie's side?'' I asked.

``Sholy,'' said Breed. ``He's de Rebel gen'l.''

``Then he's a knave and a coward!'' I cried with a boy's
indignation. ``Where did you hear him say that?'' I
demanded, incredulous of some of Breed's talk.

``Right heah in dis house,'' he answered, and quickly
clapped his hand to his mouth, and showed the whites of
his eyes. ``You ain't agwineter tell dat, Marse Dave?''

``Of course not,'' said I. And then: ``I wish I could
see Mister Moultrie in his fort, and the fleet.''

``Why, honey, so you kin,'' said Breed.

The good-natured negro dropped his work and led the
way upstairs, I following expectant, to the attic. A
rickety ladder rose to a kind of tower (cupola, I suppose it
would be called), whence the bay spread out before me
like a picture, the white islands edged with the whiter
lacing of the waves. There, indeed, was the fleet, but far
away, like toy ships on the water, and the bit of a fort
perched on the sandy edge of an island. I spent most of
that day there, watching anxiously for some movement.
But none came.

That night I was again awakened. And running into
the gallery, I heard quick footsteps in the garden. Then
there was a lantern's flash, a smothered oath, and all was
dark again. But in the flash I had seen distinctly three
figures. One was Breed, and he held the lantern; another
was the master; and the third, a stout one muffled in a
cloak, I made no doubt was my jolly friend. I lay long
awake, with a boy's curiosity, until presently the dawn
broke, and I arose and dressed, and began to wander about
the house. No Breed was sweeping the gallery, nor was
there any sign of the master. The house was as still as a
tomb, and the echoes of my footsteps rolled through the
halls and chambers. At last, prompted by curiosity and
fear, I sought the kitchen, where I had often sat with
Breed as he cooked the master's dinner. This was at the
bottom and end of the house. The great fire there was
cold, and the pots and pans hung neatly on their hooks,
untouched that day. I was running through the wet
garden, glad to be out in the light, when a sound
stopped me.

It was a dull roar from the direction of the bay. Almost
instantly came another, and another, and then several
broke together. And I knew that the battle had begun.
Forgetting for the moment my loneliness, I ran into the
house and up the stairs two at a time, and up the ladder
into the cupola, where I flung open the casement and
leaned out.

There was the battle indeed,--a sight so vivid to me
after all these years that I can call it again before me
when I will. The toy men-o'-war, with sails set, ranging
in front of the fort. They looked at my distance to be
pressed against it. White puffs, like cotton balls, would
dart one after another from a ship's side, melt into a cloud,
float over her spars, and hide her from my view. And then
presently the roar would reach me, and answering puffs
along the line of the fort. And I could see the mortar
shells go up and up, leaving a scorched trail behind, curve
in a great circle, and fall upon the little garrison. Mister
Moultrie became a real person to me then, a vivid picture
in my boyish mind--a hero beyond all other heroes.

As the sun got up in the heavens and the wind fell, the
cupola became a bake-oven. But I scarcely felt the heat.
My whole soul was out in the bay, pent up with the men in
the fort. How long could they hold out? Why were they
not all killed by the shot that fell like hail among them?
Yet puff after puff sprang from their guns, and the sound
of it was like a storm coming nearer in the heat. But at
noon it seemed to me as though some of the ships were
sailing. It was true. Slowly they drew away from the
others, and presently I thought they had stopped again.
Surely two of them were stuck together, then three were
fast on a shoal. Boats, like black bugs in the water, came
and went between them and the others. After a long time
the two that were together got apart and away. But the
third stayed there, immovable, helpless.

Throughout the afternoon the fight, kept on, the little
black boats coming and going. I saw a mast totter and
fall on one of the ships. I saw the flag shot away from
the fort, and reappear again. But now the puffs came
from her walls slowly and more slowly, so that my heart
sank with the setting sun. And presently it grew too
dark to see aught save the red flashes. Slowly,
reluctantly, the noise died down until at last a great silence
reigned, broken only now and again by voices in the
streets below me. It was not until then that I realized
that I had been all day without food--that I was alone
in the dark of a great house.

I had never known fear in the woods at night. But now
I trembled as I felt my way down the ladder, and groped
and stumbled through the black attic for the stairs.
Every noise I made seemed louder an hundred fold than
the battle had been, and when I barked my shins, the pain
was sharper than a knife. Below, on the big stairway,
the echo of my footsteps sounded again from the empty
rooms, so that I was taken with a panic and fled downward,
sliding and falling, until I reached the hall.
Frantically as I tried, I could not unfasten the bolts on the
front door. And so, running into the drawing-room, I
pried open the window, and sat me down in the embrasure
to think, and to try to quiet the thumpings of my heart.

By degrees I succeeded. The still air of the night and
the heavy, damp odors of the foliage helped me. And I
tried to think what was right for me to do. I had promised
the master not to leave the place, and that promise
seemed in pledge to my father. Surely the master would
come back--or Breed. They would not leave me here
alone without food much longer. Although I was young,
I was brought up to responsibility. And I inherited a
conscience that has since given me much trouble.

From these thoughts, trying enough for a starved lad,
I fell to thinking of my father on the frontier fighting
the Cherokees. And so I dozed away to dream of him.
I remember that he was skinning Cameron,--I had often
pictured it,--and Cameron yelling, when I was awakened
with a shock by a great noise.

I listened with my heart in my throat. The noise
seemed to come from the hall,--a prodigious pounding.
Presently it stopped, and a man's voice cried out:--

``Ho there, within!''

My first impulse was to answer. But fear kept me
still.

``Batter down the door,'' some one shouted.

There was a sound of shuffling in the portico, and the
same voice:--

``Now then, all together, lads!''

Then came a straining and splitting of wood, and with
a crash the door gave way. A lantern's rays shot through
the hall.

``The house is as dark as a tomb,'' said a voice.

``And as empty, I reckon,'' said another. ``John
Temple and his spy have got away.''

``We'll have a search,'' answered the first voice.

They stood for a moment in the drawing-room door,
peering, and then they entered. There were five of them.
Two looked to be gentlemen, and three were of rougher
appearance. They carried lanterns.

``That window's open,'' said one of the gentlemen.
``They must have been here to-day. Hello, what's this?''
He started back in surprise.

I slid down from the window-seat, and stood facing
them, not knowing what else to do. They, too, seemed
equally confounded.

``It must be Temple's son,'' said one, at last. ``I had
thought the family at Temple Bow. What's your name,
my lad?''

``David Trimble, sir,'' said I.

``And what are you doing here?'' he asked more sternly.

``I was left in Mr. Temple's care by my father.''

``Oho!'' he cried. ``And where is your father?''

``He's gone to fight the Cherokees,'' I answered soberly.
``To skin a man named Cameron.''

At that they were silent for an instant, and then the
two broke into a laugh.

``Egad, Lowndes,'' said the gentleman, ``here is a fine
mystery. Do you think the boy is lying?''

The other gentleman scratched his forehead.

``I'll have you know I don't lie, sir,'' I said, ready to
cry.

``No,'' said the other gentleman. ``A backwoodsman
named Trimble went to Rutledge with credentials from
North Carolina, and has gone off to Cherokee Ford to
join McCall.''

``Bless my soul!'' exclaimed the first gentleman. He
came up and laid his hand on my shoulder, and said:--

``Where is Mr. Temple?''

``That I don't know, sir.''

``When did he go away?''

I did not answer at once.

``That I can't tell you, sir.''

``Was there any one with him?''

``That I can't tell you, sir.''

``The devil you can't!'' he cried, taking his hand away.
``And why not?''

I shook my head, sorely beset.

``Come, Mathews,'' cried the gentleman called Lowndes.

``We'll search first, and attend to the lad after.''

And so they began going through the house, prying into
every cupboard and sweeping under every bed. They
even climbed to the attic; and noting the open casement
in the cupola, Mr. Lowndes said:--

``Some one has been here to-day.''

``It was I, sir,'' I said. ``I have been here all day.''

``And what doing, pray?'' he demanded.

``Watching the battle. And oh, sir,'' I cried, ``can you
tell me whether Mister Moultrie beat the British?''

``He did so,'' cried Mr. Lowndes. ``He did, and
soundly.''

He stared at me. I must have looked my pleasure.

``Why, David,'' says he, ``you are a patriot, too.''

``I am a Rebel, sir,'' I cried hotly.

Both gentlemen laughed again, and the men with them.

``The lad is a character,'' said Mr. Lowndes.

We made our way down into the garden, which they
searched last. At the creek's side the boat was gone, and
there were footsteps in the mud.

``The bird has flown, Lowndes,'' said Mr. Mathews.

``And good riddance for the Committee,'' answered that
gentleman, heartily. ``He got to the fleet in fine season
to get a round shot in the middle. David,'' said
he, solemnly, ``remember it never pays to try to be two
things at once.''

``I'll warrant he stayed below water,'' said Mr. Mathews.

``But what shall we do with the lad?''

``I'll take him to my house for the night,'' said Mr.
Lowndes, ``and in the morning we'll talk to him. I
reckon he should be sent to Temple Bow. He is connected
in some way with the Temples.''

``God help him if he goes there,'' said Mr. Mathews,
under his breath. But I heard him.

They locked up the house, and left one of the men to
guard it, while I went with Mr. Lowndes to his residence.
I remember that people were gathered in the streets as we
passed, making merry, and that they greeted Mr. Lowndes
with respect and good cheer. His house, too, was set
in a garden and quite as fine as Mr. Temple's. It was
ablaze with candles, and I caught glimpses of fine gentlemen
and ladies in the rooms. But he hurried me through
the hall, and into a little chamber at the rear where a
writing-desk was set. He turned and faced me.

``You must be tired, David,'' he said.

I nodded.

``And hungry? Boys are always hungry.''

``Yes, sir.''

``You had no dinner?''

``No, sir,'' I answered, off my guard.

``Mercy!'' he said. ``It is a long time since breakfast.''

``I had no breakfast, sir.''

``Good God!'' he said, and pulled the velvet handle
of a cord. A negro came.

``Is the supper for the guests ready?''

``Yes, Marsa.''

``Then bring as much as you can carry here,'' said the
gentleman. ``And ask Mrs. Lowndes if I may speak
with her.''

Mrs. Lowndes came first. And such a fine lady she
was that she frightened me, this being my first experience
with ladies. But when Mr. Lowndes told her my story,
she ran to me impulsively and put her arms about me.

``Poor lad!'' she said. ``What a shame!''

I think that the tears came then, but it was small
wonder. There were tears in her eyes, too.

Such a supper as I had I shall never forget. And she
sat beside me for long, neglecting her guests, and talking
of my life. Suddenly she turned to her husband, calling
him by name.

``He is Alec Ritchie's son,'' she said, ``and Alec has
gone against Cameron.''

Mr. Lowndes did not answer, but nodded.

``And must he go to Temple Bow?''

``My dear,'' said Mr. Lowndes, ``I fear it is our duty
to send him there.''

CHAPTER IV

TEMPLE BOW

In the morning I started for Temple Bow on horseback
behind one of Mr. Lowndes' negroes. Good Mrs.
Lowndes had kissed me at parting, and tucked into my
pocket a parcel of sweetmeats. There had been a few
grave gentlemen to see me, and to their questions I had
replied what I could. But tell them of Mr. Temple I
would not, save that he himself had told me nothing.
And Mr. Lowndes had presently put an end to their
talk.

``The lad knows nothing, gentlemen,'' he had said,
which was true.

``David,'' said he, when he bade me farewell, ``I see
that your father has brought you up to fear God.
Remember that all you see in this life is not to be imitated.''

And so I went off behind his negro. He was a merry
lad, and despite the great heat of the journey and my
misgivings about Temple Bow, he made me laugh. I was
sad at crossing the ferry over the Ashley, through thinking
of my father, but I reflected that it could not be long
now ere I saw him again. In the middle of the day we
stopped at a tavern. And at length, in the abundant
shade of evening, we came to a pair of great ornamental
gates set between brick pillars capped with white balls,
and turned into a drive. And presently, winding through
the trees, we were in sight of a long, brick mansion
trimmed with white, and a velvet lawn before it all
flecked with shadows. In front of the portico was a
saddled horse, craning his long neck at two panting hounds
stretched on the ground. A negro boy in blue clutched
the bridle. On the horse-block a gentleman in white
reclined. He wore shiny boots, and he held his hat in his
hand, and he was gazing up at a lady who stood on the
steps above him.

The lady I remember as well--Lord forbid that I
should forget her. And her laugh as I heard it that
evening is ringing now in my ears. And yet it was not
a laugh. Musical it was, yet there seemed no pleasure
in it: rather irony, and a great weariness of the
amusements of this world: and a note, too, from a vanity never
ruffled. It stopped abruptly as the negro pulled up his
horse before her, and she stared at us haughtily.

``What's this?'' she said.

``Pardon, Mistis,'' said the negro, ``I'se got a letter
from Marse Lowndes.''

``Mr. Lowndes should instruct his niggers,'' she said.

``There is a servants' drive.''  The man was turning his
horse when she cried: ``Hold! Let's have it.''

He dismounted and gave her the letter, and I jumped
to the ground, watching her as she broke the seal, taking
her in, as a boy will, from the flowing skirt and tight-
laced stays of her salmon silk to her high and powdered
hair. She must have been about thirty. Her face was
beautiful, but had no particle of expression in it, and was
dotted here and there with little black patches of plaster.
While she was reading, a sober gentleman in black silk-
breeches and severe coat came out of the house and stood
beside her.

``Heigho, parson,'' said the gentleman on the horse-
block, without moving, ``are you to preach against loo or
lansquenet to-morrow?''

``Would it make any difference to you, Mr. Riddle?''

Before he could answer there came a great clatter behind
them, and a boy of my own age appeared. With a leap he
landed sprawling on the indolent gentleman's shoulders,
nearly upsetting him.

``You young rascal!'' exclaimed the gentleman, pitching
him on the drive almost at my feet; then he fell back again
to a position where he could look up at the lady.

``Harry Riddle,'' cried the boy, ``I'll ride steeplechases
and beat you some day.''

``Hush, Nick,'' cried the lady, petulantly, ``I'll have no
nerves left me.''  She turned to the letter again, holding
it very near to her eyes, and made a wry face of impatience.
Then she held the sheet out to Mr. Riddle.

``A pretty piece of news,'' she said languidly. ``Read
it, Harry.

The gentleman seized her hand instead. The lady
glanced at the clergyman, whose back was turned, and
shook her head.

``How tiresome you are!'' she said.

``What's happened?'' asked Mr. Riddle, letting go as
the parson looked around.

``Oh, they've had a battle,'' said the lady, ``and
Moultrie and his Rebels have beat off the King's fleet.''

``The devil they have!'' exclaimed Mr. Riddle, while
the parson started forwards. ``Anything more?''

``Yes, a little.'' She hesitated. ``That husband of
mine has fled Charlestown. They think he went to the
fleet.''  And she shot a meaning look at Mr. Riddle, who
in turn flushed red. I was watching them.

``What!'' cried the clergyman, ``John Temple has run
away?''

``Why not,'' said Mr. Riddle. ``One can't live between
wind and water long. And Charlestown's--uncomfortable
in summer.''

At that the clergyman cast one look at them--such a
look as I shall never forget--and went into the house.

``Mamma,'' said the boy, ``where has father gone? Has
he run away?''

``Yes. Don't bother me, Nick.''

``I don't believe it,'' cried Nick, his high voice shaking.
``I'd--I'd disown him.''

At that Mr. Riddle burst into a hearty laugh.

``Come, Nick,'' said he, ``it isn't so bad as that. Your
father's for his Majesty, like the rest of us. He's merely
gone over to fight for him.''  And he looked at the lady
and laughed again. But I liked the boy.

As for the lady, she curled her lip. ``Mr. Riddle, don't
be foolish,'' she said. ``If we are to play, send your horse
to the stables.''  Suddenly her eye lighted on me. ``One
more brat,'' she sighed. ``Nick, take him to the nursery,
or the stable. And both of you keep out of my sight.''

Nick strode up to me.

``Don't mind her. She's always saying, `Keep out of
my sight.' ''  His voice trembled. He took me by the
sleeve and began pulling me around the house and into a
little summer bower that stood there; for he had a
masterful manner.

``What's your name?'' he demanded.

``David Trimble,'' I said.

``Have you seen my father in town?''

The intense earnestness of the question surprised an
answer out of me.

``Yes.''

``Where?'' he demanded.

``In his house. My father left me with your father.''

``Tell me about it.''

I related as much as I dared, leaving out Mr. Temple's
double dealing; which, in truth, I did not understand.
But the boy was relentless.

``Why,'' said he, ``my father was a friend of Mr.
Lowndes and Mr. Mathews. I have seen them here drinking
with him. And in town. And he ran away?''

``I do not know where he went,'' said I, which was the
truth.

He said nothing, but hid his face in his arms over the
rail of the bower. At length he looked up at me fiercely.

``If you ever tell this, I will kill you,'' he cried. ``Do
you hear?''

That made me angry.

``Yes, I hear,'' I said. ``But I am not afraid of you.''

He was at me in an instant, knocking me to the floor,
so that the breath went out of me, and was pounding me
vigorously ere I recovered from the shock and astonishment
of it and began to defend myself. He was taller
than I, and wiry, but not so rugged. Yet there was a
look about him that was far beyond his strength. A look
that meant, NEVER SAY DIE. Curiously, even as I fought
desperately I compared him with that other lad I had
known, Andy Jackson. And this one, though not so
powerful, frightened me the more in his relentlessness.

Perhaps we should have been fighting still had not some
one pulled us apart, and when my vision cleared I saw
Nick, struggling and kicking, held tightly in the hands of
the clergyman. And it was all that gentleman could do
to hold him. I am sure it was quite five minutes before he
forced the lad, exhausted, on to the seat. And then there
was a defiance about his nostrils that showed he was
undefeated. The clergyman, still holding him with one hand,
took out his handkerchief with the other and wiped his brow.

I expected a scolding and a sermon. To my amazement
the clergyman said quietly:--

``Now what was the trouble, David?''

``I'll not be the one to tell it, sir,'' I said, and trembled
at my temerity.

The parson looked at me queerly.

``Then you are in the right of it,'' he said. ``It is as
I thought; I'll not expect Nicholas to tell me.''

``I will tell you, sir,'' said Nicholas. ``He was in the
house with my father when--when he ran away. And I
said that if he ever spoke of it to any one, I would kill him.''

For a while the clergyman was silent, gazing with a
strange tenderness at the lad, whose face was averted.

``And you, David?'' he said presently.

``I--I never mean to tell, sir. But I was not to be
frightened.''

``Quite right, my lad,'' said the clergyman, so kindly
that it sent a strange thrill through me. Nicholas looked
up quickly.

``You won't tell?'' he said.

``No,'' I said.

``You can let me go now, Mr. Mason,'' said he. Mr.
Mason did. And he came over and sat beside me, but
said nothing more.

After a while Mr. Mason cleared his throat.

``Nicholas,'' said he, ``when you grow older you will
understand these matters better. Your father went away
to join the side he believes in, the side we all believe in--
the King's side.

``Did he ever pretend to like the other side?'' asked
Nick, quickly.

``When you grow older you will know his motives,''
answered the clergyman, gently. ``Until then; you must
trust him.''

``You never pretended,'' cried Nick.

``Thank God I never was forced to do so,'' said the
clergyman, fervently.

It is wonderful that the conditions of our existence may
wholly change without a seeming strangeness. After
many years only vivid snatches of what I saw and heard
and did at Temple Bow come back to me. I understood
but little the meaning of the seigniorial life there. My
chief wonder now is that its golden surface was not more
troubled by the winds then brewing. It was a new life to
me, one that I had not dreamed of.

After that first falling out, Nick and I became
inseparable. Far slower than he in my likes and dislikes, he
soon became a passion with me. Even as a boy, he did
everything with a grace unsurpassed; the dash and daring
of his pranks took one's breath; his generosity to those he
loved was prodigal. Nor did he ever miss a chance to score
those under his displeasure. At times he was reckless
beyond words to describe, and again he would fall sober
for a day. He could be cruel and tender in the same
hour; abandoned and freezing in his dignity. He had
an old negro mammy whose worship for him and his
possessions was idolatry. I can hear her now calling and
calling, ``Marse Nick, honey, yo' supper's done got
cole,'' as she searched patiently among the magnolias.
And suddenly there would be a shout, and Mammy's
turban go flying from her woolly head, or Mammy herself
would be dragged down from behind and sat upon.

We had our supper, Nick and I, at twilight, in the
children's dining room. A little white room, unevenly
panelled, the silver candlesticks and yellow flames
fantastically reflected in the mirrors between the deep windows,
and the moths and June-bugs tilting at the lights. We
sat at a little mahogany table eating porridge and cream
from round blue bowls, with Mammy to wait on us.
Sometimes there floated in upon us the hum of revelry
from the great drawing-room where Madame had her
company. Often the good Mr. Mason would come in
to us (he cared little for the parties), and talk to us of
our day's doings. Nick had his lessons from the clergyman
in the winter time.

Mr. Mason took occasion once to question me on what
I knew. Some of my answers, in especial those relating
to my knowledge of the Bible, surprised him. Others
made him sad.

``David,'' said he, ``you are an earnest lad, with a head
to learn, and you will. When your father comes, I shall
talk with him.''  He paused--``I knew him,'' said he, ``I
knew him ere you were born. A just man, and upright,
but with a great sorrow. We must never be hasty in our
judgments. But you will never be hasty, David,'' he
added, smiling at me. ``You are a good companion for
Nicholas.''

Nicholas and I slept in the same bedroom, at a corner of
the long house, and far removed from his mother. She
would not be disturbed by the noise he made in the mornings.
I remember that he had cut in the solid shutters of
that room, folded into the embrasures, ``Nicholas Temple,
His Mark,'' and a long, flat sword. The first night in that
room we slept but little, near the whole of it being occupied
with tales of my adventures and of my life in the
mountains. Over and over again I must tell him of the
``painters'' and wildcats, of deer and bear and wolf. Nor
was he ever satisfied. And at length I came to speak of
that land where I had often lived in fancy--the land
beyond the mountains of which Daniel Boone had told.
Of its forest and glade, its countless herds of elk and
buffalo, its salt-licks and Indians, until we fell asleep from
sheer exhaustion.

``I will go there,'' he cried in the morning, as he hurried
into his clothes; ``I will go to that land as sure as my
name is Nick Temple. And you shall go with me,
David.''

``Perchance I shall go before you,'' I answered, though
I had small hopes of persuading my father.

He would often make his exit by the window, climbing
down into the garden by the protruding bricks at the
corner of the house; or sometimes go shouting down the
long halls and through the gallery to the great stairway,
a smothered oath from behind the closed bedroom doors
proclaiming that he had waked a guest. And many days
we spent in the wood, playing at hunting game--a poor
enough amusement for me, and one that Nick soon tired
of. They were thick, wet woods, unlike our woods of the
mountains; and more than once we had excitement
enough with the snakes that lay there.

I believe that in a week's time Nick was as conversant
with my life as I myself. For he made me tell of it again
and again, and of Kentucky. And always as he listened
his eyes would glow and his breast heave with excitement.

``Do you think your father will take you there, David,
when he comes for you?''

I hoped so, but was doubtful.

``I'll run away with you,'' he declared. ``There is no
one here who cares for me save Mr. Mason and Mammy.''

And I believe he meant it. He saw but little of his
mother, and nearly always something unpleasant was
coupled with his views. Sometimes we ran across her in
the garden paths walking with a gallant,--oftenest Mr.
Riddle. It was a beautiful garden, with hedge-bordered
walks and flowers wondrously massed in color, a high
brick wall surrounding it. Frequently Mrs. Temple and
Mr. Riddle would play at cards there of an afternoon, and
when that musical, unbelieving laugh of hers came floating
over the wall, Nick would say:--

``Mamma is winning.''

Once we heard high words between the two, and running
into the garden found the cards scattered on the
grass, and the couple gone.

Of all Nick's escapades,--and he was continually in
and out of them,--I recall only a few of the more serious.
As I have said, he was a wild lad, sobered by none of the
things which had gone to make my life, and what he took
into his head to do he generally did,--or, if balked, flew
into such a rage as to make one believe he could not live.
Life was always war with him, or some semblance of a
struggle. Of his many wild doings I recall well the
time when--fired by my tales of hunting--he went out
to attack the young bull in the paddock with a bow and
arrow. It made small difference to the bull that the arrow
was too blunt to enter his hide. With a bellow that
frightened the idle negroes at the slave quarters, he started
for Master Nick. I, who had been taught by my father
never to run any unnecessary risk, had taken the precaution
to provide as large a stone as I could comfortably
throw, and took station on the fence. As the furious
animal came charging, with his head lowered, I struck him
by a good fortune between the eyes, and Nicholas got over.
We were standing on the far side, watching him pawing
the broken bow, when, in the crowd of frightened negroes,
we discovered the parson beside us.

``David,'' said he, patting me with a shaking hand, ``I
perceive that you have a cool head. Our young friend
here has a hot one. Dr. Johnson may not care for
Scotch blood, and yet I think a wee bit of it is not to be
despised.''

I wondered whether Dr. Johnson was staying in the
house, too.

How many slaves there were at Temple Bow I know
not, but we used to see them coming home at night in
droves, the overseers riding beside them with whips and
guns. One day a huge Congo chief, not long from Africa,
nearly killed an overseer, and escaped to the swamp. As
the day fell, we heard the baying of the bloodhounds hot
upon his trail. More ominous still, a sound like a rising
wind came from the direction of the quarters. Into our
little dining-room burst Mrs. Temple herself, slamming the
door behind her. Mr. Mason, who was sitting with us,
rose to calm her.

``The Rebels!'' she cried. ``The Rebels have taught
them this, with their accursed notions of liberty and
equality. We shall all be murdered by the blacks because
of the Rebels. Oh, hell-fire is too good for them. Have
the house barred and a watch set to-night. What shall we
do?''

``I pray you compose yourself, Madame,'' said the
clergyman. ``We can send for the militia.''

``The militia!'' she shrieked; ``the Rebel militia! They
would murder us as soon as the niggers.''

``They are respectable men,'' answered Mr. Mason, ``and
were at Fanning Hall to-day patrolling.''

``I would rather be killed by whites than blacks,'' said
the lady. ``But who is to go for the militia?''

``I will ride for them,'' said Mr. Mason. It was a dark,
lowering night, and spitting rain.

``And leave me defenceless!'' she cried. ``You do not
stir, sir.''

``It is a pity,'' said Mr. Mason--he was goaded to it, I
suppose--`` 'tis a pity Mr. Riddle did not come to-night.''

She shot at him a withering look, for even in her fear
she would brook no liberties. Nick spoke up:--

``I will go,'' said he; ``I can get through the woods to
Fanning Hall--''

``And I will go with him,'' I said.

``Let the brats go,'' she said, and cut short Mr. Mason's
expostulations. She drew Nick to her and kissed him.
He wriggled away, and without more ado we climbed out
of the dining-room windows into the night. Running
across the lawn, we left the lights of the great house
twinkling behind us in the rain. We had to pass the
long line of cabins at the quarters. Three overseers with
lanterns stood guard there; the cabins were dark, the
wretches within silent and cowed. Thence we felt with
our feet for the path across the fields, stumbled over a sty,
and took our way through the black woods. I was at
home here, and Nick was not to be frightened. At
intervals the mournful bay of a bloodhound came to us from a
distance.

``Suppose we should meet the Congo chief,'' said Nick,
suddenly.

The idea had occurred to me.

``She needn't have been so frightened,'' said he, in
scornful remembrance of his mother's actions.

We pressed on. Nick knew the path as only a boy can.
Half an hour passed. It grew brighter. The rain ceased,
and a new moon shot out between the leaves. I seized
his arm.

``What's that?'' I whispered.

``A deer.''

But I, cradled in woodcraft, had heard plainly a man
creeping through the underbrush beside us. Fear of the
Congo chief and pity for the wretch tore at my heart.
Suddenly there loomed in front of us, on the path, a great,
naked man. We stood with useless limbs, staring at him.

Then, from the trees over our heads, came a chittering
and a chattering such as I had never heard. The big
man before us dropped to the earth, his head bowed,
muttering. As for me, my fright increased. The chattering
stopped, and Nick stepped forward and laid his hand on
the negro's bare shoulder.

``We needn't be afraid of him now, Davy,'' he said. ``I
learned that trick from a Portuguese overseer we had last
year.''

``You did it!'' I exclaimed, my astonishment overcoming
my fear.

``It's the way the monkeys chatter in the Canaries,'' he
said. ``Manuel had a tame one, and I heard it talk. Once
before I tried it on the chief, and he fell down. He thinks
I'm a god.''

It must have been a weird scene to see the great negro
following two boys in the moonlight. Indeed, he came
after us like a dog. At length we were in sight of the
lights of Fanning Hall. The militia was there. We were
challenged by the guard, and caused sufficient amazement
when we appeared in the hall before the master, who was
a bachelor of fifty.

`` 'Sblood, Nick Temple!'' he cried, ``what are you
doing here with that big Congo for a dog? The sight of
him frightens me.''

The negro, indeed, was a sight to frighten one. The
black mud of the swamps was caked on him, and his flesh
was torn by brambles.

``He ran away,'' said Nick; ``and I am taking him
home.''

``You--you are taking him home!'' sputtered Mr.
Fanning.

``Do you want to see him act?'' said Nick. And
without waiting for a reply he filled the hall with a dozen
monkeys. Mr. Fanning leaped back into a doorway, but
the chief prostrated himself on the floor. ``Now do you
believe I can take him home?'' said Nick.

`` 'Swounds!'' said Mr. Fanning, when he had his
breath. ``You beat the devil, Nicholas Temple. The
next time you come to call I pray you leave your
travelling show at home.

``Mamma sent me for the militia,'' said Nick.

``She did!'' said Mr. Fanning, looking grim. ``An
insurrection is a bad thing, but there was no danger for two
lads in the woods, I suppose.''

``There's no danger anyway,'' said Nick. ``The niggers
are all scared to death.''

Mr. Fanning burst out into a loud laugh, stopped
suddenly, sat down, and took Nick on his knee. It was an
incongruous scene. Mr. Fanning almost cried.

``Bless your soul,'' he said, ``but you are a lad. Would
to God I had you instead of--''

He paused abruptly.

``I must go home,'' said Nick; ``she will be worried.''

``SHE will be worried!'' cried Mr. Fanning, in a burst
of anger. Then he said: ``You shall have the militia.
You shall have the militia.''  He rang a bell and sent his
steward for the captain, a gawky country farmer, who
gave a gasp when he came upon the scene in the hall.

``And mind,'' said Nick to the captain, ``you are to
keep your men away from him, or he will kill one of them.''

The captain grinned at him curiously.

``I reckon I won't have to tell them to keep away,''
said he.

Mr. Fanning started us off for the walk with pockets
filled with sweetmeats, which we nibbled on the way back.
We made a queer procession, Nick and I striding ahead
to show the path, followed by the now servile chief, and
after him the captain and his twenty men in single file.
It was midnight when we saw the lights of Temple Bow
through the trees. One of the tired overseers met us near
the kitchen. When he perceived the Congo his face lighted
up with rage, and he instinctively reached for his whip.
But the chief stood before him, immovable, with arms
folded, and a look on his face that meant danger.

``He will kill you, Emory,'' said Nick; ``he will kill you
if you touch him.

Emory dropped his hand, limply.

``He will go to work in the morning,'' said Nick; ``but
mind you, not a lash.''

``Very good, Master Nick,'' said the man; ``but who's
to get him in his cabin?''

``I will,'' said Nick. He beckoned to the Congo, who
followed him over to quarters and went in at his door
without a protest.

The next morning Mrs. Temple looked out of her
window and saw the militiamen on the lawn.

``Pooh!'' she said, ``are those butternuts the soldiers
that Nick went to fetch?''

CHAPTER V

CRAM'S HELL

After that my admiration for Nick Temple increased
greatly, whether excited by his courage and presence
of mind, or his ability to imitate men and women and
creatures, I know not. One of our amusements, I recall,
was to go to the Congo's cabin to see him fall on his face,
until Mr. Mason put a stop to it. The clergyman let us
know that we were encouraging idolatry, and he himself
took the chief in hand.

Another incident comes to me from those bygone days.
The fear of negro insurrections at the neighboring
plantations being temporarily lulled, the gentry began to
pluck up courage for their usual amusements. There
were to be races at some place a distance away, and Nick
was determined to go. Had he not determined that
I should go, all would have been well. The evening
before he came upon his mother in the garden. Strange
to say, she was in a gracious mood and alone.

``Come and kiss me, Nick,'' she said. ``Now, what do
you want?''

``I want to go to the races,'' he said.

``You have your pony. You can follow the coach.''

``David is to ride the pony,'' said Nick, generously.
``May I go in the coach?''

``No,'' she said, ``there is no room for you.''

Nicholas flared up. ``Harry Riddle is going in the
coach. I don't see why you can't take me sometimes.
You like him better than me.''

The lady flushed very red.

``How dare you, Nick!'' she cried angrily. ``What has
Mr. Mason been putting into your head?''

``Nothing,'' said Nick, quite as angrily. ``Any one can
see that you like Harry. And I WILL ride in the coach.''

``You'll not,'' said his mother.

I had heard nothing of this. The next morning he
led out his pony from the stables for me to ride, and
insisted. And, supposing he was to go in the coach, I
put foot in the stirrup. The little beast would scarce
stand still for me to mount.

``You'll not need the whip with her,'' said Nick, and led
her around by the side of the house, in view of the portico,
and stood there at her bridle. Presently, with a great
noise and clatter of hoofs, the coach rounded the drive,
the powdered negro coachman pulling up the four horses
with much ceremony at the door. It was a wondrous
great vehicle, the bright colors of its body flashing in the
morning light. I had examined it more than once, and
with awe, in the coach-house. It had glass windows and
a lion on a blue shield on the door, and within it was all
salmon silk, save the painted design on the ceiling. Great
leather straps held up this house on wheels, to take the
jolts of the road. And behind it was a platform. That
morning two young negroes with flowing blue coats
stood on it. They leaped to the ground when the coach
stopped, and stood each side of the door, waiting for my
lady to enter.

She came down the steps, laughing, with Mr. Riddle,
who was in his riding clothes, for he was to race that day.
He handed her in, and got in after her. The coachman
cracked his whip, the coach creaked off down the drive, I
in the trees one side waiting for them to pass, and
wondering what Nick was to do. He had let go my bridle,
folded his whip in his hand, and with a shout of ``Come
on, Davy,'' he ran for the coach, which was going slowly,
caught hold of the footman's platform, and pulled himself up.

What possessed the footman I know not. Perchance
fear of his mistress was greater than fear of his young
master; but he took the lad by the shoulders--gently, to
be sure--and pushed him into the road, where he fell and
rolled over. I guessed what would happen. Picking himself
up, Nick was at the man like a hurricane, seizing him
swiftly by the leg. The negro fell upon the platform,
clutching wildly, where he lay in a sheer fright, shrieking
for mercy, his cries rivalled by those of the lady within.
The coachman frantically pulled his horses to a stand, the
other footman jumped off, and Mr. Harry Riddle came
flying out of the coach door, to behold Nicholas beating
the negro with his riding-whip.

``You young devil,'' cried Mr. Riddle, angrily, striding
forward, ``what are you doing?''

``Keep off, Harry,'' said Nicholas. ``I am teaching this
nigger that he is not to lay hands on his betters.''  With
that he gave the boy one more cut, and turned from him
contemptuously.

``What is it, Harry?'' came in a shrill voice from
within the coach.

``It's Nick's pranks,'' said Mr. Riddle, grinning in spite
of his anger; ``he's ruined one of your footmen. You
little scoundrel,'' cried Mr. Riddle, advancing again,
``you've frightened your mother nearly to a swoon.''

``Serves her right,'' said Nick.

``What!'' cried Mr. Riddle. ``Come down from there
instantly.''

Nick raised his whip. It was not that that stopped
Mr. Riddle, but a sign about the lad's nostrils.

``Harry Riddle,'' said the boy, ``if it weren't for you,
I'd be riding in this coach to-day with my mother. I
don't want to ride with her, but I will go to the races.
If you try to take me down, I'll do my best to kill you,''
and he lifted the loaded end of the whip.

Mrs. Temple's beautiful face had by this time been
thrust out of the door.

``For the love of heaven, Harry, let him come in with
us. We're late enough as it is.''

Mr. Riddle turned on his heel. He tried to glare at
Nick, but he broke into a laugh instead.

``Come down, Satan,'' says he. ``God help the woman
you love and the man you fight.''

And so Nicholas jumped down, and into the coach.
The footman picked himself up, more scared than injured,
and the vehicle took its lumbering way for the race-
course, I following.

I have seen many courses since, but none to equal that
in the gorgeous dress of those who watched. There had
been many, many more in former years, so I heard people
say. This was the only sign that a war was in progress,--
the scanty number of gentry present,--for all save the
indifferent were gone to Charlestown or elsewhere. I recall
it dimly, as a blaze of color passing: merrymaking,
jesting, feasting,--a rare contrast, I thought, to the sight I
had beheld in Charlestown Bay but a while before. Yet
so runs the world,--strife at one man's home, and peace
and contentment at his neighbor's; sorrow here, and rejoicing
not a league away.

Master Nicholas played one prank that evening that
was near to costing dear. My lady Temple made up a
party for Temple Bow at the course, two other coaches to
come and some gentlemen riding. As Nick and I were
running through the paddock we came suddenly upon
Mr. Harry Riddle and a stout, swarthy gentleman standing
together. The stout gentleman was counting out big
gold pieces in his hand and giving them to Mr. Riddle.

``Lucky dog!'' said the stout gentleman; ``you'll ride
back with her, and you've won all I've got.''  And he dug
Mr. Riddle in the ribs.

``You'll have it again when we play to-night, Darnley,''
answered Mr. Riddle, crossly. ``And as for the seat in
the coach, you are welcome to it. That firebrand of a lad
is on the front seat.''

``D--n the lad,'' said the stout gentleman. ``I'll take
it, and you can ride my horse. He'll--he'll carry you,
I reckon.''  His voice had a way of cracking into a mellow laugh.

At that Mr. Riddle went off in a towering bad humor,
and afterwards I heard him cursing the stout gentleman's
black groom as he mounted his great horse. And then
he cursed the horse as it reared and plunged, while the
stout gentleman stood at the coach door, cackling at his
discomfiture. The gentleman did ride home with Mrs.
Temple, Nick going into another coach. I afterwards
discovered that the gentleman had bribed him with a
guinea. And Mr. Riddle more than once came near
running down my pony on his big charger, and he swore at
me roundly, too.

That night there was a gay supper party in the big
dining room at Temple Bow. Nick and I looked on from
the gallery window. It was a pretty sight. The long
mahogany board reflecting the yellow flames of the candles,
and spread with bright silver and shining dishes
loaded with dainties, the gentlemen and ladies in brilliant
dress, the hurrying servants,--all were of a new and
strange world to me. And presently, after the ladies were
gone, the gentlemen tossed off their wine and roared over
their jokes, and followed into the drawing-room. This I
noticed, that only Mr. Harry Riddle sat silent and morose,
and that he had drunk more than the others.

``Come, Davy,'' said Nick to me, ``let's go and watch
them again.''

``But how?'' I asked, for the drawing-room windows
were up some distance from the ground, and there was no
gallery on that side.

``I'll show you,'' said he, running into the garden.
After searching awhile in the dark, he found a ladder
the gardener had left against a tree; after much straining,
we carried the ladder to the house and set it up under one
of the windows of the drawing-room. Then we both
clambered cautiously to the top and looked in.

The company were at cards, silent, save for a low
remark now and again. The little tables were ranged
along by the windows, and it chanced that Mr. Harry
Riddle sat so close to us that we could touch him. On
his right sat Mr. Darnley, the stout gentleman, and in
the other seats two ladies. Between Mr. Riddle and Mr.
Darnley was a pile of silver and gold pieces. There was
not room for two of us in comfort at the top of the ladder,
so I gave place to Nick, and sat on a lower rung. Presently
I saw him raise himself, reach in, and duck quickly.

``Feel that,'' he whispered to me, chuckling and holding
out his hand.

It was full of money.

``But that's stealing, Nick,'' I said, frightened.

``Of course I'll give it back,'' he whispered indignantly.

Instantly there came loud words and the scraping of
chairs within the room, and a woman's scream. I heard
Mr. Riddle's voice say thickly, amid the silence that
followed:--

``Mr. Darnley, you're a d--d thief, sir.''

``You shall answer for this, when you are sober, sir,''
said Mr. Darnley.

Then there came more scraping of chairs, all the company
talking excitedly at once. Nick and I scrambled to
the ground, and we did the very worst thing we could
possibly have done,--we took the ladder away.

There was little sleep for me that night. I had first of
all besought Nick to go up into the drawing-room and
give the money back. But some strange obstinacy in
him resisted.

`` 'Twill serve Harry well for what he did to-day,''
said he.

My next thought was to find Mr. Mason, but he was
gone up the river to visit a sick parishioner. I had seen
enough of the world to know that gentlemen fought for
less than what had occurred in the drawing-room that
evening. And though I had neither love nor admiration
for Mr. Riddle, and though the stout gentleman was no
friend of mine, I cared not to see either of them killed for
a prank. But Nick would not listen to me, and went to
sleep in the midst of my urgings.

``Davy,'' said he, pinching me, ``do you know what
you are?''

``No,'' said I.

``You're a granny,'' he said. And that was the last
word I could get out of him. But I lay awake a long
time, thinking. Breed had whiled away for me one hot
morning in Charlestown with an account of the gentry
and their doings, many of which he related in an awed
whisper that I could not understand. They were wild
doings indeed to me. But strangest of all seemed the
duels, conducted with a decorum and ceremony as rigorous
as the law.

``Did you ever see a duel, Breed?'' I had asked.

``Yessah,'' said Breed, dramatically, rolling the whites
of his eyes.

``Where?''

``Whah? Down on de riveh bank at Temple Bow in
de ea'ly mo'nin'! Dey mos' commonly fights at de
dawn.

Breed had also told me where he was in hiding at the
time, and that was what troubled me. Try as I would, I
could not remember. It had sounded like Clam Shell.
That I recalled, and how Breed had looked out at the
sword-play through the cracks of the closed shutters,
agonized between fear of ghosts within and the drama
without. At the first faint light that came into our
window I awakened Nick.

``Listen,'' I said; ``do you know a place called Clam
Shell?''

He turned over, but I punched him persistently until
he sat up.

``What the deuce ails you, Davy?'' he asked, rubbing
his eyes. ``Have you nightmare?''

``Do you know a place called Clam Shell, down on the
river bank, Nick?''

``Why,'' he replied, ``you must be thinking of Cram's
Hell.''

``What's that?'' I asked.

``It's a house that used to belong to Cram, who was an
overseer. The niggers hated him, and he was killed in
bed by a big black nigger chief from Africa. The niggers
won't go near the place. They say it's haunted.''

``Get up,'' said I; ``we're going there now.''

Nick sprang out of bed and began to get into his clothes.

``Is it a game?'' he asked.

``Yes.''  He was always ready for a game.

We climbed out of the window, and made our way in
the mist through the long, wet grass, Nick leading. He
took a path through a dark forest swamp, over logs that
spanned the stagnant waters, and at length, just as the
mist was growing pearly in the light, we came out at a
tumble-down house that stood in an open glade by the
river's bank.

``What's to do now?'' said Nick.

``We must get into the house,'' I answered. But I
confess I didn't care for the looks of it.

Nick stared at me.

``Very good, Davy,'' he said; ``I'll follow where you
go.''

It was a Saturday morning. Why I recall this I do not
know. It has no special significance.

I tried the door. With a groan and a shriek it gave
way, disclosing the blackness inside. We started back
involuntarily. I looked at Nick, and Nick at me. He was
very pale, and so must I have been. But such was the
respect we each held for the other's courage that neither
dared flinch. And so I walked in, although it seemed as
if my shirt was made of needle points and my hair stood
on end. The crackings of the old floor were to me like
the shots in Charlestown Bay. Our hearts beating wildly,
we made our way into a farther room. It was like walking
into the beyond.

``Is there a window here?'' I asked Nick, my voice
sounding like a shout.

``Yes, ahead of us.''

Groping for it, I suddenly received a shock that set me
reeling. Human nature could stand no more. We both
turned tail and ran out of the house as fast as we could,
and stood in the wet grass, panting. Then shame came.

``Let's open the window first,'' I suggested. So we
walked around the house and pried the solid shutter from
its fastenings. Then, gathering our courage, we went in
again at the door. In the dim light let into the farther
room we saw a four-poster bed, old and cheap, with ragged
curtains. It was this that I had struck in my groping.

``The chief killed Cram there,'' said Nick, in an awed
voice, ``in that bed. What do you want to do here,
Davy?''

``Wait,'' I said, though I had as little mind to wait as
ever in my life. ``Stand here by the window.''

We waited there. The mist rose. The sun peeped
over the bank of dense green forest and spread rainbow
colors on the still waters of the river. Now and again
a fish broke, or a great bird swooped down and slit the
surface. A far-off snatch of melody came to our ears,--
the slaves were going to work. Nothing more. And
little by little grave misgivings gnawed at my soul of the
wisdom of coming to this place. Doubtless there were
many other spots.

``Davy,'' said Nick, at last, ``I'm sorry I took that
money. What are we here for?''

``Hush!'' I whispered; ``do you hear anything?''

I did, and distinctly. For I had been brought up in
the forest.

``I hear voices,'' he said presently, ``coming this way.''

They were very clear to me by then. Emerging from
the forest path were five gentlemen. The leader, more
plainly dressed than the others, carried a leather case.
Behind him was the stout figure of Mr. Darnley, his face
solemn; and last of all came Mr. Harry Riddle, very pale,
but cutting the tops of the long grass with a switch.
Nick seized my arm.

``They are going to fight,'' said he.

``Yes,'' I replied, ``and we are here to stop them, now.''

``No, not now,'' he said, holding me still. ``We'll have
some more fun out of this yet.''

``Fun?'' I echoed.

``Yes,'' he said excitedly. ``Leave it to me. I shan't
let them fight.''

And that instant we changed generals, David giving
place to Nicholas.

Mr. Riddle retired with one gentleman to a side of the
little patch of grass, and Mr. Darnley and a friend to
another. The fifth gentleman took a position halfway
between the two, and, opening the leather case, laid it
down on the grass, where its contents glistened.

``That's Dr. Ball,'' whispered Nick. And his voice
shook with excitement.

Mr. Riddle stripped off his coat and waistcoat and
ruffles, and his sword-belt, and Mr. Darnley did the same.
Both gentlemen drew their swords and advanced to the
middle of the lawn, and stood opposite one another, with
flowing linen shirts open at the throat, and bared heads.
They were indeed a contrast. Mr. Riddle, tall and white,
with closed lips, glared at his opponent. Mr. Darnley cut
a merrier figure,--rotund and flushed, with fat calves and
short arms, though his countenance was sober enough.
All at once the two were circling their swords in the air,
and then Nick had flung open the shutter and leaped
through the window, and was running and shouting
towards the astonished gentlemen, all of whom wheeled to
face him. He jingled as he ran.

``What in the devil's name now?'' cried Mr. Riddle,
angrily. ``Here's this imp again.''

Nicholas stopped in front of him, and, thrusting his
hand in his breeches pocket, fished out a handful of gold
and silver, which he held out to the confounded Mr.
Riddle.

``Harry,'' said he, ``here's something of yours I found
last night.''

``You found?'' echoed Mr. Riddle, in a strange voice,
amidst a dead silence. ``You found where?''

``On the table beside you.''

``And where the deuce were you?'' Mr. Riddle demanded.

``In the window behind you,'' said Nick, calmly.

This piece of information, to Mr. Riddle's plain
discomfiture, was greeted with a roar of laughter, Mr. Darnley
himself laughing loudest. Nor were these gentlemen
satisfied with that. They crowded around Mr. Riddle and
slapped him on the back, Mr. Darnley joining in with the
rest. And presently Mr. Riddle flung away his sword,
and laughed, too, giving his hand to Mr. Darnley.

At length Mr. Darnley turned to Nick, who had stood
all this while behind them, unmoved.

``My friend,'' said he, seriously, ``such is your regard
for human life, you will probably one day--be a pirate or
an outlaw. This time we've had a laugh. The next time
somebody will be weeping. I wish I were your father.''

``I wish you were,'' said Nick.

This took Mr. Darnley's breath. He glanced at the
other gentlemen, who returned his look significantly. He
laid his hand kindly on the lad's head.

``Nick,'' said he, ``I wish to God I were your father.''

After that they all went home, very merry, to breakfast,
Nick and I coming after them. Nick was silent until we
reached the house.

``Davy,'' said he, then, ``how old are you?''

``Ten,'' I answered. ``How old did you believe me?''

``Eighty,'' said he.

The next day, being Sunday, we all gathered in the
little church to hear Mr. Mason preach. Nick and I sat
in the high box pew of the family with Mrs. Temple, who
paid not the least attention to the sermon. As for me,
the rhythm of it held me in fascination. Mr. Mason had
written it out and that afternoon read over this part of it
to Nick. The quotation I recall, having since read it many
times, and the gist of it was in this wise:--

``And he said unto him, `What thou wilt have thou
wilt have, despite the sin of it. Blessed are the stolid,
and thrice cursed he who hath imagination,--for that
imagination shall devour him. And in thy life a sin shall
be presented unto thee with a great longing. God, who is
in heaven, gird thee for that struggle, my son, for it will
surely come. That it may be said of you, ``Behold, I have
refined thee, but not with silver, I have chosen thee in the
furnace of affliction.''  Seven days shalt thou wrestle with
thy soul; seven nights shall evil haunt thee, and how thou
shalt come forth from that struggle no man may know.' ''

CHAPTER VI

MAN PROPOSES, BUT GOD DISPOSES

A week passed, and another Sunday came,--a Sunday so
still and hot and moist that steam seemed to rise from the
heavy trees,--an idle day for master and servant alike.
A hush was in the air, and a presage of we knew not
what. It weighed upon my spirits, and even Nick's,
and we wandered restlessly under the trees, seeking for
distraction.

About two o'clock a black line came on the horizon, and
slowly crept higher until it broke into giant, fantastic
shapes. Mutterings arose, but the sun shone hot as ever.

``We're to have a hurricane,'' said Nick. ``I wish we
might have it and be done with it.''

At five the sun went under. I remember that Madame
was lolling listless in the garden, daintily arrayed in fine
linen, trying to talk to Mr. Mason, when a sound startled
us. It was the sound of swift hoof beats on the soft
drive.

Mrs. Temple got up, an unusual thing. Perchance she
was expecting a message from some of the gentlemen; or
else she may well have been tired of Mr. Mason. Nick
and I were before her, and, running through the house,
arrived at the portico in time to see a negro ride up on a
horse covered with lather.

It was the same negro who had fetched me hither from
Mr. Lowndes. And when I saw him my heart stood still
lest he had brought news of my father.

``What's to do, boy?'' cried Nicholas to him.

The boy held in his hand a letter with a great red seal.

``Fo' Mistis Temple,'' he said, and, looking at me queerly,
he took off his cap as he jumped from the horse. Mistress
Temple herself having arrived, he handed her the letter.
She took it, and broke the seal carelessly.

``Oh,'' she said, ``it's only from Mr. Lowndes. I
wonder what he wishes now.''

Every moment of her reading was for me an agony, and
she read slowly. The last words she spoke aloud:--

`` `If you do not wish the lad, send him to me, as Kate
is very fond of him.'  So Kate is very fond of him,'' she
repeated. And handing the letter to Mr. Mason, she
added, ``Tell him, Parson.''

The words burned into my soul and seared it. And to
this day I tremble with anger as I think of them. The
scene comes before me: the sky, the darkened portico,
and Nicholas running after his mother crying: ``Oh,
mamma, how could you! How could you!''

Mr. Mason bent over me in compassion, and smoothed
my hair.

``David,'' said he, in a thick voice, ``you are a brave
boy, David. You will need all your courage now, my
son. May God keep your nature sweet!''

He led me gently into the arbor and told me how,
under Captain Baskin, the detachment had been ambushed
by the Cherokees; and how my father, with Ensign Calhoun
and another, had been killed, fighting bravely. The
rest of the company had cut their way through and reached
the settlements after terrible hardships.

I was left an orphan.

I shall not dwell here on the bitterness of those
moments. We have all known sorrows in our lives,--great
sorrows. The clergyman was a wise man, and did not
strive to comfort me with words. But he sat there under
the leaves with his arm about me until a blinding bolt
split the blackness of the sky and the thunder rent our
ears, and a Caribbean storm broke over Temple Bow with
all the fury of the tropics. Then he led me through the
drenching rain into the house, nor heeded the wet
himself on his Sunday coat.

A great anger stayed me in my sorrow. I would no
longer tarry under Mrs. Temple's roof, though the world
without were a sea or a desert. The one resolution to
escape rose stronger and stronger within me, and I determined
neither to eat nor sleep until I had got away. The
thought of leaving Nick was heavy indeed; and when he
ran to me in the dark hall and threw his arms around me,
it needed all my strength to keep from crying aloud.

``Davy,'' he said passionately, ``Davy, you mustn't
mind what she says. She never means anything she says
--she never cares for anything save her pleasure. You
and I will stay here until we are old enough to run away
to Kentucky. Davy! Answer me, Davy!''

I could not, try as I would. There were no words that
would come with honesty. But I pulled him down on the
mahogany settle near the door which led into the back
gallery, and there we sat huddled together in silence,
while the storm raged furiously outside and the draughts
banged the great doors of the house. In the lightning
flashes I saw Nick's face, and it haunted me afterwards
through many years of wandering. On it was written a
sorrow for me greater than my own sorrow. For God
had given to this lad every human passion and compassion.

The storm rolled away with the night, and Mammy
came through the hall with a candle.

``Whah is you, Marse Nick? Whah is you, honey?
You' suppah's ready.''

And so we went into our little dining room, but I would
not eat. The good old negress brushed her eyes with her
apron as she pressed a cake upon me she had made herself,
for she had grown fond of me. And presently we
went away silently to bed.

It was a long, long time before Nick's breathing told
me that he was asleep. He held me tightly clutched to
him, and I know that he feared I would leave him. The
thought of going broke my heart, but I never once wavered
in my resolve, and I lay staring into the darkness,
pondering what to do. I thought of good Mr. Lowndes
and his wife, and I decided to go to Charlestown. Some
of my boyish motives come back to me now: I should be
near Nick; and even at that age,--having lived a life of
self-reliance,--I thought of gaining an education and of
rising to a place of trust. Yes, I would go to Mr.
Lowndes, and ask him to let me work for him and so
earn my education.

With a heavy spirit I crept out of bed, slowly
disengaging Nick's arm lest he should wake. He turned over
and sighed in his sleep. Carefully I dressed myself, and
after I was dressed I could not refrain from slipping to
the bedside to bend over him once again,--for he was
the only one in my life with whom I had found true
companionship. Then I climbed carefully out of the window,
and so down the corner of the house to the ground.

It was starlight, and a waning moon hung in the sky.
I made my way through the drive between the black
shadows of the forest, and came at length to the big
gates at the entrance, locked for the night. A strange
thought of their futility struck me as I climbed the rail
fence beside them, and pushed on into the main road, the
mud sucking under my shoes as I went. As I try now to
cast my memory back I can recall no fear, only a vast
sense of loneliness, and the very song of it seemed to be
sung in never ending refrain by the insects of the night.
I had been alone in the mountains before. I have crossed
great strips of wilderness since, but always there was love
to go back to. Then I was leaving the only being in the
world that remained to me.

I must have walked two hours or more before I came to
the mire of a cross-road, and there I stood in a quandary
of doubt as to which side led to Charlestown.

As I lingered a light began to tremble in the heavens.
A cock crew in the distance. I sat down on a fallen log
to rest. But presently, as the light grew, I heard shouts
which drew nearer and deeper and brought me to my feet
in an uncertainty of expectation. Next came the rattling
of chains, the scramble of hoofs in the mire, and here was
a wagon with a big canvas cover. Beside the straining
horses was a great, burly man with a red beard, cracking
his long whip, and calling to the horses in a strange
tongue. He stopped still beside his panting animals
when he saw me, his high boots sunk in the mud.

``Gut morning, poy,'' he said, wiping his red face with
his sleeve; ``what you do here?''

``I am going to Charlestown,'' I answered.

``Ach!'' he cried, ``dot is pad. Mein poy, he run
avay. You are ein gut poy, I know. I vill pay ein gut
price to help me vit mein wagon--ja.''

``Where are you going?'' I demanded, with a sudden
wavering.

``Up country--pack country. You know der Proad
River--yes?''

No, I did not. But a longing came upon me for the
old backwoods life, with its freedom and self-reliance,
and a hatred for this steaming country of heat and violent
storms, and artificiality and pomp. And I had a desire,
even at that age, to make my own way in the world.

``What will you give me?'' I asked.

At that he put his finger to his nose.

``Thruppence py the day.''

I shook my head. He looked at me queerly.

``How old you pe,--twelve, yes?''

Now I had no notion of telling him. So I said: ``Is
this the Charlestown road?''

``Fourpence!'' he cried, ``dot is riches.''

``I will go for sixpence,'' I answered.

``Mein Gott!'' he cried, ``sixpence. Dot is robbery.''
But seeing me obdurate, he added: ``I vill give it,
because ein poy I must have. Vat is your name,--Tavid?
You are ein sharp poy, Tavid.''

And so I went with him.

In writing a biography, the relative value of days and
years should hold. There are days which count in space
for years, and years for days. I spent the time on the
whole happily with this Dutchman, whose name was Hans
Koppel. He talked merrily save when he spoke of the
war against England, and then contemptuously, for he
was a bitter English partisan. And in contrast to this
he would dwell for hours on a king he called Friedrich
der Grosse, and a war he waged that was a war; and
how this mighty king had fought a mighty queen at
Rossbach and Leuthen in his own country,--battles that were
battles.

``And you were there, Hans?'' I asked him once.

``Ja,'' he said, ``but I did not stay.''

``You ran away?''

``Ja,'' Hans would answer, laughing, ``run avay. I
love peace, Tavid. Dot is vy I come here, and now,''
bitterly, ``and now ve haf var again once.''

I would say nothing; but I must have looked my
disapproval, for he went on to explain that in Saxe-Gotha,
where he was born, men were made to fight whether they
would or no; and they were stolen from their wives at
night by soldiers of the great king, or lured away by fair
promises.

Travelling with incredible slowness, in due time we
came to a county called Orangeburg, where all were
Dutchmen like Hans, and very few spoke English. And
they all thought like Hans, and loved peace, and hated
the Congress. On Sundays, as we lay over at the taverns,
these would be filled with a rollicking crowd of fiddlers
and dancers, quaintly dressed, the women bringing their
children and babies. At such times Hans would be drunk,
and I would have to feed the tired horses and mount
watch over the cargo. I had many adventures, but none
worth the telling here. And at length we came to Hans's
farm, in a prettily rolling country on the Broad River.
Hans's wife spoke no English at all, nor did the brood of
children running about the house. I had small fancy for
staying in such a place, and so Hans paid me two crowns
for my three weeks' service; I think, with real regret,
for labor was scarce in those parts, and though I was
young, I knew how to work. And I could at least have
guided his plough in the furrow and cared for his cattle.

It was the first money I had earned in my life, and a
prouder day than many I have had since.

For the convenience of travellers passing that way, Hans
kept a tavern,--if it could have been dignified by such a
name. It was in truth merely a log house with
shakedowns, and stood across the rude road from his log
farmhouse. And he gave me leave to sleep there and to work
for my board until I cared to leave. It so chanced that
on the second day after my arrival a pack-train came
along, guided by a nettlesome old man and a strong,
black-haired lass of sixteen or thereabouts. The old man,
whose name was Ripley, wore a nut-brown hunting shirt
trimmed with red cotton; and he had no sooner slipped
the packs from his horses than he began to rail at Hans,
who stood looking on.

``You damned Dutchmen be all Tories, and worse,'' he
cried; ``you stay here and till your farms while our boys
are off in the hill towns fighting Cherokees. I wish the
devils had every one of your fat sculps. Polly Ann,
water the nags.''

Hans replied to this sally with great vigor, lapsing
into Dutch. Polly Ann led the scrawny ponies to the
trough, but her eyes snapped with merriment as she
listened. She was a wonderfully comely lass, despite her
loose cotton gown and poke-bonnet and the shoepacks on
her feet. She had blue eyes, the whitest, strongest of
teeth, and the rosiest of faces.

``Gran'pa hates a Dutchman wuss'n pizen,'' she said to
me. ``So do I. We've all been burned out and sculped
up river--and they never give us so much as a man or a
measure of corn.''

I helped her feed the animals, and tether them, and
loose their bells for the night, and carry the packs
under cover.

``All the boys is gone to join Rutherford and lam the
Indians,'' she continued, ``so Gran'pa and I had to go to
the settlements. There wahn't any one else. What's
your name?'' she demanded suddenly.

I told her.

She sat down on a log at the corner of the house, and
pulled me down beside her.

``And whar be you from?''

I told her. It was impossible to look into her face and
not tell her. She listened eagerly, now with compassion,
and now showing her white teeth in amusement. And
when I had done, much to my discomfiture, she seized me
in her strong arms and kissed me.

``Poor Davy,'' she cried, ``you ain't got a home. You
shall come home with us.''

Catching me by the hand, she ran like a deer across the
road to where her grandfather was still quarrelling
violently with Hans, and pulled him backward by the
skirts of his hunting shirt. I looked for another and
mightier explosion from the old backwoodsman, but to my
astonishment he seemed to forget Hans's existence, and
turned and smiled on her benevolently.

``Polly Ann,'' said he, ``what be you about now?''

``Gran'pa,'' said she, ``here's Davy Trimble, who's a
good boy, and his pa is just killed by the Cherokees along
with Baskin, and he wants work and a home, and he's
comin' along with us.''

``All right, David,'' answered Mr. Ripley, mildly, ``ef
Polly Ann says so, you kin come. Whar was you
raised?''

I told him on the upper Yadkin.

``You don't tell me,'' said he. ``Did ye ever know Dan'l
Boone?''

``I did, indeed, sir,'' I answered, my face lighting up.
``Can you tell me where he is now?''

``He's gone to Kaintuckee, them new settlements, fer
good. And ef I wasn't eighty years old, I'd go thar, too.''

``I reckon I'll go thar when I'm married,'' said Polly
Ann, and blushed redder than ever. Drawing me to her,
she said, ``I'll take you, too, Davy.''

``When you marry that wuthless Tom McChesney,''
said her grandfather, testily.

``He's not wuthless,'' said Polly, hotly. ``he's the best
man in Rutherford's army. He'll git more sculps then
any of 'em,--you see.''

``Tavy is ein gut poy,'' Hans put in, for he had
recovered his composure. ``I wish much he stay mit
me.''

As for me, Polly Ann never consulted me on the
subject--nor had she need to. I would have followed her to
kingdom come, and at the thought of reaching the mountains
my heart leaped with joy. We all slept in the one
flea-infested, windowless room of the ``tavern'' that night;
and before dawn I was up and untethered the horses, and
Polly Ann and I together lifted the two bushels of alum
salt on one of the beasts and the ploughshare on the other.
By daylight we had left Hans and his farm forever.

I can see the lass now, as she strode along the trace by
the flowing river, through sunlight and shadow, straight
and supple and strong. Sometimes she sang like a bird,
and the forest rang. Sometimes she would make fun of
her grandfather or of me; and again she would be silent
for an hour at a time, staring ahead, and then I knew she
was thinking of that Tom McChesney. She would wake
from those reveries with a laugh, and give me a push to
send me rolling down a bank.

``What's the matter, Davy? You look as solemn as a
wood-owl. What a little wiseacre you be!''

Once I retorted, ``You were thinking of that Tom
McChesney.''

``Ay, that she was, I'll warrant,'' snapped her grandfather.

Polly Ann replied, with a merry peal of laughter,
``You are both jealous of Tom--both of you. But,
Davy, when you see him you'll love him as much as I
do.''

``I'll not,'' I said sturdily.

``He's a man to look upon--''

``He's a rip-roarer,'' old man Ripley put in. ``Ye're daft
about him.''

``That I am,'' said Polly, flushing and subsiding; ``but
he'll not know it.''

As we rose into the more rugged country we passed
more than one charred cabin that told its silent story of
Indian massacre. Only on the scattered hill farms women
and boys and old men were working in the fields, all save
the scalawags having gone to join Rutherford. There were
plenty of these around the taverns to make eyes at Polly
Ann and open love to her, had she allowed them; but
she treated them in return to such scathing tirades that
they were glad to desist--all but one. He must have
been an escaped redemptioner, for he wore jauntily a
swanskin three-cornered hat and stained breeches of a fine
cloth. He was a bold, vain fellow.

``My beauty,'' says he, as we sat at supper, ``silver and
Wedgwood better become you than pewter and a
trencher.''

``And I reckon a rope would sit better on your neck
than a ruff,'' retorted Polly Ann, while the company
shouted with laughter. But he was not the kind to
become discomfited.

``I'd give a guinea to see you in silk. But I vow your
hair looks better as it is.''

``Not so yours,'' said she, like lightning; `` 'twould look
better to me hanging on the belt of one of them red
devils.

In the morning, when he would have lifted the pack
of alum salt, Polly Ann gave him a push that sent him
sprawling. But she did it in such good nature withal
that the fellow mistook her. He scrambled to his feet,
flung his arm about her waist, and kissed her. Whereupon
I hit him with a sapling, and he staggered and let
her go.

``You imp of hell!'' he cried, rubbing the bump. He
made a vicious dash at me that boded no good, but I
slipped behind the hominy block; and Polly Ann, who
was like a panther on her feet, dashed at him and gave
him a buffet in the cheek that sent him reeling again.

After that we were more devoted friends than ever.

We travelled slowly, day by day, until I saw the
mountains lift blue against the western sky, and the sight of
them was like home once more. I loved them; and
though I thought with sadness of my father, I was on
the whole happier with Polly Ann than I had been in the
lonely cabin on the Yadkin. Her spirits flagged a little
as she drew near home, but old Mr. Ripley's rose.

``There's Burr's,'' he would say, ``and O'Hara's and
Williamson's,'' marking the cabins set amongst the stump-
dotted corn-fields. ``And thar,'' sweeping his hand at a
blackened heap of logs lying on the stones, ``thar's whar
Nell Tyler and her baby was sculped.''

``Poor Nell,'' said Polly Ann, the tears coming into her
eyes as she turned away.

``And Jim Tyler was killed gittin' to the fort. He
can't say I didn't warn him.''

``I reckon he'll never say nuthin', now,'' said Polly
Ann.

It was in truth a dismal sight,--the shapeless timbers,
the corn, planted with such care, choked with weeds, and
the poor utensils of the little family scattered and broken
before the door-sill. These same Indians had killed my
father; and there surged up in my breast that hatred of
the painted race felt by every backwoods boy in my time.

Towards the end of the day the trace led into a
beautiful green valley, and in the middle of it was a stream
shining in the afternoon sun. Then Polly Ann fell
entirely silent. And presently, as the shadows grew purple,
we came to a cabin set under some spreading trees on a
knoll where a woman sat spinning at the door, three
children playing at her feet. She stared at us so earnestly
that I looked at Polly Ann, and saw her redden and pale.
The children were the first to come shouting at us, and
then the woman dropped her wool and ran down the slope
straight into Polly Ann's arms. Mr. Ripley halted the
horses with a grunt.

The two women drew off and looked into each other's
faces. Then Polly Ann dropped her eyes.

``Have ye--?'' she said, and stopped.

``No, Polly Ann, not one word sence Tom and his Pa
went. What do folks say in the settlements?''

Polly Ann turned up her nose.

``They don't know nuthin' in the settlements,'' she
replied.

``I wrote to Tom and told him you was gone,'' said the
older woman. ``I knowed he'd wanter hear.''

And she looked meaningly at Polly Ann, who said
nothing. The children had been pulling at the girl's
skirts, and suddenly she made a dash at them. They
scattered, screaming with delight, and she after them.

``Howdy, Mr. Ripley?'' said the woman, smiling a
little.

``Howdy, Mis' McChesney?'' said the old man, shortly.

So this was the mother of Tom, of whom I had heard
so much. She was, in truth, a motherly-looking person,
her fleshy face creased with strong character.

``Who hev ye brought with ye?'' she asked, glancing
at me.

``A lad Polly Ann took a shine to in the settlements,''
said the old man. ``Polly Ann! Polly Ann!'' he cried
sharply, ``we'll hev to be gittin' home.''  And then, as
though an afterthought (which it really was not), he
added, ``How be ye for salt, Mis' McChesney?''

``So-so,'' said she.

``Wal, I reckon a little might come handy,'' said he.
And to the girl who stood panting beside him, ``Polly,
give Mis' McChesney some salt.''

Polly Ann did, and generously,--the salt they had
carried with so much labor threescore and ten miles from
the settlements. Then we took our departure, the girl
turning for one last look at Tom's mother, and at the
cabin where he had dwelt. We were all silent the rest
of the way, climbing the slender trail through the forest
over the gap into the next valley. For I was jealous of
Tom. I am not ashamed to own it now.

In the smoky haze that rises just before night lets her
curtain fall, we descended the farther slope, and came to
Mr. Ripley's cabin.

CHAPTER VII

IN SIGHT OF THE BLUE WALL ONCE MORE

Polly Ann lived alone with her grandfather, her
father and mother having been killed by Indians some
years before. There was that bond between us, had we
needed one. Her father had built the cabin, a large one
with a loft and a ladder climbing to it, and a sleeping
room and a kitchen. The cabin stood on a terrace that
nature had levelled, looking across a swift and shallow
stream towards the mountains. There was the truck
patch, with its yellow squashes and melons, and cabbages
and beans, where Polly Ann and I worked through the hot
mornings; and the corn patch, with the great stumps of
the primeval trees standing in it. All around us the
silent forest threw its encircling arms, spreading up the
slopes, higher and higher, to crown the crests with the little
pines and hemlocks and balsam fir.

There had been no meat save bacon since the McChesneys
had left, for of late game had become scarce, and old
Mr. Ripley was too feeble to go on the long hunts. So
one day, when Polly Ann was gone across the ridge, I took
down the long rifle from the buckhorns over the hearth,
and the hunting knife and powder-horn and pouch beside
it, and trudged up the slope to a game trail I discovered.
All day I waited, until the forest light grew gray, when a
buck came and stood over the water, raising his head and
stamping from time to time. I took aim in the notch of
a sapling, brought him down, cleaned and skinned and
dragged him into the water, and triumphantly hauled one
of his hams down the trail. Polly Ann gave a cry of joy
when she saw me.

``Davy,'' she exclaimed, ``little Davy, I reckoned you
was gone away from us. Gran'pa, here is Davy back, and
he has shot a deer.''

``You don't say?'' replied Mr. Ripley, surveying me
and my booty with a grim smile.

``How could you, Gran'pa?'' said Polly Ann, reproachfully.

``Wal,'' said Mr. Ripley, ``the gun was gone, an' Davy.
I reckon he ain't sich a little rascal after all.''

Polly Ann and I went up the next day, and brought
the rest of the buck merrily homeward. After that I
became the hunter of the family; but oftener than not I
returned tired and empty-handed, and ravenously hungry.
Indeed, our chief game was rattlesnakes, which we killed
by the dozens in the corn and truck patches.

As Polly Ann and I went about our daily chores, we
would talk of Tom McChesney. Often she would sit idle
at the hand-mill, a light in her eyes that I would have
given kingdoms for. One ever memorable morning,
early in the crisp autumn, a grizzled man strode up the
trail, and Polly Ann dropped the ear of corn she was
husking and stood still, her bosom heaving. It was Mr.
McChesney, Tom's father--alone.

``No, Polly Ann,'' he cried, ``there ain't nuthin'
happened. We've laid out the hill towns. But the Virginna
men wanted a guide, and Tom volunteered, and so he ain't
come back with Rutherford's boys.''

Polly Ann seized him by the shoulders, and looked him
in the face.

``Be you tellin' the truth, Warner McChesney?'' she
said in a hard voice.

``As God hears me,'' said Warner McChesney, solemnly.
``He sent ye this.''

He drew from the bosom of his hunting shirt a soiled
piece of birch bark, scrawled over with rude writing.
Polly seized it, and flew into the house.

The hickories turned a flaunting yellow, the oaks a
copper-red, the leaves crackled on the Catawba vines, and
still Tom McChesney did not come. The Cherokees were
homeless and houseless and subdued,--their hill towns
burned, their corn destroyed, their squaws and children
wanderers. One by one the men of the Grape Vine
settlement returned to save what they might of their
crops, and plough for the next year--Burrs, O'Haras,
Williamsons, and Winns. Yes, Tom had gone to guide
the Virginia boys. All had tales to tell of his prowess,
and how he had saved Rutherford's men from ambush at
the risk of his life. To all of which Polly Ann listened
with conscious pride, and replied with sallies.

``I reckon I don't care if he never comes back,'' she
would cry. ``If he likes the Virginny boys more than
me, there be others here I fancy more than him.''

Whereupon the informant, if he were not bound in
matrimony, would begin to make eyes at Polly Ann. Or,
if he were bolder, and went at the wooing in the more
demonstrative fashion of the backwoods--Polly Ann had a
way of hitting him behind the ear with most surprising
effect.

One windy morning when the leaves were kiting over
the valley we were getting ready for pounding hominy,
when a figure appeared on the trail. Steadying the hood
of her sunbonnet with her hand, the girl gazed long and
earnestly, and a lump came into my throat at the thought
that the comer might be Tom McChesney. Polly Ann
sat down at the block again in disgust.

``It's only Chauncey Dike,'' she said.

``Who's Chauncey Dike?'' I asked.

``He reckons he's a buck,'' was all that Polly Ann
vouchsafed.

Chauncey drew near with a strut. He had very long
black hair, a new coonskin cap with a long tassel, and a
new blue-fringed hunting shirt. What first caught my
eye was a couple of withered Indian scalps that hung by
their long locks from his girdle. Chauncey Dike was
certainly handsome.

``Wal, Polly Ann, are ye tired of hanging out fer Tom?''
he cried, when a dozen paces away.

``I wouldn't be if you was the only one left ter choose,''
Polly Ann retorted.

Chauncey Dike stopped in his tracks and haw-hawed
with laughter. But I could see that he was not very much
pleased.

``Wal,'' said he, ``I 'low ye won't see Tom very soon.
He's gone to Kaintuckee.''

``Has he?'' said Polly Ann, with brave indifference.

``He met a gal on the trail--a blazin' fine gal,'' said
Chauncey Dike. ``She was goin' to Kaintuckee. And
Tom--he 'lowed he'd go 'long.''

Polly Ann laughed, and fingered the withered pieces of
skin at Chauncey's girdle.

``Did Tom give you them sculps?'' she asked innocently.

Chauncey drew up stiffly.

``Who? Tom McChesney? I reckon he ain't got none to
give. This here's from a big brave at Noewee, whar the
Virginny boys was surprised.''  And he held up the one
with the longest tuft. ``He'd liked to tomahawked me
out'n the briers, but I throwed him fust.''

``Shucks,'' said Polly Ann, pounding the corn, ``I reckon
you found him dead.''

But that night, as we sat before the fading red of the
backlog, the old man dozing in his chair, Polly Ann put
her hand on mine.

``Davy,'' she said softly, ``do you reckon he's gone to
Kaintuckee?''

How could I tell?

The days passed. The wind grew colder, and one
subdued dawn we awoke to find that the pines had fantastic
white arms, and the stream ran black between white banks.
All that day, and for many days after, the snow added
silently to the thickness of its blanket, and winter was
upon us. It was a long winter and a rare one. Polly
Ann sat by the little window of the cabin, spinning the
flax into linsey-woolsey. And she made a hunting shirt
for her grandfather, and another little one for me which
she fitted with careful fingers. But as she spun, her wheel
made the only music--for Polly Ann sang no more. Once
I came on her as she was thrusting the tattered piece of birch
bark into her gown, but she never spoke to me more of
Tom McChesney. When, from time to time, the snow
melted on the hillsides, I sometimes surprised a deer there
and shot him with the heavy rifle. And so the months
wore on till spring.

The buds reddened and popped, and the briers grew
pink and white. Through the lengthening days we toiled
in the truck patch, but always as I bent to my work
Polly Ann's face saddened me--it had once been so
bright, and it should have been so at this season. Old
Mr. Ripley grew querulous and savage and hard to please.
In the evening, when my work was done, I often lay on
the banks of the stream staring at the high ridge (its
ragged edges the setting sun burned a molten gold),
and the thought grew on me that I might make my way
over the mountains into that land beyond, and find Tom
for Polly Ann. I even climbed the watershed to the
east as far as the O'Hara farm, to sound that big
Irishman about the trail. For he had once gone to Kentucky,
to come back with his scalp and little besides. O'Hara,
with his brogue, gave me such a terrifying notion of the
horrors of the Wilderness Trail that I threw up all thought
of following it alone, and so I resolved to wait until I
heard of some settlers going over it. But none went
from the Grape Vine settlement that spring.

War was a-waging in Kentucky. The great Indian
nations were making a frantic effort to drive from their
hunting grounds the little bands of settlers there, and
these were in sore straits.

So I waited, and gave Polly Ann no hint of my intention.

Sometimes she herself would slip away across the notch
to see Mrs. McChesney and the children. She never took
me with her on these journeys, but nearly always when
she came back at nightfall her eyes would be red, and I
knew the two women had been weeping together. There
came a certain hot Sunday in July when she went on this
errand, and Grandpa Ripley having gone to spend the
day at old man Winn's, I was left alone. I remember I
sat on the squared log of the door-step, wondering whether,
if I were to make my way to Salisbury, I could fall in
with a party going across the mountains into Kentucky.
And wondering, likewise, what Polly Ann would do without
me. I was cleaning the long rifle,--a labor I loved,
--when suddenly I looked up, startled to see a man standing
in front of me. How he got there I know not. I
stared at him. He was a young man, very spare and
very burned, with bright red hair and blue eyes that had
a kind of laughter in them, and yet were sober. His
buckskin hunting shirt was old and stained and frayed
by the briers, and his leggins and moccasins were wet
from fording the stream. He leaned his chin on the
muzzle of his gun.

``Folks live here, sonny?'' said he.

I nodded.

``Whar be they?''

``Out,'' said I.

``Comin' back?'' he asked.

``To-night,'' said I, and began to rub the lock.

``Be they good folks?'' said he.

``Yes,'' I answered.

``Wal,'' said he, making a move to pass me, ``I reckon
I'll slip in and take what I've a mind to, and move on.''

Now I liked the man's looks very much, but I did not
know what he would do. So I got in his way and clutched
the gun. It was loaded, but not primed, and I emptied
a little powder from the flask in the pan. At that he
grinned.

``You're a good boy, sonny,'' he said. ``Do you reckon
you could hit me if you shot?''

``Yes,'' I said. But I knew I could scarcely hold the
gun out straight without a rest.

``And do you reckon I could hit you fust?'' he asked.
At that I laughed, and he laughed.

``What's your name?''

I told him.

``Who do you love best in all the world?'' said he.

It was a queer question. But I told him Polly Ann
Ripley.

``Oh!'' said he, after a pause. ``And what's SHE like?''

``She's beautiful,'' I said; ``she's been very kind to me.
She took me home with her from the settlements when I
had no place to go. She's good.''

``And a sharp tongue, I reckon,'' said he.

``When people need it,'' I answered.

``Oh!'' said he. And presently, ``She's very merry,
I'll warrant.''

``She used to be, but that's gone by,'' I said.

``Gone by!'' said he, his voice falling, ``is she sick?''

``No,'' said I, ``she's not sick, she's sad.''

``Sad?'' said he. It was then I noticed that he had a
cut across his temple, red and barely healed. ``Do you
reckon your Polly Ann would give me a little mite to
eat?''

This time I jumped up, ran into the house, and got down
some corn-pone and a leg of turkey. For that was the
rule of the border. He took them in great bites, but
slowly, and he picked the bones clean.

``I had breakfast yesterday morning,'' said he, ``about
forty mile from here.''

``And nothing since?'' said I, in astonishment.

``Fresh air and water and exercise,'' said he, and sat
down on the grass. He was silent for a long while, and
so was I. For a notion had struck me, though I hardly
dared to give it voice.

``Are you going away?'' I asked at last.

He laughed.

``Why?'' said he.

``If you were going to Kaintuckee--'' I began, and
faltered. For he stared at me very hard.

``Kaintuckee!'' he said. ``There's a country! But
it's full of blood and Injun varmints now. Would you
leave Polly Ann and go to Kaintuckee?''

``Are you going?'' I said.

``I reckon I am,'' he said, ``as soon as I kin.''

``Will you take me?'' I asked, breathless. ``I--I
won't be in your way, and I can walk--and--shoot
game.

At that he bent back his head and laughed, which made
me redden with anger. Then he turned and looked at me
more soberly.

``You're a queer little piece,'' said he. ``Why do you
want to go thar?''

``I want to find Tom McChesney for Polly Ann,'' I
said.

He turned away his face.

``A good-for-nothing scamp,'' said he.

``I have long thought so,'' I said.

He laughed again. It was a laugh that made me want
to join him, had I not been irritated.

``And he's a scamp, you say. And why?''

``Else he would be coming back to Polly Ann.''

``Mayhap he couldn't,'' said the stranger.

``Chauncey Dike said he went off with another girl
into Kaintuckee.''

``And what did Polly Ann say to that?'' the stranger
demanded.

``She asked Chauncey if Tom McChesney gave him the
scalps he had on his belt.''

At that he laughed in good earnest, and slapped his
breech-clouts repeatedly. All at once he stopped, and
stared up the ridge.

``Is that Polly Ann?'' said he.

I looked, and far up the trail was a speck.

``I reckon it is,'' I answered, and wondered at his
eyesight. ``She travels over to see Tom McChesney's Ma
once in a while.''

He looked at me queerly.

``I reckon I'll go here and sit down, Davy,'' said he,
``so's not to be in the way.''  And he walked around the
corner of the house.

Polly Ann sauntered down the trail slowly, as was her
wont after such an occasion. And the man behind the
house twice whispered with extreme caution, ``How near
is she?'' before she came up the path.

``Have you been lonesome, Davy?'' she said.

``No,'' said I, ``I've had a visitor.''

``It's not Chauncey Dike again?'' she said. ``He
doesn't dare show his face here.''

``No, it wasn't Chauncey. This man would like to have
seen you, Polly Ann. He--'' here I braced myself,--``he
knew Tom McChesney. He called him a good-for-nothing scamp.''

``He did--did he!'' said Polly Ann, very low. ``I
reckon it was good for him I wasn't here.''

I grinned.

``What are you laughing at, you little monkey,'' said
Polly Ann, crossly. `` 'Pon my soul, sometimes I reckon
you are a witch.''

``Polly Ann,'' I said, ``did I ever do anything but good
to you?''

She made a dive at me, and before I could escape caught
me in her strong young arms and hugged me.

``You're the best friend I have, little Davy,'' she
cried.

``I reckon that's so,'' said the stranger, who had risen
and was standing at the corner.

Polly Ann looked at him like a frightened doe. And
as she stared, uncertain whether to stay or fly, the color
surged into her cheeks and mounted to her fair forehead.

``Tom!'' she faltered.

``I've come back, Polly Ann,'' said he. But his voice
was not so clear as a while ago.

Then Polly Ann surprised me.

``What made you come back?'' said she, as though she
didn't care a minkskin. Whereat Mr. McChesney shifted
his feet.

``I reckon it was to fetch you, Polly Ann.''

``I like that!'' cried she. ``He's come to fetch me,
Davy.''  That was the first time in months her laugh had
sounded natural. ``I heerd you fetched one gal acrost
the mountains, and now you want to fetch another.''

``Polly Ann,'' says he, ``there was a time when you
knew a truthful man from a liar.''

``That time's past,'' retorted she; ``I reckon all men are
liars. What are ye tom-foolin' about here for, Tom
McChesney, when yere Ma's breakin' her heart? I wonder
ye come back at all.''

``Polly Ann,'' says he, very serious, ``I ain't a boaster.
But when I think what I come through to git here, I wonder
that I come back at all. The folks shut up at Harrod's
said it was sure death ter cross the mountains now.
I've walked two hundred miles, and fed seven times, and
my sculp's as near hangin' on a Red Stick's belt as I ever
want it to be.''

``Tom McChesney,'' said Polly Ann, with her hands on
her hips and her sunbonnet tilted, ``that's the longest
speech you ever made in your life.''

I declare I lost my temper with Polly Ann then, nor
did I blame Tom McChesney for turning on his heel and
walking away. But he had gone no distance at all before
Polly Ann, with three springs, was at his shoulder.

``Tom!'' she said very gently.

He hesitated, stopped, thumped the stock of his gun on
the ground, and wheeled. He looked at her doubtingly,
and her eyes fell to the ground.

``Tom McChesney,'' said she, ``you're a born fool with
wimmen.

``Thank God for that,'' said he, his eyes devouring her.

``Ay,'' said she. And then, ``You want me to go to
Kaintuckee with you?''

``That's what I come for,'' he stammered, his assurance
all run away again.

``I'll go,'' she answered, so gently that her words were
all but blown away by the summer wind. He laid his
rifle against a stump at the edge of the corn-field, but she
bounded clear of him. Then she stood, panting, her eyes
sparkling.

``I'll go,'' she said, raising her finger, ``I'll go for one
thing.''

``What's that?'' he demanded.

``That you'll take Davy along with us.''

This time Tom had her, struggling like a wild thing in
his arms, and kissing her black hair madly. As for me,
I might have been in the next settlement for all they
cared. And then Polly Ann, as red as a holly berry,
broke away from him and ran to me, caught me up, and
hid her face in my shoulder. Tom McChesney stood looking
at us, grinning, and that day I ceased to hate him.

``There's no devil ef I don't take him, Polly Ann,'' said
he. ``Why, he was a-goin' to Kaintuckee ter find me for
you.''

``What?'' said she, raising her head.

``That's what he told me afore he knew who I was.
He wanted to know ef I'd fetch him thar.''

``Little Davy!'' cried Polly Ann.

The last I saw of them that day they were going off up
the trace towards his mother's, Polly Ann keeping ahead
of him and just out of his reach. And I was very, very
happy. For Tom McChesney had come back at last, and
Polly Ann was herself once more.

As long as I live I shall never forget Polly Ann's
wedding.

She was all for delay, and such a bunch of coquetry as I
have never seen. She raised one objection after another;
but Tom was a firm man, and his late experiences in the
wilderness had made him impatient of trifling. He had
promised the Kentucky settlers, fighting for their lives in
their blockhouses, that he would come back again. And
a resolute man who was a good shot was sorely missed in
the country in those days.

It was not the thousand dangers and hardships of the
journey across the Wilderness Trail that frightened Polly
Ann. Not she. Nor would she listen to Tom when he
implored her to let him return alone, to come back for her
when the redskins had got over the first furies of their
hatred. As for me, the thought of going with them into
that promised land was like wine. Wondering what the
place was like, I could not sleep of nights.

``Ain't you afeerd to go, Davy?'' said Tom to me.

``You promised Polly Ann to take me,'' said I,
indignantly.

``Davy,'' said he, ``you ain't over handsome. 'Twouldn't
improve yere looks to be bald. They hev a way of
takin' yere ha'r. Better stay behind with Gran'pa Ripley
till I kin fetch ye both.''

``Tom,'' said Polly Ann, ``you kin just go back alone
if you don't take Davy.''

So one of the Winn boys agreed to come over to stay
with old Mr. Ripley until quieter times.

The preparations for the wedding went on apace that
week. I had not thought that the Grape Vine settlement
held so many people. And they came from other
settlements, too, for news spread quickly in that country,
despite the distances. Tom McChesney was plainly a
favorite with the men who had marched with Rutherford.
All the week they came, loaded with offerings, turkeys
and venison and pork and bear meat--greatest delicacy
of all--until the cool spring was filled for the feast.
From thirty miles down the Broad, a gaunt Baptist
preacher on a fat white pony arrived the night before.
He had been sent for to tie the knot.

Polly Ann's wedding-day dawned bright and fair, and
long before the sun glistened on the corn tassels we were
up and clearing out the big room. The fiddlers came
first--a merry lot. And then the guests from afar began
to arrive. Some of them had travelled half the night.
The bridegroom's friends were assembling at the McChesney
place. At last, when the sun was over the stream,
rose such Indian war-whoops and shots from the ridge
trail as made me think the redskins were upon us. The
shouts and hurrahs grew louder and louder, the quickening
thud of horses' hoofs was heard in the woods, and
there burst into sight of the assembly by the truck patch
two wild figures on crazed horses charging down the path
towards the house. We scattered to right and left. On
they came, leaping logs and brush and ditches, until one
of them pulled up, yelling madly, at the very door, the
foam-flecked sides of his horse moving with quick heaves.

It was Chauncey Dike, and he had won the race for the
bottle of ``Black Betty,''--Chauncey Dike, his long, black
hair shining with bear's oil. Amid the cheers of the
bride's friends he leaped from his saddle, mounted a stump
and, flapping his arms, crowed in victory. Before he had
done the vanguard of the groom's friends were upon us,
pell-mell, all in the finest of backwoods regalia,--new
hunting shirts, trimmed with bits of color, and all armed
to the teeth--scalping knife, tomahawk, and all. Nor
had Chauncey Dike forgotten the scalp of the brave who
leaped at him out of the briers at Neowee.

Polly Ann was radiant in a white linen gown, woven
and sewed by her own hands. It was not such a gown as
Mrs. Temple, Nick's mother, would have worn, and yet
she was to me an hundred times more beautiful than that
lady in all her silks. Peeping out from under it were
the little blue-beaded moccasins which Tom himself had
brought across the mountains in the bosom of his hunting
shirt. Polly Ann was radiant, and yet at times so
rapturously shy that when the preacher announced himself
ready to tie the knot she ran into the house and hid in the
cupboard--for Polly Ann was a child of nature. Thence,
coloring like a wild rose, she was dragged by a boisterous
bevy of girls in linsey-woolsey to the spreading maple of
the forest that stood on the high bank over the stream.
The assembly fell solemn, and not a sound was heard
save the breathing of Nature in the heyday of her time.
And though I was happy, the sobs rose in my throat.
There stood Polly Ann, as white now as the bleached linen
she wore, and Tom McChesney, tall and spare and broad,
as strong a figure of a man as ever I laid eyes on. God
had truly made that couple for wedlock in His leafy temple.

The deep-toned words of the preacher in prayer broke
the stillness. They were made man and wife. And then
began a day of merriment, of unrestraint, such as the
backwoods alone knows. The feast was spread out in the
long grass under the trees--sides of venison, bear meat,
corn-pone fresh baked by Mrs. McChesney and Polly Ann
herself, and all the vegetables in the patch. There was
no stint, either, of maple beer and rum and ``Black Betty,''
and toasts to the bride and groom amidst gusts of laughter
``that they might populate Kaintuckee.''  And Polly Ann
would have it that I should sit by her side under the maple.

The fiddlers played, and there were foot races and
shooting matches. Ay, and wrestling matches in the
severe manner of the backwoods between the young bucks,
more than one of which might have ended seriously were
it not for the high humor of the crowd. Tom McChesney
himself was in most of them, a hot favorite. By a trick
he had learned in the Indian country he threw Chauncey
Dike (no mean adversary) so hard that the backwoods
dandy lay for a moment in sleep. Contrary to the custom
of many, Tom was not in the habit of crowing on such
occasions, nor did he even smile as he helped Chauncey to
his feet. But Polly Ann knew, and I knew, that he was
thinking of what Chauncey had said to her.

So the long summer afternoon wore away into twilight,
and the sun fell behind the blue ridges we were to cross.
Pine knots were lighted in the big room, the fiddlers set
to again, and then came jigs and three and four handed
reels that made the puncheons rattle,--chicken-flutter
and cut-the-buckle,--and Polly Ann was the leader now,
the young men flinging the girls from fireplace to window
in the reels, and back again; and when, panting and
perspiring, the lass was too tired to stand longer, she dropped
into the hospitable lap of the nearest buck who was
perched on the bench along the wall awaiting his chance.
For so it went in the backwoods in those days, and long
after, and no harm in it that ever I could see.

Well, suddenly, as if by concert, the music stopped,
and a shout of laughter rang under the beams as Polly
Ann flew out of the door with the girls after her, as swift
of foot as she. They dragged her, a struggling captive,
to the bride-chamber which made the other end of the
house, and when they emerged, blushing and giggling and
subdued, the fun began with Tom McChesney. He gave
the young men a pretty fight indeed, and long before they
had him conquered the elder guests had made their escape
through door and window.

All night the reels and jigs went on, and the feasting
and drinking too. In the fine rain that came at dawn
to hide the crests, the company rode wearily homeward
through the notches.

CHAPTER VIII

THE NOLLICHUCKY TRACE

Some to endure, and many to quail,
Some to conquer, and many to fail,
   Toiling over the Wilderness Trail.

As long as I live I shall never forget the morning we
started on our journey across the Blue Wall. Before
the sun chased away the filmy veil of mist from the
brooks in the valley, the McChesneys, father, mother, and
children, were gathered to see us depart. And as they
helped us to tighten the packsaddles Tom himself had
made from chosen tree-forks, they did not cease lamenting
that we were going to certain death. Our scrawny horses
splashed across the stream, and we turned to see a gaunt
and lonely figure standing apart against the sun, stern and
sorrowful. We waved our hands, and set our faces
towards Kaintuckee.

Tom walked ahead, rifle on shoulder, then Polly Ann;
and lastly I drove the two shaggy ponies, the instruments
of husbandry we had been able to gather awry on their
packs,--a scythe, a spade, and a hoe. I triumphantly
carried the axe.

It was not long before we were in the wilderness, shut
in by mountain crags, and presently Polly Ann forgot
her sorrows in the perils of the trace. Choked by briers
and grapevines, blocked by sliding stones and earth, it
rose and rose through the heat and burden of the day
until it lost itself in the open heights. As the sun was
wearing down to the western ridges the mischievous
sorrel mare turned her pack on a sapling, and one of the
precious bags burst. In an instant we were on our knees
gathering the golden meal in our hands. Polly Ann baked
journeycakes on a hot stone from what we saved under the
shiny ivy leaves, and scarce had I spancelled the horses
ere Tom returned with a fat turkey he had shot.

``Was there ever sech a wedding journey!'' said Polly
Ann, as we sat about the fire, for the mountain air was
chill. ``And Tom and Davy as grave as parsons. Ye'd
guess one of you was Rutherford himself, and the other
Mr. Boone.''

No wonder he was grave. I little realized then the
task he had set himself, to pilot a woman and a lad into a
country haunted by frenzied savages, when single men
feared to go this season. But now he smiled, and patted
Polly Ann's brown hand.

``It's one of yer own choosing, lass,'' said he.

``Of my own choosing!'' cried she. ``Come, Davy,
we'll go back to Grandpa.''

Tom grinned.

``I reckon the redskins won't bother us till we git by
the Nollichucky and Watauga settlements,'' he said.

``The redskins!'' said Polly Ann, indignant; ``I reckon
if one of 'em did git me he'd kiss me once in a while.''

Whereupon Tom, looking more sheepish still, tried to
kiss her, and failed ignominiously, for she vanished into
the dark woods.

``If a redskin got you here,'' said Tom, when she had
slipped back, ``he'd fetch you to Nick-a-jack Cave.''

``What's that?'' she demanded.

``Where all the red and white and yellow scalawags over
the mountains is gathered,'' he answered. And he told of
a deep gorge between towering mountains where a great
river cried angrily, of a black cave out of which a black
stream ran, where a man could paddle a dugout for miles
into the rock. The river was the Tennessee, and the
place the resort of the Chickamauga bandits, pirates of
the mountains, outcasts of all nations. And Dragging
Canoe was their chief.

It was on the whole a merry journey, the first part of
it, if a rough one. Often Polly Ann would draw me to
her and whisper: ``We'll hold out, Davy. He'll never
now.''  When the truth was that the big fellow was going
at half his pace on our account. He told us there was no
fear of redskins here, yet, when the scream of a painter or
the hoot of an owl stirred me from my exhausted slumber,
I caught sight of him with his back to a tree, staring into
the forest, his rifle at his side. The day was dawning.

``Turn about's fair,'' I expostulated.

``Ye'll need yere sleep, Davy,'' said he, ``or ye'll never
grow any bigger.

``I thought Kaintuckee was to the west,'' I said, ``and
you're making north.''  For I had observed him day after
day. We had left the trails. Sometimes he climbed
tree, and again he sent me to the upper branches, whence
I surveyed a sea of tree-tops waving in the wind, and
looked onward to where a green velvet hollow lay nestling
on the western side of a saddle-backed ridge.

``North!'' said Tom to Polly Ann, laughing. ``The
little devil will beat me at woodcraft soon. Ay, north,
Davy. I'm hunting for the Nollichucky Trace that leads
to the Watauga settlement.''

It was wonderful to me how he chose his way through
the mountains. Once in a while we caught sight of a
yellow blaze in a tree, made by himself scarce a month
gone, when he came southward alone to fetch Polly Ann.
Again, the tired roan shied back from the bleached bones
of a traveller, picked clean by wolves. At sundown, when
we loosed our exhausted horses to graze on the wet grass
by the streams, Tom would go off to look for a deer or
turkey, and often not come back to us until long after
darkness had fallen.

``Davy'll take care of you, Polly Ann,'' he would say
as he left us.

And she would smile at him bravely and say, ``I reckon
I kin look out for Davy awhile yet.''

But when he was gone, and the crooning stillness set in
broken only by the many sounds of the night, we would
sit huddled together by the fire. It was dread for him
she felt, not for herself. And in both our minds rose
red images of hideous foes skulking behind his brave
form as he trod the forest floor. Polly Ann was not the
woman to whimper.

And yet I have but dim recollections of this journey.
It was no hardship to a lad brought up in woodcraft. Fear
of the Indians, like a dog shivering with the cold, was a
deadened pain on the border.

Strangely enough it was I who chanced upon the
Nollichucky Trace, which follows the meanderings of that
river northward through the great Smoky Mountains.
It was made long ago by the Southern Indians as they
threaded their way to the Hunting Lands of Kaintuckee,
and shared now by Indian traders. The path was redolent
with odors, and bright with mountain shrubs and flowers,--
the pink laurel bush, the shining rhododendron, and the
grape and plum and wild crab. The clear notes of the
mountain birds were in our ears by day, and the music of
the water falling over the ledges, mingled with that of
the leaves rustling in the wind, lulled us to sleep at night.
High above us, as we descended, the gap, from naked crag
to timber-covered ridge, was spanned by the eagle's flight.
And virgin valleys, where future generations were to be
born, spread out and narrowed again,--valleys with a
deep carpet of cane and grass, where the deer and elk and
bear fed unmolested.

It was perchance the next evening that my eyes fell
upon a sight which is one of the wonders of my boyish
memories. The trail slipped to the edge of a precipice,
and at our feet the valley widened. Planted amidst
giant trees, on a shining green lawn that ran down to the
racing Nollichucky was the strangest house it has ever
been my lot to see--of no shape, of huge size, and built
of logs, one wing hitched to another by ``dog alleys''
(as we called them); and from its wide stone chimneys
the pearly smoke rose upward in the still air through the
poplar branches. Beyond it a setting sun gilded the corn-
fields, and horses and cattle dotted the pastures. We stood
for a while staring at this oasis in the wilderness, and to
my boyish fancy it was a fitting introduction to a
delectable land.

``Glory be to heaven!'' exclaimed Polly Ann.

``It's Nollichucky Jack's house,'' said Tom.

``And who may he be?'' said she.

``Who may he be!'' cried Tom; ``Captain John Sevier,
king of the border, and I reckon the best man to sweep
out redskins in the Watauga settlements.''

``Do you know him?'' said she.

``I was chose as one of his scouts when we fired the
Cherokee hill towns last summer,'' said Tom, with pride. ``Thar
was blood and thunder for ye! We went down the Great
War-path which lies below us, and when we was through
there wasn't a corn-shuck or a wigwam or a war post left.
We didn't harm the squaws nor the children, but there
warn't no prisoners took. When Nollichucky Jack strikes
I reckon it's more like a thunderbolt nor anything else.''

``Do you think he's at home, Tom?'' I asked, fearful
that I should not see this celebrated person.

``We'll soon l'arn,'' said he, as we descended. ``I heerd
he was agoin' to punish them Chickamauga robbers by
Nick-a-jack.''

Just then we heard a prodigious barking, and a dozen
hounds came charging down the path at our horses' legs,
the roan shying into the truck patch. A man's voice,
deep, clear, compelling, was heard calling:--

``Vi! Flora! Ripper!''

I saw him coming from the porch of the house, a tall
slim figure in a hunting shirt--that fitted to perfection--
and cavalry boots. His face, his carriage, his quick
movement and stride filled my notion of a hero, and my instinct
told me he was a gentleman born.

``Why, bless my soul, it's Tom McChesney!'' he cried,
ten paces away, while Tom grinned with pleasure at the
recognition ``But what have you here?''

``A wife,'' said Tom, standing on one foot.

Captain Sevier fixed his dark blue eyes on Polly Ann
with approbation, and he bowed to her very gracefully.

``Where are you going, Ma'am, may I ask?'' he said.

``To Kaintuckee,'' said Polly Ann.

``To Kaintuckee!'' cried Captain Sevier, turning to
Tom. ``Egad, then, you've no right to a wife,--and to
such a wife,'' and he glanced again at Polly Ann. ``Why,
McChesney, you never struck me as a rash man. Have
you lost your senses, to take a woman into Kentucky this
year?''

``So the forts be still in trouble?'' said Tom.

``Trouble?'' cried Mr. Sevier, with a quick fling of his
whip at an unruly hound, ``Harrodstown, Boonesboro,
Logan's Fort at St. Asaph's,--they don't dare stick their
noses outside the stockades. The Indians have swarmed
into Kentucky like red ants, I tell you. Ten days ago,
when I was in the Holston settlements, Major Ben Logan
came in. His fort had been shut up since May, they were
out of powder and lead, and somebody had to come. How
did he come? As the wolf lopes, nay, as the crow flies
over crag and ford, Cumberland, Clinch, and all, forty
miles a day for five days, and never saw a trace--for the
war parties were watching the Wilderness Road.''  And
he swung again towards Polly Ann. ``You'll not go to
Kaintuckee, ma'am; you'll stay here with us until the
redskins are beaten off there. He may go if he likes.''

``I reckon we didn't come this far to give out, Captain
Sevier,'' said she.

``You don't look to be the kind to give out, Mrs.
McChesney,'' said he. ``And yet it may not be a matter
of giving out,'' he added more soberly. This mixture of
heartiness and gravity seemed to sit well on him. ``Surely
you have been enterprising, Tom. Where in the name
of the Continental Congress did you get the lad?''

``I married him along with Polly Ann,'' said Tom.

``That was the bargain, and I reckon he was worth it.''

``I'd take a dozen to get her,'' declared Mr. Sevier, while
Polly Ann blushed. ``Well, well, supper's waiting us,
and cider and applejack, for we don't get a wedding
party every day. Some gentlemen are here whose word
may have more weight and whose attractions may be
greater than mine.''

He whistled to a negro lad, who took our horses, and
led us through the court-yard and the house to the lawn
at the far side of it. A rude table was set there under
a great tree, and around it three gentlemen were talking.
My memory of all of them is more vivid than it might
be were their names not household words in the Western
country. Captain Sevier startled them.

``My friends,'' said he, ``if you have despatches for
Kaintuckee, I pray you get them ready over night.''

They looked up at him, one sternly, the other two
gravely.

``What the devil do you mean, Sevier?'' said the stern
one.

``That my friend, Tom McChesney, is going there with
his wife, unless we can stop him,'' said Sevier.

``Stop him!'' thundered the stern gentleman, kicking
back his chair and straightening up to what seemed to
me a colossal height. I stared at him, boylike. He
had long, iron-gray hair and a creased, fleshy face and
sunken eyes. He looked as if he might stop anybody
as he turned upon Tom. ``Who the devil is this Tom
McChesney?'' he demanded.

Sevier laughed.

``The best scout I ever laid eyes on,'' said he. ``A
deadly man with a Deckard, an unerring man at choosing
a wife'' (and he bowed to the reddening Polly Ann),
``and a fool to run the risk of losing her.''

``Tut, tut,'' said the iron gentleman, who was the
famous Captain Evan Shelby of King's Meadows, ``he'll
leave her here in our settlements while he helps us fight
Dragging Canoe and his Chickamauga pirates.''

``If he leaves me, ``said Polly Ann, her eyes flashing,
``that's an end to the bargain. He'll never find me more.''

Captain Sevier laughed again.

``There's spirit for you,'' he cried, slapping his whip
against his boot.

At this another gentleman stood up, a younger counterpart
of the first, only he towered higher and his shoulders
were broader. He had a big-featured face, and pleasant
eyes--that twinkled now--sunken in, with fleshy creases
at the corners.

``Tom McChesney,'' said he, ``don't mind my father.
If any man besides Logan can get inside the forts, you
can. Do you remember me?''

``I reckon I do, Mr. Isaac Shelby,'' said Tom, putting
a big hand into Mr. Shelby's bigger one. ``I reckon I
won't soon forget how you stepped out of ranks and
tuk command when the boys was runnin', and turned
the tide.''

He looked like the man to step out of ranks and take
command.

``Pish!'' said Mr. Isaac Shelby, blushing like a girl;
``where would I have been if you and Moore and Findley
and the rest hadn't stood 'em off till we turned round?''

By this time the third gentleman had drawn my attention.
Not by anything he said, for he remained silent,
sitting with his dark brown head bent forward, quietly
gazing at the scene from under his brows. The instant
he spoke they turned towards him. He was perhaps forty,
and broad-shouldered, not so tall as Mr. Sevier.

``Why do you go to Kaintuckee, McChesney?'' he asked.

``I give my word to Mr. Harrod and Mr. Clark to come
back, Mr. Robertson,'' said Tom.

``And the wife? If you take her, you run a great risk
of losing her.''

``And if he leaves me,'' said Polly Ann, flinging her
head, ``he will lose me sure.''

The others laughed, but Mr. Robertson merely smiled.

``Faith,'' cried Captain Sevier, ``if those I met coming
back helter-skelter over the Wilderness Trace had been of
that stripe, they'd have more men in the forts now.''

With that the Captain called for supper to be served
where we sat. He was a widower, with lads somewhere
near my own age, and I recall being shown about the place
by them. And later, when the fireflies glowed and the
Nollichucky sang in the darkness, we listened to the talk
of the war of the year gone by. I needed not to be told
that before me were the renowned leaders of the Watauga
settlements. My hero worship cried it aloud within me.
These captains dwelt on the border-land of mystery,
conquered the wilderness, and drove before them its savage
tribes by their might. When they spoke of the Cherokees
and told how that same Stuart--the companion of
Cameron--was urging them to war against our people, a
fierce anger blazed within me. For the Cherokees had
killed my father.

I remember the men,--scarcely what they said: Evan
Shelby's words, like heavy blows on an anvil; Isaac
Shelby's, none the less forceful; James Robertson
compelling his listeners by some strange power. He
was perchance the strongest man there, though none of
us guessed, after ruling that region, that he was to repeat
untold hardships to found and rear another settlement
farther west. But best I loved to hear Captain Sevier,
whose talk lacked not force, but had a daring, a humor,
a lightness of touch, that seemed more in keeping with
that world I had left behind me in Charlestown. Him I
loved, and at length I solved the puzzle. To me he was
Nick Temple grown to manhood

I slept in the room with Captain Sevier's boys, and one
window of it was of paper smeared with bear's grease,
through which the sunlight came all bleared and yellow
in the morning. I had a boy's interest in affairs, and I
remember being told that the gentlemen were met here
to discuss the treaty between themselves and the great
Oconostota, chief of the Cherokees, and also to consider
the policy of punishing once for all Dragging Canoe and
his bandits at Chickamauga.

As we sat at breakfast under the trees, these gentlemen
generously dropped their own business to counsel Tom,
and I observed with pride that he had gained their regard
during the last year's war. Shelby's threats and Robertson's
warnings and Sevier's exhortations having no effect
upon his determination to proceed to Kentucky, they began
to advise him how to go, and he sat silent while they
talked. And finally, when they asked him, he spoke of
making through Carter's Valley for Cumberland Gap and
the Wilderness Trail.

``Egad,'' cried Captain Sevier, ``I have so many times
found the boldest plan the safest that I have become a
coward that way. What do you say to it, Mr. Robertson?''

Mr. Robertson leaned his square shoulders over the
table.

``He may fall in with a party going over,'' he answered,
without looking up.

Polly Ann looked at Tom as if to say that the whole
Continental Army could not give her as much protection.

We left that hospitable place about nine o'clock, Mr.
Robertson having written a letter to Colonel Daniel
Boone,--shut up in the fort at Boonesboro,--should we
be so fortunate as to reach Kaintuckee: and another to a
young gentleman by the name of George Rogers Clark,
apparently a leader there. Captain Sevier bowed over
Polly Ann's hand as if she were a great lady, and wished
her a happy honeymoon, and me he patted on the head
and called a brave lad. And soon we had passed beyond
the corn-field into the Wilderness again.

Our way was down the Nollichucky, past the great bend
of it below Lick Creek, and so to the Great War-path, the
trail by which countless parties of red marauders had
travelled north and south. It led, indeed, northeast
between the mountain ranges. Although we kept a watch
by day and night, we saw no sign of Dragging Canoe or
his men, and at length we forded the Holston and came to
the scattered settlement in Carter's Valley.

I have since racked my brain to remember at whose
cabin we stopped there. He was a rough backwoodsman
with a wife and a horde of children. But I recall that a
great rain came out of the mountains and down the valley.
We were counting over the powder gourds in our packs,
when there burst in at the door as wild a man as has ever
been my lot to see. His brown beard was grown like a
bramble patch, his eye had a violet light, and his hunting
shirt was in tatters. He was thin to gauntness, ate
ravenously of the food that was set before him, and throwing
off his soaked moccasins, he spread his scalded feet to the
blaze, and the steaming odor of drying leather filled the
room.

``Whar be ye from?'' asked Tom.

For answer the man bared his arm, then his shoulder,
and two angry scars, long and red, revealed themselves,
and around his wrists were deep gouges where he had been
bound.

``They killed Sue,'' he cried, ``sculped her afore my
very eyes. And they chopped my boy outen the hickory
withes and carried him to the Creek Nation. At a place
where there was a standin' stone I broke loose from three
of 'em and come here over the mountains, and I ain't had
nothin', stranger, but berries and chainey brier-root for
ten days. God damn 'em!'' he cried, standing up and
tottering with the pain in his feet, ``if I can get a
Deckard--''

``Will you go back?'' said Tom.

``Go back!'' he shouted, ``I'll go back and fight 'em
while I have blood in my body.''

He fell into a bunk, but his sorrow haunted him even in
his troubled sleep, and his moans awed us as we listened.
The next day he told us his story with more calmness. It
was horrible indeed, and might well have frightened a less
courageous woman than Polly Ann. Imploring her not
to go, he became wild again, and brought tears to her eyes
when he spoke of his own wife. ``They tomahawked her,
ma'am, because she could not walk, and the baby beside
her, and I standing by with my arms tied.''

As long as I live I shall never forget that scene, and
how Tom pleaded with Polly Ann to stay behind, but she
would not listen to him.

``You're going, Tom?'' she said.

``Yes,'' he answered, turning away, ``I gave 'em my
word.''

``And your word to me?'' said Polly Ann.

He did not answer.

We fixed on a Saturday to start, to give the horses time
to rest, and in the hope that we might hear of some relief
party going over the Gap. On Thursday Tom made a
trip to the store in the valley, and came back with a
Deckard rifle he had bought for the stranger, whose name
was Weldon. There was no news from Kaintuckee, but
the Carter's Valley settlers seemed to think that matters
were better there. It was that same night, I believe, that
two men arrived from Fort Chiswell. One, whose name
was Cutcheon, was a little man with a short forehead and
a bad eye, and he wore a weather-beaten blue coat of
military cut. The second was a big, light-colored, fleshy
man, and a loud talker. He wore a hunting shirt and
leggings. They were both the worse for rum they had
had on the road, the big man talking very loud and
boastfully.

``Afeard to go to Kaintuckee!'' said he. ``I've met a
parcel o' cowards on the road, turned back. There ain't
nothin' to be afeard of, eh, stranger?'' he added, to Tom,
who paid no manner of attention to him. The small man
scarce opened his mouth, but sat with his head bowed
forward on his breast when he was not drinking. We passed
a dismal, crowded night in the room with such companions.
When they heard that we were to go over the
mountains, nothing would satisfy the big man but to go
with us.

``Come, stranger,'' said he to Tom, ``two good rifles such
as we is ain't to be throwed away.''

``Why do you want to go over?'' asked Tom. ``Be ye a
Tory?'' he demanded suspiciously.

``Why do you go over?'' retorted Riley, for that
was his name. ``I reckon I'm no more of a Tory than
you.''

``Whar did ye come from?'' said Tom.

``Chiswell's mines, taking out lead for the army o'
Congress. But there ain't excitement enough in it.''

``And you?'' said Tom, turning to Cutcheon and eying
his military coat.

``I got tired of their damned discipline,'' the man
answered surlily. He was a deserter.

``Look you,'' said Tom, sternly, ``if you come, what I
say is law.''

Such was the sacrifice we were put to by our need of
company. But in those days a man was a man, and scarce
enough on the Wilderness Trail in that year of '77. So
we started away from Carter's Valley on a bright Saturday
morning, the grass glistening after a week's rain, the
road sodden, and the smell of the summer earth heavy.
Tom and Weldon walked ahead, driving the two horses,
followed by Cutcheon, his head dropped between his
shoulders. The big man, Riley, regaled Polly Ann.

``My pluck is,'' said he, ``my pluck is to give a redskin
no chance. Shoot 'em down like hogs. It takes a good
un to stalk me, Ma'am. Up on the Kanawha I've had
hand-to-hand fights with 'em, and made 'em cry quits.''

``Law!'' exclaimed Polly Ann, nudging me, ``it was a
lucky thing we run into you in the valley.''

But presently we left the road and took a mountain
trail,--as stiff a climb as we had yet had. Polly Ann went
up it like a bird, talking all the while to Riley, who blew
like a bellows. For once he was silent.

We spent two, perchance three, days climbing and
descending and fording. At night Tom would suffer
none to watch save Weldon and himself, not trusting
Riley or Cutcheon. And the rascals were well content
to sleep. At length we came, to a cabin on a creek, the
corn between the stumps around it choked with weeds,
and no sign of smoke in the chimney. Behind it slanted
up, in giant steps, a forest-clad hill of a thousand feet,
and in front of it the stream was dammed and lined with
cane.

``Who keeps house?'' cried Tom, at the threshold.

He pushed back the door, fashioned in one great slab
from a forest tree. His welcome was an angry whir, and
a huge yellow rattler lay coiled within, his head reared to
strike. Polly Ann leaned back.

``Mercy,'' she cried, ``that's a bad sign.''

But Tom killed the snake, and we made ready to use
the cabin that night and the next day. For the horses
were to be rested and meat was to be got, as we could
not use our guns so freely on the far side of Cumberland
Gap. In the morning, before he and Weldon left, Tom
took me around the end of the cabin.

``Davy,'' said he, ``I don't trust these rascals. Kin you
shoot a pistol?''

I reckoned I could.

He had taken one out of the pack he had got from
Captain Sevier and pushed it between the logs where the
clay had fallen out. ``If they try anything,'' said he,
``shoot 'em. And don't be afeard of killing 'em.''  He
patted me on the back, and went off up the slope with
Weldon. Polly Ann and I stood watching them until
they were out of sight.

About eleven o'clock Riley and Cutcheon moved off
to the edge of a cane-brake near the water, and sat there
for a while, talking in low tones. The horses were belled
and spancelled near by, feeding on the cane and wild
grass, and Polly Ann was cooking journey-cakes on a
stone.

``What makes you so sober, Davy?'' she said.

I didn't answer.

``Davy,'' she cried, ``be happy while you're young. 'Tis
a fine day, and Kaintuckee's over yonder.''  She picked
up her skirts and sang:--

        ``First upon the heeltap,
          Then upon the toe.''

The men by the cane-brake turned and came towards
us.

``Ye're happy to-day, Mis' McChesney,'' said Riley.

``Why shouldn't I be?'' said Polly Ann; ``we're all a-goin'
to Kaintuckee.''

``We're a-goin' back to Cyarter's Valley,'' said Riley, in
his blustering way. ``This here ain't as excitin' as I
thought. I reckon there ain't no redskins nohow.''

``What!'' cried Polly Ann, in loud scorn, ``ye're a-goin'
to desert? There'll be redskins enough by and by, I'll
warrant ye.''

``How'd you like to come along of us,'' says Riley;
``that ain't any place for wimmen, over yonder.''

``Along of you!'' cried Polly Ann, with flashing eyes.

``Do you hear that, Davy?''

I did. Meanwhile the man Cutcheon was slowly walking
towards her. It took scarce a second for me to make
up my mind. I slipped around the corner of the house,
seized the pistol, primed it with a trembling hand, and came
back to behold Polly Ann, with flaming cheeks, facing
them. They did not so much as glance at me. Riley
held a little back of the two, being the coward. But
Cutcheon stood ready, like a wolf.

I did not wait for him to spring, but, taking the best aim
I could with my two hands, fired. With a curse that echoed
in the crags, he threw up his arms and fell forward,
writhing, on the turf.

``Run for the cabin, Polly Ann,'' I shouted, ``and bar
the door.''

There was no need. For an instant Riley wavered, and
then fled to the cane.

Polly Ann and I went to the man on the ground, and
turned him over. His eyes slid upwards. There was a
bloody froth on his lips.

``Davy!'' cried she, awestricken, ``Davy, ye've killed
him!''

I grew dizzy and sick at the thought, but she caught
me and held me to her. Presently we sat down on the
door log, gazing at the corpse. Then I began to reflect,
and took out my powder gourd and loaded the pistol.

``What are ye a-doing?'' she said.

``In case the other one comes back,'' said I.

``Pooh,'' said Polly Ann, ``he'll not come back.''  Which
was true. I have never laid eyes on Riley to this day.

``I reckon we'd better fetch it out of the sun,'' said she,
after a while. And so we dragged it under an oak, covered
the face, and left it.

He was the first man I ever killed, and the business by
no means came natural to me. And that day the journey-
cakes which Polly Ann had made were untasted by
us both. The afternoon dragged interminably. Try as
we would, we could not get out of our minds the Thing
that lay under the oak.

It was near sundown when Tom and Weldon appeared
on the mountain side carrying a buck between them.
Tom glanced from one to the other of us keenly. He was
very quick to divine.

``Whar be they?'' said he.

``Show him, Davy,'' said Polly Ann.

I took him over to the oak, and Polly Ann told him the
story. He gave me one look, I remember, and there was
more of gratitude in it than in a thousand words. Then
he seized a piece of cold cake from the stone.

``Which trace did he take?'' he demanded of me.

But Polly Ann hung on his shoulder.

``Tom, Tom!'' she cried, ``you beant goin' to leave
us again. Tom, he'll die in the wilderness, and we must
git to Kaintuckee.''

   *    *   *    *     *    *    *

The next vivid thing in my memory is the view of the
last barrier Nature had reared between us and the
delectable country. It stood like a lion at the gateway,
and for some minutes we gazed at it in terror from
Powell's Valley below. How many thousands have
looked at it with sinking hearts! How many weaklings
has its frown turned back! There seemed to be engraved
upon it the dark history of the dark and bloody land
beyond. Nothing in this life worth having is won for the
asking; and the best is fought for, and bled for, and died
for. Written, too, upon that towering wall of white rock,
in the handwriting of God Himself, is the history of the
indomitable Race to which we belong.

For fifty miles we travelled under it, towards the Gap,
our eyes drawn to it by a resistless fascination. The sun
went over it early in the day, as though glad to leave
the place, and after that a dark scowl would settle there.
At night we felt its presence, like a curse. Even Polly
Ann was silent. And she had need to be now. When it
was necessary, we talked in low tones, and the bell-clappers
on the horses were not loosed at night. It was here, but
four years gone, that Daniel Boone's family was attacked,
and his son killed by the Indians.

We passed, from time to time, deserted cabins and
camps, and some places that might once have been called
settlements: Elk Garden, where the pioneers of the last
four years had been wont to lay in a simple supply of
seed corn and Irish potatoes; and the spot where Henderson
and his company had camped on the way to establish
Boonesboro two years before. And at last we struck the
trace that mounted upward to the Gateway itself.

CHAPTER IX

ON THE WILDERNESS TRAIL

And now we had our hands upon the latch, and God
alone knew what was behind the gate. Toil, with a
certainty, but our lives had known it. Death, perchance.
But Death had been near to all of us, and his presence did
not frighten. As we climbed towards the Gap, I recalled
with strange aptness a quaint saying of my father's that
Kaintuckee was the Garden of Eden, and that men were
being justly punished with blood for their presumption.

As if to crown that judgment, the day was dark and
lowering, with showers of rain from time to time. And when
we spoke,--Polly Ann and I,--it was in whispers. The
trace was very narrow, with Daniel Boone's blazes, two
years old, upon the trees; but the way was not over steep.
Cumberland Mountain was as silent and deserted as when
the first man had known it.

Alas, for the vanity of human presage! We gained the
top, and entered unmolested. No Eden suddenly dazzled
our eye, no splendor burst upon it. Nothing told us, as
we halted in our weariness, that we had reached the
Promised Land. The mists weighed heavily on the evergreens
of the slopes and hid the ridges, and we passed that night
in cold discomfort. It was the first of many without a
fire.

The next day brought us to the Cumberland, tawny and
swollen from the rains, and here we had to stop to fell
trees to make a raft on which to ferry over our packs.
We bound the logs together with grapevines, and as we
worked my imagination painted for me many a red face
peering from the bushes on the farther shore. And when
we got into the river and were caught and spun by the
hurrying stream, I hearkened for a shot from the farther
bank. While Polly Ann and I were scrambling to get the
raft landed, Tom and Weldon swam over with the horses.
And so we lay the second night dolefully in the rain. But
not so much as a whimper escaped from Polly Ann. I
have often told her since that the sorest trial she had was
the guard she kept on her tongue,--a hardship indeed for
one of Irish inheritance. Many a pull had she lightened
for us by a flash of humor.

The next morning the sun relented, and the wine of his
dawn was wine indeed to our flagging hopes. Going
down to wash at the river's brink, I heard a movement in
the cane, and stood frozen and staring until a great, bearded
head, black as tar, was thrust out between the stalks and
looked at me with blinking red eyes. The next step revealed
the hump of the beast, and the next his tasselled
tail lashing his dirty brown quarters. I did not tarry
longer, but ran to tell Tom. He made bold to risk a shot
and light a fire, and thus we had buffalo meat for some
days after.

We were still in the mountains. The trail led down the
river for a bit through the worst of canebrakes, and every
now and again we stopped while Tom and Weldon scouted.
Once the roan mare made a dash through the brake, and,
though Polly Ann burst through one way to head her off
and I another, we reached the bank of Richland Creek in
time to see her nose and the top of her pack above the
brown water. There was nothing for it but to swim after
her, which I did, and caught her quietly feeding in the
cane on the other side. By great good fortune the other
horse bore the powder.

``Drat you, Nancy,'' said Polly Ann to the mare, as she
handed me my clothes, ``I'd sooner carry the pack myself
than be bothered with you.''

``Hush,'' said I, ``the redskins will get us.''

Polly Ann regarded me scornfully as I stood bedraggled
before her.

``Redskins!'' she cried. ``Nonsense! I reckon it's all
talk about redskins.''

But we had scarce caught up ere we saw Tom standing
rigid with his hand raised. Before him, on a mound bared
of cane, were the charred remains of a fire. The sight of
them transformed Weldon. His eyes glared again, even as
when we had first seen him, curses escaped under his
breath, and he would have darted into the cane had not
Tom seized him sternly by the shoulder. As for me, my
heart hammered against my ribs, and I grew sick with
listening. It was at that instant that my admiration for
Tom McChesney burst bounds, and that I got some real
inkling of what woodcraft might be. Stepping silently
between the tree trunks, his eyes bent on the leafy loam,
he found a footprint here and another there, and suddenly
he went into the cane with a sign to us to remain. It
seemed an age before he returned. Then he began to
rake the ashes, and, suddenly bending down, seized
something in them,--the broken bowl of an Indian
pipe.

``Shawnees!'' he said; ``I reckoned so.''  It was at
length the beseeching in Polly Ann's eyes that he answered.

``A war party--tracks three days old. They took
poplar.''

To take poplar was our backwoods expression for
embarking in a canoe, the dugouts being fashioned from the
great poplar trees.

I did not reflect then, as I have since and often, how
great was the knowledge and resource Tom practised that
day. Our feeling for him (Polly Ann's and mine) fell
little short of worship. In company ill at ease, in the
forest he became silent and masterful--an unerring
woodsman, capable of meeting the Indian on his own
footing. And, strangest thought of all, he and many I
could name who went into Kentucky, had escaped, by a
kind of strange fate, being born in the north of Ireland.
This was so of Andrew Jackson himself.

The rest of the day he led us in silence down the trace,
his eye alert to penetrate every corner of the forest, his
hand near the trigger of his long Deckard. I followed in
boylike imitation, searching every thicket for alien form
and color, and yearning for stature and responsibility.
As for poor Weldon, he would stride for hours at a time
with eyes fixed ahead, a wild figure,--ragged and fringed.
And we knew that the soul within him was torn with
thoughts of his dead wife and of his child in captivity.
Again, when the trance left him, he was an addition to
our little party not to be despised.

At dark Polly Ann and I carried the packs across a
creek on a fallen tree, she taking one end and I the
other. We camped there, where the loam was trampled
and torn by countless herds of bison, and had only
parched corn and the remains of a buffalo steak for
supper, as the meal was mouldy from its wetting, and
running low. When Weldon had gone a little distance
up the creek to scout, Tom relented from the sternness
which his vigilance imposed and came and sat down on a
log beside Polly Ann and me.

`` 'Tis a hard journey, little girl,'' he said, patting her;
``I reckon I done wrong to fetch you.''

I can see him now, as the twilight settled down over
the wilderness, his honest face red and freckled, but
aglow with the tenderness it had hidden during the
day, one big hand enfolding hers, and the other on my
shoulder.

``Hark, Davy!'' said Polly Ann, ``he's fair tired of us
already. Davy, take me back.''

``Hush, Polly Ann,'' he answered; delighted at her
raillery. ``But I've a word to say to you. If we come
on to the redskins, you and Davy make for the cane as
hard as you kin kilter. Keep out of sight.''

``As hard as we kin kilter!'' exclaimed Polly Ann,
indignantly. ``I reckon not, Tom McChesney. Davy
taught me to shoot long ago, afore you made up your
mind to come back from Kaintuckee.''

Tom chuckled. ``So Davy taught you to shoot,'' he
said, and checked himself. ``He ain't such a bad one
with a pistol,''--and he patted me,--``but I allow ye'd
better hunt kiver just the same. And if they ketch ye,
Polly Ann, just you go along and pretend to be happy, and
tear off a snatch of your dress now and then, if you get
a chance. It wouldn't take me but a little time to run
into Harrodstown or Boone's Station from here, and
fetch a party to follow ye.''

Two days went by,--two days of strain in sunlight, and
of watching and fitful sleep in darkness. But the
Wilderness Trail was deserted. Here and there a lean-to
--silent remnant of the year gone by--spoke of the
little bands of emigrants which had once made their way
so cheerfully to the new country. Again it was a child's
doll, the rags of it beaten by the weather to a rusty hue.
Every hour that we progressed seemed to justify the
sagacity and boldness of Tom's plan, nor did it appear
to have entered a painted skull that a white man would
have the hardihood to try the trail this year. There
were neither signs nor sounds save Nature's own, the
hoot of the wood-owl, the distant bark of a mountain
wolf, the whir of a partridge as she left her brood.
At length we could stand no more the repression that
silence and watching put upon us, and when a rotten
bank gave way and flung Polly Ann and the sorrel mare
into a creek, even Weldon smiled as we pulled her, bedraggled
and laughing, from the muddy water. This was after
we had ferried the Rockcastle River.

Our trace rose and fell over height and valley, until
we knew that we were come to a wonderland at last.
We stood one evening on a spur as the setting sun
flooded the natural park below us with a crystal light
and, striking a tall sycamore, turned its green to gold.
We were now on the hills whence the water ran down
to nourish the fat land, and I could scarce believe that
the garden spot on which our eyes feasted could be the
scene of the blood and suffering of which we had heard.
Here at last was the fairyland of my childhood, the country
beyond the Blue Wall.

We went down the river that led into it, with awes
as though we were trespassers against God Himself,--as
though He had made it too beautiful and too fruitful
for the toilers of this earth. And you who read this
an hundred years hence may not believe the marvels
of it to the pioneer, and in particular to one born and
bred in the scanty, hard soil of the mountains. Nature
had made it for her park,--ay, and scented it with her
own perfumes. Giant trees, which had watched generations
come and go, some of which mayhap had been saplings
when the Norman came to England, grew in groves,--
the gnarled and twisted oak, and that godsend to the
settlers, the sugar-maple; the coffee tree with its
drooping buds; the mulberry, the cherry, and the plum; the
sassafras and the pawpaw; the poplar and the sycamore,
slender maidens of the forest, garbed in daintier colors,--
ay, and that resplendent brunette with the white flowers,
the magnolia; and all underneath, in the green shade,
enamelled banks which the birds themselves sought to
rival.

At length, one afternoon, we came to the grove of wild
apple trees so lovingly spoken of by emigrants as the
Crab Orchard, and where formerly they had delighted
to linger. The plain near by was flecked with the brown
backs of feeding buffalo, but we dared not stop, and
pressed on to find a camp in the forest. As we walked
in the filtered sunlight we had a great fright, Polly
Ann and I. Shrill, discordant cries suddenly burst from
the branches above us, and a flock of strange, green birds
flecked with red flew over our heads. Even Tom, intent
upon the trail, turned and laughed at Polly Ann as she
stood clutching me.

``Shucks,'' said he, ``they're only paroquets.''

We made our camp in a little dell where there was short
green grass by the brookside and steep banks overgrown
with brambles on either hand. Tom knew the place, and
declared that we were within thirty miles of the station.
A giant oak had blown down across the water, and, cutting
out a few branches of this, we spread our blankets
under it on the turf. Tethering our faithful beasts, and
cutting a quantity of pea-vine for their night's food, we
lay down to sleep, Tom taking the first watch.

I had the second, for Tom trusted me now, and glorying
in that trust I was alert and vigilant. A shy moon peeped
at me between the trees, and was fantastically reflected in
the water. The creek rippled over the limestone, and an
elk screamed in the forest far beyond. When at length
I had called Weldon to take the third watch, I lay down
with a sense of peace, soothed by the sweet odors of the
night.

I awoke suddenly. I had been dreaming of Nick Temple
and Temple Bow, and my father coming back to me
there with a great gash in his shoulder like Weldon's. I
lay for a moment dazed by the transition, staring through
the gray light. Then I sat up, the soft stamping and
snorting of the horses in my ears. The sorrel mare had
her nose high, her tail twitching, but there was no other
sound in the leafy wilderness. With a bound of returning
sense I looked for Weldon. He had fallen asleep on the
bank above, his body dropped across the trunk of the oak.
I leaped on the trunk and made my way along it, stepping
over him, until I reached and hid myself in the great roots
of the tree on the bank above. The cold shiver of the
dawn was in my body as I waited and listened. Should
I wake Tom? The vast forest was silent, and yet in its
shadowy depths my imagination drew moving forms. I
hesitated.

The light grew: the boles of the trees came out, one by
one, through the purple. The tangled mass down the
creek took on a shade of green, and a faint breath came
from the southward. The sorrel mare sniffed it, and
stamped. Then silence again,--a long silence. Could it
be that the cane moved in the thicket? Or had my eyes
deceived me? I stared so hard that it seemed to rustle
all over. Perhaps some deer were feeding there, for it was
no unusual thing, when we rose in the morning, to hear
the whistle of a startled doe near our camping ground.
I was thoroughly frightened now,--and yet I had the
speculative Scotch mind. The thicket was some one hundred
and fifty yards above, and on the flooded lands at a
bend. If there were Indians in it, they could not see the
sleeping forms of our party under me because of a bend in
the stream. They might have seen me, though I had kept
very still in the twisted roots of the oak, and now I was
cramped. If Indians were there, they could determine
our position well enough by the occasional stamping and
snorting of the horses. And this made my fear more
probable, for I had heard that horses and cattle often
warned pioneers of the presence of redskins.

Another thing: if they were a small party, they would
probably seek to surprise us by coming out of the cane
into the creek bed above the bend, and stalk down the
creek. If a large band, they would surround and
overpower us. I drew the conclusion that it must be a small
party--if a party at all. And I would have given a shot
in the arm to be able to see over the banks of the creek.
Finally I decided to awake Tom.

It was no easy matter to get down to where he was
without being seen by eyes in the cane. I clung to the
under branches of the oak, finally reached the shelving
bank, and slid down slowly. I touched him on the
shoulder. He awoke with a start, and by instinct seized
the rifle lying beside him.

``What is it, Davy?'' he whispered.

I told what had happened and my surmise. He glanced
then at the restless horses and nodded, pointing up at the
sleeping figure of Weldon, in full sight on the log. The
Indians must have seen him.

Tom picked up the spare rifle.

``Davy,'' said he, ``you stay here beside Polly Ann,
behind the oak. You kin shoot with a rest; but don't
shoot,'' said he, earnestly, ``for God's sake don't shoot
unless you're sure to kill.''

I nodded. For a moment he looked at the face of Polly
Ann, sleeping peacefully, and the fierce light faded from
his eyes. He brushed her on the cheek and she awoke
and smiled at him, trustfully, lovingly. He put his finger
to his lips.

``Stay with Davy,'' he said. Turning to me, he added:
``When you wake Weldon, wake him easy. So.''  He
put his hand in mine, and gradually tightened it. ``Wake
him that way, and he won't jump.''

Polly Ann asked no questions. She looked at Tom,
and her soul was in her face. She seized the pistol from
the blanket. Then we watched him creeping down the
creek on his belly, close to the bank. Next we moved
behind the fallen tree, and I put my hand in Weldon's.
He woke with a sigh, started, but we drew him down behind
the log. Presently he climbed cautiously up the bank
and took station in the muddy roots of the tree. Then
we waited, watching Tom with a prayer in our hearts.
Those who have not felt it know not the fearfulness of
waiting for an Indian attack.

At last Tom reached the bend in the bank, beside some
red-bud bushes, and there he stayed. A level shaft of
light shot through the forest. The birds, twittering,
awoke. A great hawk soared high in the blue over our
heads. An hour passed. I had sighted the rifle among
the yellow leaves of the fallen oak an hundred times.
But Polly Ann looked not once to the right or left. Her
eyes and her prayers followed the form of her husband.

Then, like the cracking of a great drover's whip, a
shot rang out in the stillness, and my hands tightened
over the rifle-stock. A piece of bark struck me in the
face, and a dead leaf fluttered to the ground. Almost
instantly there was another shot, and a blue wisp of smoke
rose from the red-bud bushes, where Tom was. The horses
whinnied, there was a rustle in the cane, and silence.
Weldon bent over.

``My God!'' he whispered hoarsely, ``he hit one. Tom
hit one.''

I felt Polly Ann's hand on my face.

``Davy dear,'' she said, ``are ye hurt?''

``No,'' said I, dazed, and wondering why Weldon had
not been shot long ago as he slumbered. I was burning
to climb the bank and ask him whether he had seen the
Indian fall.

Again there was silence,--a silence even more awful
than before. The sun crept higher, the magic of his rays
turning the creek from black to crystal, and the birds
began to sing again. And still there was no sign of the
treacherous enemy that lurked about us. Could Tom get
back? I glanced at Polly Ann. The same question was
written in her yearning eyes, staring at the spot where the
gray of his hunting shirt showed through the bushes at
the bend. Suddenly her hand tightened on mine. The
hunting shirt was gone!

After that, in the intervals when my terror left me, I tried
to speculate upon the plan of the savages. Their own
numbers could not be great, and yet they must have
known from our trace how few we were. Scanning the
ground, I noted that the forest was fairly clean of
undergrowth on both sides of us. Below, the stream ran
straight, but there were growths of cane and briers.
Looking up, I saw Weldon faced about. It was the obvious
move.

But where had Tom gone?

Next my eye was caught by a little run fringed with
bushes that curved around the cane near the bend. I
traced its course, unconsciously, bit by bit, until it reached
the edge of a bank not fifty feet away.

All at once my breath left me. Through the tangle of
bramble stems at the mouth of the run, above naked brown
shoulders there glared at me, hideously streaked with red,
a face. Had my fancy lied? I stared again until my eyes
were blurred, now tortured by doubt, now so completely
convinced that my fingers almost released the trigger,--
for I had thrown the sights into line over the tree. I
know not to this day whether I shot from determination
or nervousness. My shoulder bruised by the kick, the
smoke like a veil before my face, it was some moments
ere I knew that the air was full of whistling bullets; and
then the gun was torn from my hands, and I saw Polly Ann
ramming in a new charge.

``The pistol, Davy,'' she cried.

One torture was over, another on. Crack after crack
sounded from the forest--from here and there and everywhere,
it seemed--and with a song that like a hurtling
insect ran the scale of notes, the bullets buried themselves
in the trunk of our oak with a chug. Once in a while I
heard Weldon's answering shot, but I remembered my
promise to Tom not to waste powder unless I were sure.
The agony was the breathing space we had while they
crept nearer. Then we thought of Tom, and I dared not
glance at Polly Ann for fear that the sight of her face
would unnerve me.

Then a longing to kill seized me, a longing so strange
and fierce that I could scarce be still. I know now that
it comes in battle to all men, and with intensity to the
hunted, and it explained to me more clearly what followed.
I fairly prayed for the sight of a painted form,
and time after time my fancy tricked me into the notion
that I had one. And even as I searched the brambles at
the top of the run a puff of smoke rose out of them, a
bullet burying itself in the roots near Weldon, who fired in
return. I say that I have some notion of what possessed
the man, for he was crazed with passion at fighting the
race which had so cruelly wronged him. Horror-struck, I
saw him swing down from the bank, splash through the
water with raised tomahawk, and gain the top of the run.
In less time than it takes me to write these words he had
dragged a hideous, naked warrior out of the brambles, and
with an avalanche of crumbling earth they slid into the
waters of the creek. Polly Ann and I stared transfixed
at the fearful fight that followed, nor can I give any
adequate description of it. Weldon had struck through the
brambles, but the savage had taken the blow on his gun-
barrel and broken the handle of the tomahawk, and it was
man to man as they rolled in the shallow water, locked in
a death embrace. Neither might reach for his knife,
neither was able to hold the other down, Weldon's curses
surcharged with hatred. the Indian straining silently save
for a gasp or a guttural note, the white a bearded madman,
the savage a devil with a glistening, paint-streaked
body, his features now agonized as his muscles strained
and cracked, now lighted with a diabolical joy. But the
pent-up rage of months gave the white man strength.

Polly Ann and I were powerless for fear of shooting
Weldon, and gazed absorbed at the fiendish scene with
eyes not to be withdrawn. The tree-trunk shook. A
long, bronze arm reached out from above, and a painted
face glowered at us from the very roots where Weldon
had lain. That moment I took to be my last, and in it I
seemed to taste all eternity, I heard but faintly a noise
beyond. It was the shock of the heavy Indian falling on
Polly Ann and me as we cowered under the trunk, and
even then there was an instant that we stood gazing at
him as at a worm writhing in the clay. It was she who
fired the pistol and made the great hole in his head, and so
he twitched and died. After that a confusion of shots,
war-whoops, a vision of two naked forms flying from tree to
tree towards the cane, and then--God be praised--Tom's
voice shouting:--

``Polly Ann! Polly Ann!''

Before she had reached the top of the bank Tom had her
in his arms, and a dozen tall gray figures leaped the six
feet into the stream and stopped. My own eyes turned
with theirs to see the body of poor Weldon lying face
downward in the water. But beyond it a tragedy awaited
me. Defiant, immovable, save for the heaving of his naked
chest, the savage who had killed him stood erect with folded
arms facing us. The smoke cleared away from a gleaming
rifle-barrel, and the brave staggered and fell and died as
silent as he stood, his feathers making ripples in the
stream. It was cold-blooded, if you like, but war in those
days was to the death, and knew no mercy. The tall
backwoodsman who had shot him waded across the stream,
and in the twinkling of an eye seized the scalp-lock and
ran it round with his knife, holding up the bleeding trophy
with a shout. Staggering to my feet, I stretched myself,
but I had been cramped so long that I tottered and would
have fallen had not Tom's hand steadied me.

``Davy!'' he cried. ``Thank God, little Davy! the
varmints didn't get ye.''

``And you, Tom?'' I answered, looking up at him,
bewildered with happiness.

``They was nearer than I suspicioned when I went off,''
he said, and looked at me curiously. ``Drat the little
deevil,'' he said affectionately, and his voice trembled,
``he took care of Polly Ann, I'll warrant.''

He carried me to the top of the bank, where we were
surrounded by the whole band of backwoodsmen.

``That he did!'' cried Polly Ann, ``and fetched a
redskin yonder as clean as you could have done it, Tom.''

``The little deevil!'' exclaimed Tom again.

I looked up, burning with this praise from Tom (for I
had never thought of praise nor of anything save his
happiness and Polly Ann's). I looked up, and my eyes were
caught and held with a strange fascination by fearless
blue ones that gazed down into them. I give you but a
poor description of the owner of these blue eyes, for
personal magnetism springs not from one feature or another.
He was a young man,--perhaps five and twenty as I now
know age,--woodsman-clad, square-built, sun-reddened.
His hair might have been orange in one light and sand-
colored in another. With a boy's sense of such things
I knew that the other woodsmen were waiting for him to
speak, for they glanced at him expectantly.

``You had a near call, McChesney,'' said he, at length;
``fortunate for you we were after this band,--shot some
of it to pieces yesterday morning.''  He paused, looking
at Tom with that quality of tribute which comes naturally
to a leader of men. ``By God,'' he said, ``I didn't
think you'd try it.''

``My word is good, Colonel Clark,'' answered Tom,
simply.

Young Colonel Clark glanced at the lithe figure of
Polly Ann. He seemed a man of few words, for he did
not add to his praise of Tom's achievement by complimenting
her as Captain Sevier had done. In fact, he said nothing
more, but leaped down the bank and strode into the
water where the body of Weldon lay, and dragged it out
himself. We gathered around it silently, and two great
tears rolled down Polly Ann's cheeks as she parted the
hair with tenderness and loosened the clenched hands.
Nor did any of the tall woodsmen speak. Poor Weldon!
The tragedy of his life and death was the tragedy of
Kentucky herself. They buried him by the waterside, where
he had fallen.

But there was little time for mourning on the border.
The burial finished, the Kentuckians splashed across the
creek, and one of them, stooping with a shout at the mouth
of the run, lifted out of the brambles a painted body with
drooping head and feathers trailing.

``Ay, Mac,'' he cried, ``here's a sculp for ye.''

``It's Davy's,'' exclaimed Polly Ann from the top of
the bank; ``Davy shot that one.''

``Hooray for Davy,'' cried a huge, strapping backwoodsman
who stood beside her, and the others laughingly took
up the shout. ``Hooray for Davy. Bring him over,
Cowan.''  The giant threw me on his shoulder as though
I had been a fox, leaped down, and took the stream in
two strides. I little thought how often he was to carry
me in days to come, but I felt a great awe at the strength
of him, as I stared into his rough features and his veined
and weathered skin. He stood me down beside the Indian's
body, smiled as he whipped my hunting knife from
my belt, and said, ``Now, Davy, take the sculp.''

Nothing loath, I seized the Indian by the long scalp-
lock, while my big friend guided my hand, and amid
laughter and cheers I cut off my first trophy of war.
Nor did I have any other feeling than fierce hatred of the
race which had killed my father.

Those who have known armies in their discipline will
find it difficult to understand the leadership of the border.
Such leadership was granted only to those whose force and
individuality compelled men to obey them. I had my
first glimpse of it that day. This Colonel Clark to whom
Tom delivered Mr. Robertson's letter was perchance the
youngest man in the company that had rescued us, saving
only a slim lad of seventeen whom I noticed and envied,
and whose name was James Ray. Colonel Clark, so I
was told by my friend Cowan, held that title in Kentucky
by reason of his prowess.

Clark had been standing quietly on the bank while I
had scalped my first redskin. Then he called Tom
McChesney to him and questioned him closely about our
journey, the signs we had seen, and, finally, the news
in the Watauga settlements. While this was going on
the others gathered round them.

``What now?'' asked Cowan, when he had finished.

``Back to Harrodstown,'' answered the Colonel, shortly.

There was a brief silence, followed by a hoarse murmur
from a thick-set man at the edge of the crowd, who shouldered
his way to the centre of it.

``We set out to hunt a fight, and my pluck is to clean
up. We ain't finished 'em yet.''

The man had a deep, coarse voice that was a piece with
his roughness.

``I reckon this band ain't a-goin' to harry the station
any more, McGary,'' cried Cowan.

``By Job, what did we come out for? Who'll take the
trail with me?''

There were some who answered him, and straightway
they began to quarrel among themselves, filling the
woods with a babel of voices. While I stood listening to
these disputes with a boy's awe of a man's quarrel, what
was my astonishment to feel a hand on my shoulder. It
was Colonel Clark's, and he was not paying the least
attention to the dispute.

``Davy,'' said he, ``you look as if you could make a fire.''

``Yes, sir,'' I answered, gasping.

``Well,'' said he, ``make one.''

I lighted a piece of punk with the flint, and, wrapping
it up in some dry brush, soon had a blaze started. Looking
up, I caught his eye on me again.

``Mrs. McChesney,'' said Colonel Clark to Polly Ann,
``you look as if you could make johnny-cake. Have you
any meal?''

``That I have,'' cried Polly Ann, ``though it's fair
mouldy. Davy, run and fetch it.''

I ran to the pack on the sorrel mare. When I returned
Mr. Clark said:--

``That seems a handy boy, Mrs. McChesney.''

``Handy!'' cried Polly Ann, ``I reckon he's more than
handy. Didn't he save my life twice on our way out
here?''

``And how was that?'' said the Colonel.

``Run and fetch some water, Davy,'' said Polly Ann,
and straightway launched forth into a vivid description
of my exploits, as she mixed the meal. Nay, she went so
far as to tell how she came by me. The young Colonel
listened gravely, though with a gleam now and then in
his blue eyes. Leaning on his long rifle, he paid no
manner of attention to the angry voices near by,--which
conduct to me was little short of the marvellous.

``Now, Davy,'' said he, at length, ``the rest of your
history.''

``There is little of it, sir,'' I answered. ``I was born
in the Yadkin country, lived alone with my father, who
was a Scotchman. He hated a man named Cameron,
took me to Charlestown, and left me with some kin of his
who had a place called Temple Bow, and went off to
fight Cameron and the Cherokees.''  There I gulped.
``He was killed at Cherokee Ford, and--and I ran
away from Temple Bow, and found Polly Ann.''

This time I caught something of surprise on the
Colonel's face.

``By thunder, Davy,'' said he, ``but you have a clean
gift for brief narrative. Where did you learn it?''

``My father was a gentleman once, and taught me to
speak and read,'' I answered, as I brought a flat piece of
limestone for Polly Ann's baking.

``And what would you like best to be when you grow
up, Davy?'' he asked.

``Six feet,'' said I, so promptly that he laughed.

``Faith,'' said Polly Ann, looking at me comically, ``he
may be many things, but I'll warrant he'll never be that.''

I have often thought since that young Mr. Clark
showed much of the wisdom of the famous king of Israel
on that day. Polly Ann cooked a piece of a deer which
one of the woodsmen had with him, and the quarrel died
of itself when we sat down to this and the johnny-cake.
By noon we had taken up the trace for Harrodstown,
marching with scouts ahead and behind. Mr. Clark
walked mostly alone, seemingly wrapped in thought. At
times he had short talks with different men, oftenest
--I noted with pride--with Tom McChesney. And
more than once when he halted he called me to him, my
answers to his questions seeming to amuse him. Indeed,
I became a kind of pet with the backwoodsmen, Cowan
often flinging me to his shoulder as he swung along. The
pack was taken from the sorrel mare and divided among
the party, and Polly Ann made to ride that we might move
the faster.

It must have been the next afternoon, about four, that
the rough stockade of Harrodstown greeted our eyes as
we stole cautiously to the edge of the forest. And the
sight of no roofs and spires could have been more welcome
than that of these logs and cabins, broiling in the
midsummer sun. At a little distance from the fort, a
silent testimony of siege, the stumpy, cleared fields were
overgrown with weeds, tall and rank, the corn choked.
Nearer the stockade, where the keepers of the fort might
venture out at times, a more orderly growth met the eye.
It was young James Ray whom Colonel Clark singled
to creep with our message to the gates. At six,
when the smoke was rising from the stone chimneys
behind the palisades, Ray came back to say that all was
well. Then we went forward quickly, hands waved a
welcome above the logs, the great wooden gates swung
open, and at last we had reached the haven for which we
had suffered so much. Mangy dogs barked at our feet, men
and women ran forward joyfully to seize our hands and
greet us.

And so we came to Kaintuckee.

CHAPTER X

HARRODSTOWN

The old forts like Harrodstown and Boonesboro and
Logan's at St. Asaph's have long since passed away.
It is many, many years since I lived through that summer
of siege in Harrodstown, the horrors of it are faded and
dim, the discomforts lost to a boy thrilled with a new
experience. I have read in my old age the books of
travellers in Kentucky, English and French, who wrote much
of squalor and strife and sin and little of those
qualities that go to the conquest of an empire and the
making of a people. Perchance my own pages may be
colored by gratitude and love for the pioneers amongst
whom I found myself, and thankfulness to God that we
had reached them alive.

I know not how many had been cooped up in the little
fort since the early spring, awaiting the chance to go
back to their weed-choked clearings. The fort at Harrodstown
was like an hundred others I have since seen, but
sufficiently surprising to me then. Imagine a great
parallelogram made of log cabins set end to end, their common
outside wall being the wall of the fort, and loopholed. At
the four corners of the parallelogram the cabins jutted
out, with ports in the angle in order to give a flanking
fire in case the savages reached the palisade. And then
there were huge log gates with watch-towers on either sides
where sentries sat day and night scanning the forest line.
Within the fort was a big common dotted with forest
trees, where such cattle as had been saved browsed on
the scanty grass. There had been but the one scrawny
horse before our arrival.

And the settlers! How shall I describe them as they
crowded around us inside the gate? Some stared at us
with sallow faces and eyes brightened by the fever, yet
others had the red glow of health. Many of the men wore
rough beards, unkempt, and yellow, weather-worn hunting
shirts, often stained with blood. The barefooted women
wore sunbonnets and loose homespun gowns, some of linen
made from nettles, while the children swarmed here and
there and everywhere in any costume that chance had
given them. All seemingly talking at once, they plied us
with question after question of the trace, the Watauga
settlements, the news in the Carolinys, and how the war
went.

``A lad is it, this one,'' said an Irish voice near me,
``and a woman! The dear help us, and who'd 'ave thought
to see a woman come over the mountain this year! Where
did ye find them, Bill Cowan?''

``Near the Crab Orchard, and the lad killed and sculped
a six-foot brave.''

``The Saints save us! And what'll be his name?''

``Davy,'' said my friend.

``Is it Davy? Sure his namesake killed a giant, too.''

``And is he come along, also?'' said another. His shy
blue eyes and stiff blond hair gave him a strange appearance
in a hunting shirt.

``Hist to him! Who will ye be talkin' about, Poulsson?
Is it King David ye mane?''

There was a roar of laughter, and this was my
introduction to Terence McCann and Swein Poulsson. The fort
being crowded, we were put into a cabin with Terence and
Cowan and Cowan's wife--a tall, gaunt woman with a
sharp tongue and a kind heart--and her four brats, ``All
hugemsmug together,'' as Cowan said. And that night
we supped upon dried buffalo meat and boiled nettle-tops,
for of such was the fare in Harrodstown that summer.

``Tom McChesney kept his faith.''  One other man
was to keep his faith with the little community--George
Rogers Clark. And I soon learned that trustworthiness
is held in greater esteem in a border community than anywhere
else. Of course, the love of the frontier was in
the grain of these men. But what did they come back to?
Day after day would the sun rise over the forest and beat
down upon the little enclosure in which we were penned.
The row of cabins leaning against the stockade marked the
boundaries of our diminutive world. Beyond them,
invisible, lurked a relentless foe. Within, the greater souls
alone were calm, and a man's worth was set down to a
hair's breadth. Some were always to be found squatting
on their door-steps cursing the hour which had seen them
depart for this land; some wrestled and fought on the
common, for a fist fight with a fair field and no favor was
a favorite amusement of the backwoodsmen. My big
friend, Cowan, was the champion of these, and often of an
evening the whole of the inhabitants would gather near
the spring to see him fight those who had the courage to
stand up to him. His muscles were like hickory wood, and
I have known a man insensible for a quarter of an hour
after one of his blows. Strangely enough, he never fought
in anger, and was the first to the spring for a gourd of
water after the fight was over. But Tom McChesney was
the best wrestler of the lot, and could make a wider leap
than any other man in Harrodstown.

Tom's reputation did not end there, for he became one
of the two breadwinners of the station. I would better
have said meatwinners. Woe be to the incautious who,
lulled by a week of fancied security, ventured out into the
dishevelled field for a little food! In the early days of
the siege man after man had gone forth for game, never
to return. Until Tom came, one only had been successful,--
that lad of seventeen, whose achievements were the
envy of my boyish soul, James Ray. He slept in the cabin
next to Cowan's, and long before the dawn had revealed
the forest line had been wont to steal out of the gates
on the one scrawny horse the Indians had left them, gain
the Salt River, and make his way thence through the water
to some distant place where the listening savages could
not hear his shot. And now Tom took his turn. Often
did I sit with Polly Ann till midnight in the sentry's
tower, straining my ears for the owl's hoot that warned us
of his coming. Sometimes he was empty-handed, but
sometimes a deer hung limp and black across his saddle, or
a pair of turkeys swung from his shoulder.

``Arrah, darlin','' said Terence to Polly Ann, `` 'tis yer
husband and James is the jools av the fort. Sure I niver
loved me father as I do thim.''

I would have given kingdoms in those days to have
been seventeen and James Ray. When he was in the fort
I dogged his footsteps, and listened with a painful yearning
to the stories of his escapes from the roving bands.
And as many a character is watered in its growth by hero-
worship, so my own grew firmer in the contemplation of
Ray's resourcefulness. My strange life had far removed
me from lads of my own age, and he took a fancy to me,
perhaps because of the very persistence of my devotion
to him. I cleaned his gun, filled his powder flask, and
ran to do his every bidding.

I used in the hot summer days to lie under the elm tree
and listen to the settlers' talk about a man named Henderson,
who had bought a great part of Kentucky from the
Indians, and had gone out with Boone to found Boonesboro
some two years before. They spoke of much that I
did not understand concerning the discountenance by Virginia
of these claims, speculating as to whether Henderson's
grants were good. For some of them held these
grants, and others Virginia grants--a fruitful source of
quarrel between them. Some spoke, too, of Washington
and his ragged soldiers going up and down the old colonies
and fighting for a freedom which there seemed little
chance of getting. But their anger seemed to blaze most
fiercely when they spoke of a mysterious British general
named Hamilton, whom they called ``the ha'r buyer,'' and
who from his stronghold in the north country across the
great Ohio sent down these hordes of savages to harry us.
I learned to hate Hamilton with the rest, and pictured
him with the visage of a fiend. We laid at his door every
outrage that had happened at the three stations, and put
upon him the blood of those who had been carried off to
torture in the Indian villages of the northern forests.
And when--amidst great excitement--a spent runner
would arrive from Boonesboro or St. Asaph's and beg Mr.
Clark for a squad, it was commonly with the first breath
that came into his body that he cursed Hamilton.

So the summer wore away, while we lived from hand
to mouth on such scanty fare as the two of them shot and
what we could venture to gather in the unkempt fields
near the gates. A winter of famine lurked ahead, and
men were goaded near to madness at the thought of clearings
made and corn planted in the spring within reach of
their hands, as it were, and they might not harvest it.
At length, when a fortnight had passed, and Tom and Ray
had gone forth day after day without sight or fresh sign
of Indians, the weight lifted from our hearts. There were
many things that might yet be planted and come to maturity
before the late Kentucky frosts.

The pressure within the fort, like a flood, opened the
gates of it, despite the sturdily disapproving figure of a
young man who stood silent under the sentry box, leaning
on his Deckard. He was Colonel George Rogers Clark,[1]
Commander-in-chief of the backwoodsmen of Kentucky,
whose power was reenforced by that strange thing called
an education. It was this, no doubt, gave him command
of words when he chose to use them.

[1] It appears that Mr. Clark had not yet received the title of
Colonel, though he held command.--EDITOR.

``Faith,'' said Terence, as we passed him, `` 'tis a foine
man he is, and a gintleman born. Wasn't it him gathered
the Convintion here in Harrodstown last year that chose
him and another to go to the Virginia legislatoor? And
him but a lad, ye might say. The divil fly away wid his
caution! Sure the redskins is as toired as us, and gone
home to the wives and childher, bad cess to thim.''

And so the first day the gates were opened we went
into the fields a little way; and the next day a little
farther. They had once seemed to me an unexplored and
forbidden country as I searched them with my eyes from the
sentry boxes. And yet I felt a shame to go with Polly
Ann and Mrs. Cowan and the women while James Ray
and Tom sat with the guard of men between us and the
forest line. Like a child on a holiday, Polly Ann ran
hither and thither among the stalks, her black hair flying
and a song on her lips.

``Soon we'll be having a little home of our own, Davy,''
she cried; ``Tom has the place chose on a knoll by the
river, and the land is rich with hickory and pawpaw. I
reckon we may be going there next week.''

Caution being born into me with all the strength of a
vice, I said nothing. Whereupon she seized me in her
strong hands and shook me.

``Ye little imp!'' said she, while the women paused in
their work to laugh at us.

``The boy is right, Polly Ann,'' said Mrs. Harrod,
``and he's got more sense than most of the men in the fort.''

``Ay, that he has,'' the gaunt Mrs. Cowan put in, eying
me fiercely, while she gave one of her own offsprings a
slap that sent him spinning.

Whatever Polly Ann might have said would have been
to the point, but it was lost, for just then the sound of a
shot came down the wind, and a half a score of women
stampeded through the stalks, carrying me down like a
reed before them. When I staggered to my feet Polly
Ann and Mrs. Cowan and Mrs. Harrod were standing
alone. For there was little of fear in those three.

``Shucks!'' said Mrs. Cowan, ``I reckon it's that Jim
Ray shooting at a mark,'' and she began to pick nettles
again.

``Vimmen is a shy critter,'' remarked Swein Poulsson,
coming up. I had a shrewd notion that he had run with
the others.

``Wimmen!'' Mrs. Cowan fairly roared. ``Wimmen!
Tell us how ye went in March with the boys to fight the
varmints at the Sugar Orchard, Swein!''

We all laughed, for we loved him none the less. His
little blue eyes were perfectly solemn as he answered:--

``Ve send you fight Injuns mit your tongue, Mrs. Cowan.
Then we haf no more troubles.''

``Land of Canaan!'' cried she, ``I reckon I could do
more harm with it than you with a gun.''

There were many such false alarms in the bright days
following, and never a bullet sped from the shadow of the
forest. Each day we went farther afield, and each night
trooped merrily in through the gates with hopes of homes
and clearings rising in our hearts--until the motionless
figure of the young Virginian met our eye. It was then
that men began to scoff at him behind his back, though
some spoke with sufficient backwoods bluntness to his
face. And yet he gave no sign of anger or impatience.
Not so the other leaders. No sooner did the danger seem
past than bitter strife sprang up within the walls. Even
the two captains were mortal enemies. One was Harrod,
a tall, spare, dark-haired man of great endurance,--a
type of the best that conquered the land for the nation;
the other, that Hugh McGary of whom I have spoken,
coarse and brutal, if you like, but fearless and a leader of
men withal.

A certain Sunday morning, I remember, broke with a
cloud-flecked sky, and as we were preparing to go afield
with such ploughs as could be got together (we were to
sow turnips) the loud sounds of a quarrel came from the
elm at the spring. With one accord men and women and
children flocked thither, and as we ran we heard McGary's
voice above the rest. Worming my way, boylike, through
the crowd, I came upon McGary and Harrod glaring at
each other in the centre of it.

``By Job! there's no devil if I'll stand back from my
clearing and waste the rest of the summer for the fears of
a pack of cowards. I'll take a posse and march to Shawanee
Springs this day, and see any man a fair fight that
tries to stop me.''

``And who's in command here?'' demanded Harrod.

``I am, for one,'' said McGary, with an oath, ``and my
corn's on the ear. I've held back long enough, I tell you,
and I'll starve this winter for you nor any one else.''

Harrod turned.

``Where's Clark?'' he said to Bowman.

``Clark!'' roared McGary, ``Clark be d--d. Ye'd think
he was a woman.''  He strode up to Harrod until their
faces almost touched, and his voice shook with the
intensity of his anger. ``By G--d, you nor Clark nor any one
else will stop me, I say!''  He swung around and faced
the people. ``Come on, boys! We'll fetch that corn, or
know the reason why.''

A responding murmur showed that the bulk of them
were with him. Weary of the pent-up life, longing for
action, and starved for a good meal, the anger of his many
followers against Clark and Harrod was nigh as great as
his. He started roughly to shoulder his way out, and
whether from accident or design Captain Harrod slipped
in front of him, I never knew. The thing that followed
happened quickly as the catching of my breath. I saw
McGary powdering his pan, and Harrod his, and felt the
crowd giving back like buffalo. All at once the circle
had vanished, and the two men were standing not five
paces apart with their rifles clutched across their bodies,
each watching, catlike, for the other to level. It was a
cry that startled us--and them. There was a vision of a
woman flying across the common, and we saw the dauntless
Mrs. Harrod snatching her husband's gun from his
resisting hands. So she saved his life and McGary's.

At this point Colonel Clark was seen coming from the
gate. When he got to Harrod and McGary the quarrel
blazed up again, but now it was between the three of
them, and Clark took Harrod's rifle from Mrs. Harrod
and held it. However, it was presently decided that
McGary should wait one more day before going to his
clearing, whereupon the gates were opened, the picked
men going ahead to take station as a guard, and soon we
were hard at work, ploughing here and mowing there,
and in another place putting seed in the ground: in the
cheer of the work hardships were forgotten, and we paused
now and again to laugh at some sally of Terence McCann's
or odd word of Swein Poulsson's. As the day wore on
to afternoon a blue haze--harbinger of autumn--settled
over fort and forest. Bees hummed in the air as they
searched hither and thither amongst the flowers, or shot
straight as a bullet for a distant hive. But presently a
rifle cracked, and we raised our heads.

``Hist!'' said Terence, ``the bhoys on watch is that
warlike! Whin there's no redskins to kill they must be
wastin' good powdher on a three.''

I leaped upon a stump and scanned the line of sentries
between us and the woods; only their heads and shoulders
appeared above the rank growth. I saw them looking
from one to another questioningly, some shouting
words I could not hear. Then I saw some running; and
next, as I stood there wondering, came another crack, and
then a volley like the noise of a great fire licking into
dry wood, and things that were not bees humming round
about. A distant man in a yellow hunting shirt stumbled,
and was drowned in the tangle as in water. Around me
men dropped plough-handles and women baskets, and as
we ran our legs grew numb and our bodies cold at a
sound which had haunted us in dreams by night--the war-
whoop. The deep and guttural song of it rose and fell
with a horrid fierceness. An agonized voice was in my
ears, and I halted, ashamed. It was Polly Ann's.

``Davy!'' she cried, ``Davy, have ye seen Tom?''

Two men dashed by. I seized one by the fringe of his
shirt, and he flung me from my feet. The other leaped me
as I knelt.

``Run, ye fools!'' he shouted. But we stood still, with
yearning eyes staring back through the frantic forms for
a sight of Tom's.

``I'll go back!'' I cried, ``I'll go back for him. Do you
run to the fort.''  For suddenly I seemed to forget my fear,
nor did even the hideous notes of the scalp halloo disturb
me. Before Polly Ann could catch me I had turned and
started, stumbled,--I thought on a stump,--and fallen
headlong among the nettles with a stinging pain in my leg.
Staggering to my feet, I tried to run on, fell again, and
putting down my hand found it smeared with blood. A
man came by, paused an instant while his eye caught me,
and ran on again. I shall remember his face and name
to my dying day; but there is no reason to put it down
here. In a few seconds' space as I lay I suffered all the
pains of captivity and of death by torture, that cry of
savage man an hundred times more frightful than savage
beast sounding in my ears, and plainly nearer now by
half the first distance. Nearer, and nearer yet--and then
I heard my name called. I was lifted from the ground,
and found myself in the lithe arms of Polly Ann.

``Set me down!'' I screamed, ``set me down!'' and
must have added some of the curses I had heard in the
fort. But she clutched me tightly (God bless the memory
of those frontier women!), and flew like a deer toward
the gates. Over her shoulder I glanced back. A spare
three hundred yards away in a ragged line a hundred
red devils were bounding after us with feathers flying
and mouths open as they yelled. Again I cried to her to
set me down; but though her heart beat faster and her
breath came shorter, she held me the tighter. Second by
second they gained on us, relentlessly. Were we near the
fort? Hoarse shouts answered the question, but they
seemed distant--too distant. The savages were gaining,
and Polly Ann's breath quicker still. She staggered, but
the brave soul had no thought of faltering. I had a sight
of a man on a plough horse with dangling harness coming
up from somewhere, of the man leaping off, of ourselves
being pitched on the animal's bony back and clinging
there at the gallop, the man running at the side. Shots
whistled over our heads, and here was the brown fort.
Its big gates swung together as we dashed through the
narrowed opening. Then, as he lifted us off, I knew that
the man who had saved us was Tom himself. The gates
closed with a bang, and a patter of bullets beat against
them like rain.

Through the shouting and confusion came a cry in a
voice I knew, now pleading, now commanding.

``Open, open! For God's sake open!''

``It's Ray! Open for Ray! Ray's out!''

Some were seizing the bar to thrust it back when the
heavy figure of McGary crushed into the crowd beside it.

``By Job, I'll shoot the man that touches it!'' he
shouted, as he tore them away. But the sturdiest of them
went again to it, and cursed him. And while they fought
backward and forward, the lad's mother, Mrs. Ray, cried
out to them to open in tones to rend their hearts. But
McGary had gained the bar and swore (perhaps wisely)
that he would not sacrifice the station for one man.
Where was Ray?

Where was Ray, indeed? It seemed as if no man might
live in the hellish storm that raged without the walls: as
if the very impetus of hate and fury would carry the ravages
over the stockade to murder us. Into the turmoil at
the gate came Colonel Clark, sending the disputants this
way and that to defend the fort, McGary to command one
quarter, Harrod and Bowman another, and every man that
could be found to a loophole, while Mrs. Ray continued
to run up and down, wringing her hands, now facing one
man, now another. Some of her words came to me,
shrilly, above the noise.

``He fed you--he fed you. Oh, my God, and you are
grateful--grateful! When you were starving he risked
his life--''

Torn by anxiety for my friend, I dragged myself into
the nearest cabin, and a man was fighting there in the half-
light at the port. The huge figure I knew to be my friend
Cowan's, and when he drew back to load I seized his arm,
shouting Ray's name. Although the lead was pattering
on the other side of the logs, Cowan lifted me to the port.
And there, stretched on the ground behind a stump, within
twenty feet of the walls, was James. Even as I looked
the puffs of dust at his side showed that the savages knew
his refuge. I saw him level and fire, and then Bill Cowan
set me down and began to ram in a charge with tremendous
energy.

Was there no way to save Ray? I stood turning this
problem in my mind, subconsciously aware of Cowan's
movements: of his yells when he thought he had made a
shot, when Polly Ann appeared at the doorway. Darting
in, she fairly hauled me to the shake-down in the far corner.

``Will ye bleed to death, Davy?'' she cried, as she
slipped off my legging and bent over the wound. Her
eye lighting on a gourdful of water on the puncheon
table, she tore a strip from her dress and washed and
bound me deftly. The bullet was in the flesh, and gave
me no great pain.

``Lie there, ye imp!'' she commanded, when she had
finished.

``Some one's under the bed,'' said I, for I had heard a
movement.

In an instant we were down on our knees on the hard
dirt floor, and there was a man's foot in a moccasin! We
both grabbed it and pulled, bringing to life a person with
little blue eyes and stiff blond hair.

``Swein Poulsson!'' exclaimed Polly Ann, giving him
an involuntary kick, ``may the devil give ye shame!''

Swein Poulsson rose to a sitting position and clasped
his knees in his hands.

``I haf one great fright,'' said he.

``Send him into the common with the women in yere
place, Mis' McChesney,'' growled Cowan, who was loading.

``By tam!'' said Swein Poulsson, leaping to his feet,
``I vill stay here und fight. I am prave once again.''
Stooping down, he searched under the bed, pulled out his
rifle, powdered the pan, and flying to the other port, fired.
At that Cowan left his post and snatched the rifle from
Poulsson's hands.

``Ye're but wasting powder,'' he cried angrily.

``Then, by tam, I am as vell under the bed,'' said
Poulsson. ``Vat can I do?''

I had it.

``Dig!'' I shouted; and seizing the astonished Cowan's
tomahawk from his belt I set to work furiously chopping
at the dirt beneath the log wall. ``Dig, so that James can
get under.''

Cowan gave me the one look, swore a mighty oath, and
leaping to the port shouted to Ray in a thundering voice
what we were doing.

``Dig!'' roared Cowan. ``Dig, for the love of God, for
he can't hear me.''

The three of us set to work with all our might, Poulsson
making great holes in the ground at every stroke, Polly
Ann scraping at the dirt with the gourd. Two feet below
the surface we struck the edge of the lowest log, and then
it was Poulsson who got into the hole with his hunting
knife--perspiring, muttering to himself, working as one
possessed with a fury, while we scraped out the dirt from
under him. At length, after what seemed an age of staring
at his legs, the ground caved on him, and he would
have smothered if we had not dragged him out by the
heels, sputtering and all powdered brown. But there was
the daylight under the log.

Again Cowan shouted at Ray, and again, but he did not
understand. It was then the miracle happened. I have
seen brave men and cowards since, and I am as far as ever
from distinguishing them. Before we knew it Poulsson
was in the hole once more--had wriggled out of it on the
other side, and was squirming in a hail of bullets towards
Ray. There was a full minute of suspense--perhaps two
--during which the very rifles of the fort were silent
(though the popping in the weeds was redoubled), and
then the barrel of a Deckard was poked through the hole.
After it came James Ray himself, and lastly Poulsson, and
a great shout went out from the loopholes and was taken
up by the women in the common.

   *    *   *    *     *    *    *

Swein Poulsson had become a hero, nor was he willing
to lose any of the glamour which was a hero's right. As
the Indians' fire slackened, he went from cabin to cabin,
and if its occupants failed to mention the exploit (some
did fail so to do, out of mischief), Swein would say:--

``You did not see me safe James, no? I vill tell you
Joost how.

It never leaked out that Swein was first of all under
the bed, for Polly Ann and Bill Cowan and myself swore
to keep the secret. But they told how I had thought of
digging the hole under the logs--a happy circumstance
which got me a reputation for wisdom beyond my years.
There was a certain Scotchman at Harrodstown called
McAndrew, and it was he gave me the nickname ``Canny
Davy,'' and I grew to have a sort of precocious fame
in the station. Often Captain Harrod or Bowman or
some of the others would pause in their arguments and
say gravely, ``What does Davy think of it?''  This was
not good for a boy, and the wonder of it is that it did not
make me altogether insupportable. One effect it had on
me--to make me long even more earnestly to be a man.

The impulse of my reputation led me farther. A
fortnight of more inactivity followed, and then we ventured
out into the fields once more. But I went with the guard
this time, not with the women,--thanks to a whim the
men had for humoring me.

``Arrah, and beant he a man all but two feet,'' said
Terence, ``wid more brain than me an' Bill Cowan and
Poulsson togither? 'Tis a fox's nose Davy has for the
divils, Bill. Sure he can smell thim the same as you an'
me kin see the red paint on their faces.''

``I reckon that's true,'' said Bill Cowan, with solemnity,
and so he carried me off.

At length the cattle were turned out to browse greedily
through the clearing, while we lay in the woods by the
forest and listened to the sound of their bells, but when
they strayed too far, I was often sent to drive them back.
Once when this happened I followed them to the shade
at the edge of the woods, for it was noon, and the sun
beat down fiercely. And there I sat for some time watching
them as they lashed their sides with their tails and
pawed the ground, for experience is a good master.
Whether or not the flies were all that troubled them I
could not tell, and no sound save the tinkle of their bells
broke the noonday stillness. Making a circle I drove
them back toward the fort, much troubled in mind. I
told Cowan, but he laughed and said it was the flies.
Yet I was not satisfied, and finally stole back again to the
place where I had found them. I sat a long time hidden
at the edge of the forest, listening until my imagination
tricked me into hearing those noises which I feared and
yet longed for. Trembling, I stole a little farther in the
shade of the woods, and then a little farther still. The
leaves rustled in the summer's breeze, patches of
sunlight flickered on the mould, the birds twittered, and the
squirrels scolded. A chipmunk frightened me as he flew
chattering along a log. And yet I went on. I came
to the creek as it flowed silently in the shade, stepped in,
and made my way slowly down it, I know not how far,
walking in the water, my eye alert to every movement
about me. At length I stopped and caught my breath.
Before me, in a glade opening out under great trees, what
seemed a myriad of forked sticks were piled against one
another, three by three, and it struck me all in a heap
that I had come upon a great encampment. But the
skeletons of the pyramid tents alone remained. Where
were the skins? Was the camp deserted?

For a while I stared through the brier leaves, then I
took a venture, pushed on, and found myself in the midst
of the place. It must have held near a thousand warriors.
All about me were gray heaps of ashes, and bones of deer
and elk and buffalo scattered, some picked clean, some
with the meat and hide sticking to them. Impelled by a
strong fascination, I went hither and thither until a sound
brought me to a stand--the echoing crack of a distant rifle.
On the heels of it came another, then several together, and
a faint shouting borne on the light wind. Terrorized, I
sought for shelter. A pile of brush underlain by ashes was
by, and I crept into that. The sounds continued, but
seemed to come no nearer, and my courage returning, I got
out again and ran wildly through the camp toward the
briers on the creek, expecting every moment to be tumbled
headlong by a bullet. And when I reached the briers,
what between panting and the thumping of my heart I
could for a few moments hear nothing. Then I ran on
again up the creek, heedless of cover, stumbling over logs
and trailing vines, when all at once a dozen bronze forms
glided with the speed of deer across my path ahead.
They splashed over the creek and were gone. Bewildered
with fear, I dropped under a fallen tree. Shouts were
in my ears, and the noise of men running. I stood up,
and there, not twenty paces away, was Colonel Clark himself
rushing toward me. He halted with a cry, raised his
rifle, and dropped it at the sight of my queer little figure
covered with ashes.

``My God!'' he cried, ``it's Davy.''

``They crossed the creek,'' I shouted, pointing the way,
``they crossed the creek, some twelve of them.''

``Ay,'' he said, staring at me, and by this time the rest
of the guard were come up. They too stared, with different
exclamations on their lips,--Cowan and Bowman and
Tom McChesney and Terence McCann in front.

``And there's a great camp below,'' I went on,
``deserted, where a thousand men have been.''

``A camp--deserted?'' said Clark, quickly.

``Yes,'' I said, ``yes.''  But he had already started
forward and seized me by the arm.

``Lead on,'' he cried, ``show it to us.''  He went ahead
with me, travelling so fast that I must needs run to keep
up, and fairly lifting me over the logs. But when we
came in sight of the place he darted forward alone and went
through it like a hound on the trail. The others followed
him, crying out at the size of the place and poking among
the ashes. At length they all took up the trail for a way
down the creek. Presently Clark called a halt.

``I reckon that they've made for the Ohio,'' he said.
And at this judgment from him the guard gave a cheer
that might almost have been heard in the fields around the
fort. The terror that had hovered over us all that long
summer was lifted at last.

You may be sure that Cowan carried me back to the
station. ``To think it was Davy that found it!'' he cried
again and again, ``to think it was Davy found it!''

``And wasn't it me that said he could smell the divils,''
said Terence, as he circled around us in a mimic war dance.
And when from the fort they saw us coming across the
fields they opened the gates in astonishment, and on hearing
the news gave themselves over to the wildest rejoicing.
For the backwoodsmen were children of nature. Bill
Cowan ran for the fiddle which he had carried so carefully
over the mountain, and that night we had jigs and reels
on the common while the big fellow played ``Billy of the
Wild Woods'' and ``Jump Juba,'' with all his might, and
the pine knots threw their fitful, red light on the wild
scenes of merriment. I must have cut a queer little figure
as I sat between Cowan and Tom watching the dance, for
presently Colonel Clark came up to us, laughing in his
quiet way.

``Davy,'' said he, ``there is another great man here who
would like to see you,'' and led me away wondering. I went
with him toward the gate, burning all over with pride at
this attention, and beside a torch there a broad-shouldered
figure was standing, at sight of whom I had a start of
remembrance.

``Do you know who that is, Davy?'' said Colonel Clark.

``It's Mr. Daniel Boone,'' said I.

``By thunder,'' said Clark, ``I believe the boy IS a
wizard,'' while Mr. Boone's broad mouth was creased into
a smile, and there was a trace of astonishment, too, in his
kindly eye.

``Mr. Boone came to my father's cabin on the Yadkin
once,'' I said; ``he taught me to skin a deer.''

``Ay, that I did,'' exclaimed Mr. Boone, ``and I said
ye'd make a woodsman sometime.''

Mr. Boone, it seemed, had come over from Boonesboro
to consult with Colonel Clark on certain matters, and had
but just arrived. But so modest was he that he would
not let it be known that he was in the station, for fear of
interrupting the pleasure. He was much the same as I
had known him, only grown older and his reputation now
increased to vastness. He and Clark sat on a door log
talking for a long time on Kentucky matters, the strength
of the forts, the prospect of new settlers that autumn, of
the British policy, and finally of a journey which Colonel
Clark was soon to make back to Virginia across the
mountains. They seemed not to mind my presence. At length
Colonel Clark turned to me with that quiet, jocose way he
had when relaxed.

``Davy,'' said he, ``we'll see how much of a general you
are. What would you do if a scoundrel named Hamilton
far away at Detroit was bribing all the redskins he could
find north of the Ohio to come down and scalp your men?''

``I'd go for Hamilton,'' I answered.

``By God!'' exclaimed Clark, striking Mr. Boone on
the knee, ``that's what I'd do.''

CHAPTER XI

FRAGMENTARY

Mr. Boone's visit lasted but a day. I was a great deal
with Colonel Clark in the few weeks that followed before
his departure for Virginia. He held himself a little aloof
(as a leader should) from the captains in the station,
without seeming to offend them. But he had a fancy for
James Ray and for me, and he often took me into the
woods with him by day, and talked with me of an
evening.

``I'm going away to Virginia, Davy,'' he said; ``will
you not go with me? We'll see Williamsburg, and come
back in the spring, and I'll have you a little rifle made.''

My look must have been wistful.

``I can't leave Polly Ann and Tom,'' I answered.

``Well,'' he said, ``I like that. Faith to your friends is
a big equipment for life.''

``But why are you going?'' I asked.

``Because I love Kentucky best of all things in the
world,'' he answered, smiling.

``And what are you going to do?'' I insisted.

``Ah,'' he said, ``that I can't tell even to you.''

``To catch Hamilton?'' I ventured at random.

He looked at me queerly.

``Would you go along, Davy?'' said he, laughing now.

``Would you take Tom?''

``Among the first,'' answered Colonel Clark, heartily.

We were seated under the elm near the spring, and at
that instant I saw Tom coming toward us. I jumped up,
thinking to please him by this intelligence, when Colonel
Clark pulled me down again.

``Davy,'' said he, almost roughly, I thought, ``remember
that we have been joking. Do you understand?--joking.
You have a tongue in your mouth, but sense enough in
your head, I believe, to hold it.''  He turned to Tom.
``McChesney, this is a queer lad you brought us,'' said
he.

``He's a little deevil,'' agreed Tom, for that had become
a formula with him.

It was all very mysterious to me, and I lay awake many
a night with curiosity, trying to solve a puzzle that was
none of my business. And one day, to cap the matter,
two woodsmen arrived at Harrodstown with clothes frayed
and bodies lean from a long journey. Not one of the
hundred questions with which they were beset would they
answer, nor say where they had been or why, save that
they had carried out certain orders of Clark, who was
locked up with them in a cabin for several hours.

The first of October, the day of Colonel Clark's
departure, dawned crisp and clear. He was to take with
him the disheartened and the cowed, the weaklings who
loved neither work nor exposure nor danger. And before
he set out of the gate he made a little speech to the
assembled people.

``My friends,'' he said, ``you know me. I put the
interests of Kentucky before my own. Last year when
I left to represent her at Williamsburg there were some
who said I would desert her. It was for her sake I made
that journey, suffered the tortures of hell from scalded
feet, was near to dying in the mountains. It was for her
sake that I importuned the governor and council for
powder and lead, and when they refused it I said to them,
`Gentlemen, a country that is not worth defending is not
worth claiming.' ''

At these words the settlers gave a great shout, waving
their coonskin hats in the air.

``Ay, that ye did,'' cried Bill Cowan, ``and got the
amminition.''

``I made that journey for her sake, I say,'' Colonel
Clark continued, ``and even so I am making this one.
I pray you trust me, and God bless and keep you while
I am gone.''

He did not forget to speak to me as he walked between
our lines, and told me to be a good boy and that
he would see me in the spring. Some of the women shed
tears as he passed through the gate, and many of us
climbed to sentry box and cabin roof that we might see
the last of the little company wending its way across the
fields. A motley company it was, the refuse of the station,
headed by its cherished captain. So they started back
over the weary road that led to that now far-away land of
civilization and safety.

During the balmy Indian summer, when the sharper lines
of nature are softened by the haze, some came to us from
across the mountains to make up for the deserters. From
time to time a little group would straggle to the gates of
the station, weary and footsore, but overjoyed at the sight
of white faces again: the fathers walking ahead with
watchful eyes, the women and older children driving the
horses, and the babies slung to the pack in hickory withes.
Nay, some of our best citizens came to Kentucky swinging
to the tail of a patient animal. The Indians were still
abroad, and in small war parties darted hither and thither
with incredible swiftness. And at night we would gather
at the fire around our new emigrants to listen to the
stories they had to tell,--familiar stories to all of us.
Sometimes it had been the gobble of a wild turkey that
had lured to danger, again a wood-owl had cried strangely
in the night.

Winter came, and passed--somehow. I cannot dwell
here on the tediousness of it, and the one bright spot it
has left in my memory concerns Polly Ann. Did man,
woman, or child fall sick, it was Polly Ann who nursed
them. She had by nature the God-given gift of healing,
knew by heart all the simple remedies that backwoods
lore had inherited from the north of Ireland or borrowed
from the Indians. Her sympathy and loving-kindness
did more than these, her never tiring and ever cheerful
watchfulness. She was deft, too, was Polly Ann, and
spun from nettle bark many a cut of linen that could
scarce be told from flax. Before the sap began to run
again in the maples there was not a soul in Harrodstown
who did not love her, and I truly believe that most of
them would have risked their lives to do her bidding.

Then came the sugaring, the warm days and the freezing
nights when the earth stirs in her sleep and the taps drip
from red sunrise to red sunset. Old and young went to
the camps, the women and children boiling and graining,
the squads of men posted in guards round about. And
after that the days flew so quickly that it seemed as if the
woods had burst suddenly into white flower, and it was
spring again. And then--a joy to be long remembered
--I went on a hunting trip with Tom and Cowan and
three others where the Kentucky tumbles between its
darkly wooded cliffs. And other wonders of that strange
land I saw then for the first time: great licks, trampled
down for acres by the wild herds, where the salt water
oozes out of the hoofprints. On the edge of one of these
licks we paused and stared breathless at giant bones
sticking here and there in the black mud, and great skulls of
fearful beasts half-embedded. This was called the Big
Bone Lick, and some travellers that went before us had
made their tents with the thighs of these monsters of a
past age.

A danger past is oft a danger forgotten. Men went out
to build the homes of which they had dreamed through the
long winter. Axes rang amidst the white dogwoods and
the crabs and redbuds, and there were riotous log-raisings
in the clearings. But I think the building of Tom's house
was the most joyous occasion of all, and for none in the
settlement would men work more willingly than for him
and Polly Ann. The cabin went up as if by magic. It
stood on a rise upon the bank of the river in a grove of
oaks and hickories, with a big persimmon tree in front of
the door. It was in the shade of this tree that Polly Ann
sat watching Tom and me through the mild spring days
as we barked the roof, and none ever felt greater joy and
pride in a home than she. We had our first supper on
a wide puncheon under the persimmon tree on the few
pewter plates we had fetched across the mountain, the
blue smoke from our own hearth rising in the valley until
the cold night air spread it out in a line above us, while
the horses grazed at the river's edge.

After that we went to ploughing, an occupation which
Tom fancied but little, for he loved the life of a hunter
best of all. But there was corn to be raised and fodder
for the horses, and a truck-patch to be cleared near the
house.

One day a great event happened,--and after the manner
of many great events, it began in mystery. Leaping on
the roan mare, I was riding like mad for Harrodstown to
fetch Mrs. Cowan. And she, when she heard the summons,
abandoned a turkey on the spit, pitched her brats out of
the door, seized the mare, and dashing through the gates
at a gallop left me to make my way back afoot. Scenting
a sensation, I hurried along the wooded trace at a dog
trot, and when I came in sight of the cabin there was Mrs.
Cowan sitting on the step, holding in her long but motherly
arms something bundled up in nettle linen, while Tom
stood sheepishly by, staring at it.

``Shucks,'' Mrs. Cowan was saying loudly, ``I reckon
ye're as little use to-day as Swein Poulsson,--standin'
there on one foot. Ye anger me--just grinning at it
like a fool--and yer own doin'. Have ye forgot how
to talk?''

Tom grinned the more, but was saved the effort of a
reply by a loud noise from the bundle.

``Here's another,'' cried Mrs. Cowan to me. ``Ye
needn't act as if it was an animal. Faith, yereself was like
that once, all red an' crinkled. But I warrant ye didn't
have the heft,'' and she lifted it, judicially. ``A grand
baby,'' attacking Tom again, ``and ye're no more worthy
to be his father than Davy here.''

Then I heard a voice calling me, and pushing past Mrs.
Cowan, I ran into the cabin. Polly Ann lay on the log
bedstead, and she turned to mine a face radiant with a
happiness I had not imagined.

``Oh, Davy, have ye seen him? Have ye seen little
Tom? Davy, I reckon I'll never be so happy again.
Fetch him here, Mrs. Cowan.''

Mrs. Cowan, with a glance of contempt at Tom and me,
put the bundle tenderly down on the coarse brown sheet
beside her.

Poor little Tom! Only the first fortnight of his
existence was spent in peace. I have a pathetic memory
of it all--of our little home, of our hopes for it, of our
days of labor and nights of planning to make it complete.
And then, one morning when the three of us were turning
over the black loam in the patch, while the baby slept
peacefully in the shade, a sound came to our ears that
made us pause and listen with bated breath. It was the
sound of many guns, muffled in the distant forest. With
a cry Polly Ann flew to the hickory cradle under the tree,
Tom sprang for the rifle that was never far from his side,
while with a kind of instinct I ran to catch the spancelled
horses by the river. In silence and sorrow we fled through
the tall cane, nor dared to take one last look at the
cabin, or the fields lying black in the spring sunlight. The
shots had ceased, but ere we had reached the little clearing
McCann had made they began again, though as distant as
before. Tom went ahead, while I led the mare and Polly
Ann clutched the child to her breast. But when we came
in sight of the fort across the clearings the gates were
closed. There was nothing to do but cower in the thicket,
listening while the battle went on afar, Polly Ann trying
to still the cries of the child, lest they should bring death
upon us. At length the shooting ceased; stillness reigned;
then came a faint halloo, and out of the forest beyond us a
man rode, waving his hat at the fort. After him came
others. The gates opened, and we rushed pell-mell across
the fields to safety.

The Indians had shot at a party shelling corn at
Captain Bowman's plantation, and killed two, while the others
had taken refuge in the crib. Fired at from every brake,
James Ray had ridden to Harrodstown for succor, and
the savages had been beaten off. But only the foolhardy
returned to their clearings now. We were on the edge of
another dreaded summer of siege, the prospect of banishment
from the homes we could almost see, staring us in
the face, and the labors of the spring lost again. There
was bitter talk within the gates that night, and many
declared angrily that Colonel Clark had abandoned us.
But I remembered what he had said, and had faith in him.

It was that very night, too, I sat with Cowan, who had
duty in one of the sentry boxes, and we heard a voice
calling softly under us. Fearing treachery, Cowan cried out
for a sign. Then the answer came back loudly to open to
a runner with a message from Colonel Clark to Captain
Harrod. Cowan let the man in, while I ran for the captain,
and in five minutes it seemed as if every man and
woman and child in the fort were awake and crowding
around the man by the gates, their eager faces reddened
by the smoking pine knots. Where was Clark? What
had he been doing? Had he deserted them?

``Deserted ye!'' cried the runner, and swore a great
oath. Wasn't Clark even then on the Ohio raising a
great army with authority from the Commonwealth of
Virginia to rid them of the red scourge? And would
they desert him? Or would they be men and bring from
Harrodstown the company he asked for? Then Captain
Harrod read the letter asking him to raise the company,
and before day had dawned they were ready for the word
to march--ready to leave cabin and clearing, and wife
and child, trusting in Clark's judgment for time and
place. Never were volunteers mustered more quickly
than in that cool April night by the gates of Harrodstown
Station.

``And we'll fetch Davy along, for luck,'' cried Cowan,
catching sight of me beside him.

``Sure we'll be wanting a dhrummer b'y,'' said McCann.

And so they enrolled me.

CHAPTER XII

THE CAMPAIGN BEGINS

``Davy, take care of my Tom,'' cried Polly Ann.

I can see her now, standing among the women by the
great hewn gateposts, with little Tom in her arms,
holding him out to us as we filed by. And the vision of
his little, round face haunted Tom and me for many weary
miles of our tramp through the wilderness. I have often
thought since that that march of the volunteer company
to join Clark at the Falls of the Ohio was a superb
example of confidence in one man, and scarce to be equalled
in history.

In less than a week we of Captain Harrod's little
company stood on a forest-clad bank, gazing spellbound at the
troubled waters of a mighty river. That river was the
Ohio, and it divided us from the strange north country
whence the savages came. From below, the angry voice
of the Great Falls cried out to us unceasingly. Smoke
rose through the tree-tops of the island opposite, and
through the new gaps of its forest cabins could be seen.
And presently, at a signal from us, a big flatboat left its
shore, swung out and circled on the polished current, and
grounded at length in the mud below us. A dozen tall
boatmen, buckskin-clad, dropped the big oars and leaped
out on the bank with a yell of greeting. At the head of
them was a man of huge frame, and long, light hair falling
down over the collar of his hunting shirt. He wrung
Captain Harrod's hand.

``That there's Simon Kenton, Davy,'' said Cowan, as we
stood watching them.

I ran forward for a better look at the backwoods
Hercules, the tales of whose prowess had helped to while
away many a winter's night in Harrodstown Station. Big-
featured and stern, yet he had the kindly eye of the most
indomitable of frontier fighters, and I doubted not the
truth of what was said of him--that he could kill any
redskin hand-to-hand.

``Clark's thar,'' he was saying to Captain Harrod. ``God
knows what his pluck is. He ain't said a word.''

``He doesn't say whar he's going?'' said Harrod.

``Not a notion,'' answered Kenton. ``He's the greatest
man to keep his mouth shut I ever saw. He kept at the
governor of Virginny till he gave him twelve hundred
pounds in Continentals and power to raise troops. Then
Clark fetched a circle for Fort Pitt, raised some troops
thar and in Virginny and some about Red Stone, and
come down the Ohio here with 'em in a lot of flatboats.
Now that ye've got here the Kentucky boys is all in. I
come over with Montgomery, and Dillard's here from the
Holston country with a company.''

``Well,'' said Captain Harrod, ``I reckon we'll report.''

I went among the first boat-load, and as the men strained
against the current, Kenton explained that Colonel Clark
had brought a number of emigrants down the river
with him; that he purposed to leave them on this island
with a little force, that they might raise corn and
provisions during the summer; and that he had called the
place Corn Island.

``Sure, there's the Colonel himself,'' cried Terence
McCann, who was in the bow, and indeed I could pick
out the familiar figure among the hundred frontiersmen
that gathered among the stumps at the landing-place. As
our keel scraped they gave a shout that rattled in the
forest behind them, and Clark came down to the waterside.

``I knew that Harrodstown wouldn't fail me,'' he said,
and called every man by name as we waded ashore.
When I came splashing along after Tom he pulled me
from the water with his two hands.

``Colonel,'' said Terence McCann, ``we've brought ye a
dhrummer b'y.''

``We'd have no luck at all without him,'' said Cowan,
and the men laughed.

``Can you walk an hundred miles without food, Davy?''
asked Colonel Clark, eying me gravely.

``Faith he's lean as a wolf, and no stomach to hinder
him,'' said Terence, seeing me look troubled. ``I'll not
be missing the bit of food the likes of him would eat.''

``And as for the heft of him,'' added Cowan, ``Mac and
I'll not feel it.''

Colonel Clark laughed. ``Well, boys,'' he said, ``if
you must have him, you must. His Excellency gave me
no instructions about a drummer, but we'll take you,
Davy.''

In those days he was a man that wasted no time,
was Colonel Clark, and within the hour our little
detachment had joined the others, felling trees and shaping
the log-ends for the cabins. That night, as Tom and
Cowan and McCann and James Ray lay around their fire,
taking a well-earned rest, a man broke excitedly into the
light with a kettle-shaped object balanced on his head,
which he set down in front of us. The man proved to be
Swein Poulsson, and the object a big drum, and he
straightway began to beat upon it a tattoo with improvised
drumsticks.

``A Red Stone man,'' he cried, ``a Red Stone man, he
have it in the flatboat. It is for Tavy.''

``The saints be good to us,'' said Terence, ``if it isn't
the King's own drum he has.''  And sure enough, on the
head of it gleamed the royal arms of England, and on the
other side, as we turned it over, the device of a regiment.
They flung the sling about my neck, and the next day,
when the little army drew up for parade among the stumps,
there I was at the end of the line, and prouder than any
man in the ranks. And Colonel Clark coming to my end
of the line paused and smiled and patted me kindly on
the cheek.

``Have you put this man on the roll, Harrod?'' says he.

``No, Colonel,'' answers Captain Harrod, amid the
laughter of the men at my end.

``What!'' says the Colonel, ``what an oversight! From
this day he is drummer boy and orderly to the Commander-
in-chief. Beat the retreat, my man.''

I did my best, and as the men broke ranks they crowded
around me, laughing and joking, and Cowan picked me
up, drum and all, and carried me off, I rapping furiously
the while.

And so I became a kind of handy boy for the whole
regiment from the Colonel down, for I was willing and
glad to work. I cooked the Colonel's meals, roasting the
turkey breasts and saddles of venison that the hunters
brought in from the mainland, and even made him journey-
cake, a trick which Polly Ann had taught me. And
when I went about the island, if a man were loafing, he
would seize his axe and cry, ``Here's Davy, he'll tell the
Colonel on me.''  Thanks to the jokes of Terence McCann,
I gained an owl-like reputation for wisdom amongst these
superstitious backwoodsmen, and they came verily to
believe that upon my existence depended the success of the
campaign. But day after day passed, and no sign from
Colonel Clark of his intentions.

``There's a good lad,'' said Terence. ``He'll be telling
us where we're going.''

I was asked the same question by a score or more, but
Colonel Clark kept his own counsel. He himself was
everywhere during the days that followed, superintending
the work on the blockhouse we were building, and eying
the men. Rumor had it that he was sorting out the
sheep from the goats, silently choosing those who were to
remain on the island and those who were to take part in
the campaign.

At length the blockhouse stood finished amid the yellow
stumps of the great trees, the trunks of which were in its
walls. And suddenly the order went forth for the men
to draw up in front of it by companies, with the families
of the emigrants behind them. It was a picture to fix
itself in a boy's mind, and one that I have never forgotten.
The line of backwoodsmen, as fine a lot of men as I
ever wish to see, bronzed by the June sun, strong and
tireless as the wild animals of the forest, stood expectant
with rifles grounded. And beside the tallest, at the end
of the line, was a diminutive figure with a drum hung in
front of it. The early summer wind rustled in the forest,
and the never ending song of the Great Falls sounded
from afar. Apart, square-shouldered and indomitable,
stood a young man of twenty-six.

``My friends and neighbors,'' he said in a firm voice,
``there is scarce a man standing among you to-day who
has not suffered at the hands of savages. Some of you
have seen wives and children killed before your eyes--
or dragged into captivity. None of you can to-day call
the home for which he has risked so much his own. And
who, I ask you, is to blame for this hideous war? Whose
gold is it that buys guns and powder and lead to send the
Shawnee and the Iroquois and Algonquin on the warpath?''

He paused, and a hoarse murmur of anger ran along the
ranks.

``Whose gold but George's, by the grace of God King
of Great Britain and Ireland? And what minions distribute
it? Abbott at Kaskaskia, for one, and Hamilton
at Detroit, the Hair Buyer, for another!''

When he spoke Hamilton's name his voice was nearly
drowned by imprecations.

``Silence!'' cried Clark, sternly, and they were silent.
``My friends, the best way for a man to defend himself is
to maim his enemy. One year since, when you did me the
honor to choose me Commander-in-chief of your militia
in Kentucky, I sent two scouts to Kaskaskia. A dozen
years ago the French owned that place, and St. Vincent,
and Detroit, and the people there are still French. My
men brought back word that the French feared the Long
Knives, as the Indians call us. On the first of October I
went to Virginia, and some of you thought again that I
had deserted you. I went to Williamsburg and wrestled
with Governor Patrick Henry and his council, with Mr.
Jefferson and Mr. Mason and Mr. Wythe. Virginia had no
troops to send us, and her men were fighting barefoot with
Washington against the armies of the British king. But
the governor gave me twelve hundred pounds in paper,
and with it I have raised the little force that we have
here. And with it we will carry the war into Hamilton's
country. On the swift waters of this great river
which flows past us have come tidings to-day, and God
Himself has sent them. To-morrow would have been too
late. The ships and armies of the French king are on
their way across the ocean to help us fight the tyrant,
and this is the news that we bear to the Kaskaskias.
When they hear this, the French of those towns will not
fight against us. My friends, we are going to conquer an
empire for liberty, and I can look onward,'' he cried in a
burst of inspired eloquence, sweeping his arm to the
northward toward the forests on the far side of the Ohio,
``I can look onward to the day when these lands will be
filled with the cities of a Great Republic. And who
among you will falter at such a call?''

There was a brief silence, and then a shout went up
from the ranks that drowned the noise of the Falls, and
many fell into antics, some throwing their coonskin hats
in the air, and others cursing and scalping Hamilton in
mockery, while I pounded on the drum with all my might.
But when we had broken ranks the rumor was whispered
about that the Holston company had not cheered, and
indeed the rest of the day these men went about plainly
morose and discontented,--some saying openly (and with
much justice, though we failed to see it then) that they
had their own families and settlements to defend from the
Southern Indians and Chickamauga bandits, and could
not undertake Kentucky's fight at that time. And when
the enthusiasm had burned away a little the disaffection
spread, and some even of the Kentuckians began to murmur
against Clark, for faith or genius was needful to
inspire men to his plan. One of the malcontents from
Boonesboro came to our fire to argue.

``He's mad as a medicine man, is Clark, to go into that
country with less than two hundred rifles. And he'll
force us, will he? I'd as lief have the King for a master.''

He brought every man in our circle to his feet,--Ray,
McCann, Cowan, and Tom. But Tom was nearest, and
words not coming easily to him he fell on the Boonesboro
man instead, and they fought it out for ten minutes
in the firelight with half the regiment around them. At
the end of it, when the malcontents were carrying their
champion away, they were stopped suddenly at the sight
of one bursting through the circle into the light, and a
hush fell upon the quarrel. It was Colonel Clark.

``Are you hurt, McChesney?'' he demanded.

``I reckon not much, Colonel,'' said Tom, grinning, as
he wiped his face.

``If any man deserts this camp to-night,'' cried Colonel
Clark, swinging around, ``I swear by God to have him
chased and brought back and punished as he deserves.
Captain Harrod, set a guard.''

I pass quickly over the rest of the incident. How the
Holston men and some others escaped in the night in
spite of our guard, and swam the river on logs. How at
dawn we found them gone, and Kenton and Harrod and
brave Captain Montgomery set out in pursuit, with Cowan
and Tom and Ray. All day they rode, relentless, and
the next evening returned with but eight weary and sullen
fugitives of all those who had deserted.

The next day the sun rose on a smiling world, the
polished reaches of the river golden mirrors reflecting
the forest's green. And we were astir with the light,
preparing for our journey into the unknown country.
At seven we embarked by companies in the flatboats,
waving a farewell to those who were to be left behind.
Some stayed through inclination and disaffection: others
because Colonel Clark did not deem them equal to the
task. But Swein Poulsson came. With tears in his
little blue eyes he had begged the Colonel to take him,
and I remember him well on that June morning, his
red face perspiring under the white bristles of his hair
as he strained at the big oar. For we must needs pull
a mile up the stream ere we could reach the passage in
which to shoot downward to the Falls. Suddenly Poulsson
dropped his handle, causing the boat to swing
round in the stream, while the men damned him.
Paying them no attention, he stood pointing into the
blinding disk of the sun. Across the edge of it a piece
was bitten out in blackness.

``Mein Gott!'' he cried, ``the world is being ended just
now.''

``The holy saints remember us this day!'' said McCann,
missing a stroke to cross himself. ``Will ye pull,
ye damned Dutchman? Or we'll be the first to slide into
hell. This is no kind of a place at all at all.''

By this time the men all along the line of boats had
seen it, and many faltered. Clark's voice could be heard
across the waters urging them to pull, while the bows swept
across the current. They obeyed him, but steadily the
blackness ate out the light, and a weird gloaming
overspread the scene. River and forest became stern, the
men silent. The more ignorant were in fear of a cataclysm,
the others taking it for an omen.

``Shucks!'' said Tom, when appealed to, ``I've seed it
afore, and it come all right again.''

Clark's boat rounded the shoal: next our turn came,
and then the whole line was gliding down the river, the
rising roar of the angry waters with which we were soon
to grapple coming to us with an added grimness. And
now but a faint rim of light saved us from utter darkness.
Big Bill Cowan, undaunted in war, stared at me
with fright written on his face.

``And what 'll ye think of it, Davy?'' he said.

I glanced at the figure of our commander in the boat
ahead, and took courage.

``It's Hamilton's scalp hanging by a lock,'' I answered,
pointing to what was left of the sun. ``Soon it will be
off, and then we'll have light again.''

To my surprise he snatched me from the thwart and
held me up with a shout, and I saw Colonel Clark turn
and look back.

``Davy says the Ha'r Buyer's sculp hangs by the lock,
boys, he shouted, pointing at the sun.

The word was cried from boat to boat, and we could
see the men pointing upwards and laughing. And then,
as the light began to grow, we were in the midst of the
tumbling waters, the steersmen straining now right, now
left, to keep the prows in the smooth reaches between
rock and bar. We gained the still pools below, the sun
came out once more and smiled on the landscape, and the
spirits of the men, reviving, burst all bounds.

Thus I earned my reputation as a prophet

Four days and nights we rowed down the great river, our
oars double-manned, for fear that our coming might be
heralded to the French towns. We made our first camp on a
green little island at the mouth of the Cherokee, as we
then called the Tennessee, and there I set about cooking a
turkey for Colonel Clark, which Ray had shot. Chancing
to look up, I saw the Colonel himself watching me.

``How is this, Davy?'' said he. ``I hear that you have
saved my army for me before we have met the enemy.''

``I did not know it, sir,'' I answered.

``Well,'' said he, ``if you have learned to turn an evil
omen into a good sign, you know more than some generals.
What ails you now?''

``There's a pirogue, sir,'' I cried, staring and pointing.

``Where?'' said he, alert all at once. ``Here, McChesney,
take a crew and put out after them.''

He had scarcely spoken ere Tom and his men were
rowing into the sunset, the whole of our little army watching
from the bank. Presently the other boat was seen
coming back with ours, and five strange woodsmen stepped
ashore, our men pressing around them. But Clark flew
to the spot, the men giving back.

``Who's the leader here?'' he demanded.

A tall man stepped forward.

``I am,'' said he, bewildered but defiant.

``Your name?''

``John Duff,'' he answered, as though against his will.

``Your business?''

``Hunters,'' said Duff; ``and I reckon we're in our
rights.''

``I'll judge of that,'' said our Colonel. ``Where are
you from?''

``That's no secret, neither. Kaskasky, ten days gone.''

At that there was a murmur of surprise from our
companies. Clark turned.

``Get your men back,'' he said to the captains, who
stood about them. And all of them not moving: ``Get
your men back, I say. I'll have it known who's in command
here.''

At that the men retired. ``Who commands at
Kaskaskia?'' he demanded of Duff.

``Monseer Rocheblave, a Frenchy holding a British
commission,'' said Duff. ``And the British Governor
Abbott has left Post St. Vincent and gone to Detroit
Who be you?'' he added suspiciously. ``Be you Rebels?''

``Colonel Clark is my name, and I am in the service of
the Commonwealth of Virginia.''

Duff uttered an exclamatory oath and his manner
changed. ``Be you Clark?'' he said with respect. ``And
you're going after Kaskasky? Wal, the mility is prime,
and the Injun scouts is keeping a good lookout. But,
Colonel, I'll tell ye something: the Frenchies is etarnal
afeard of the Long Knives. My God! they've got the
notion that if you ketch 'em you'll burn and scalp 'em
same as the Red Sticks.''

``Good,'' was all that Clark answered.

``I reckon I don't know much about what the Rebels is
fighting for,'' said John Duff; ``but I like your looks,
Colonel, and wharever you're going there'll be a fight.
Me and my boys would kinder like to go along.''

Clark did not answer at once, but looked John Duff
and his men over carefully.

``Will you take the oath of allegiance to Virginia and
the Continental Congress?'' he asked at length.

``I reckon it won't pizen us,'' said John Duff.

``Hold up your hands,'' said Clark, and they took the
oath. ``Now, my men,'' said he, ``you will be assigned to
companies. Does any one among you know the old French
trail from Massacre to Kaskaskia?''

``Why,'' exclaimed John Duff, ``why, Johnny Saunders
here can tread it in the dark like the road to the grogshop.''

John Saunders, loose limbed, grinning sheepishly,
shuffled forward, and Clark shot a dozen questions at him one
after another. Yes, the trail had been blazed the Lord
knew how long ago by the French, and given up when
they left Massacre.

``Look you,'' said Clark to him, ``I am not a man to
stand trifling. If there is any deception in this, you will
be shot without mercy.''

``And good riddance,'' said John Duff. ``Boys, we're
Rebels now. Steer clear of the Ha'r Buyer.''

CHAPTER XIII

KASKASKIA

For one more day we floated downward on the face of
the waters between the forest walls of the wilderness, and
at length we landed in a little gully on the north shore of
the river, and there we hid our boats.

``Davy,'' said Colonel Clark, ``let's walk about a bit.
Tell me where you learned to be so silent?''

``My father did not like to be talked to,'' I answered,
``except when he was drinking.''

He gave me a strange look. Many the stroll I took
with him afterwards, when he sought to relax himself
from the cares which the campaign had put upon him.
This night was still and clear, the west all yellow with the
departing light, and the mists coming on the river. And
presently, as we strayed down the shore we came upon a
strange sight, the same being a huge fort rising from the
waterside, all overgrown with brush and saplings and tall
weeds. The palisades that held its earthenwork were rotten
and crumbling, and the mighty bastions of its corners
sliding away. Behind the fort, at the end farthest from the
river, we came upon gravelled walks hidden by the rank
growth, where the soldiers of his most Christian Majesty
once paraded. Lost in thought, Clark stood on the parapet,
watching the water gliding by until the darkness hid it,
--nay, until the stars came and made golden dimples upon
its surface. But as we went back to the camp again he told
me how the French had tried once to conquer this vast
country and failed, leaving to the Spaniards the endless
stretch beyond the Mississippi called Louisiana, and this
part to the English. And he told me likewise that this
fort in the days of its glory had been called Massacre, from a
bloody event which had happened there more than three-
score years before.

``Threescore years!'' I exclaimed, longing to see the
men of this race which had set up these monuments only
to abandon them.

``Ay, lad,'' he answered, ``before you or I were born,
and before our fathers were born, the French missionaries
and soldiers threaded this wilderness. And they called
this river `La Belle Riviere,'--the Beautiful River.''

``And shall I see that race at Kaskaskia?'' I asked,
wondering.

``That you shall,'' he cried, with a force that left no
doubt in my mind.

In the morning we broke camp and started off for the
strange place which we hoped to capture. A hundred
miles it was across the trackless wilds, and each man was
ordered to carry on his back provisions for four days only.

``Herr Gott!'' cried Swein Poulsson, from the bottom
of a flatboat, whence he was tossing out venison flitches,
``four day, und vat is it ve eat then?''

``Frenchies, sure,'' said Terence; ``there'll be plenty av
thim for a season. Faith, I do hear they're tinder as
lambs.''

``You'll no set tooth in the Frenchies,'' the pessimistic
McAndrew put in, ``wi' five thousand redskins aboot, and
they lying in wait. The Colonel's no vera mindful of that,
I'm thinking.''

``Will ye hush, ye ill-omened hound!'' cried Cowan,
angrily. ``Pitch him in the crick, Mac!''

Tom was diverted from this duty by a loud quarrel
between Captain Harrod and five men of the company who
wanted scout duty, and on the heels of that came another
turmoil occasioned by Cowan's dropping my drum into the
water. While he and McCann and Tom were fishing it
out, Colonel Clark himself appeared, quelled the mutiny
that Harrod had on his hands, and bade the men sternly to
get into ranks.

``What foolishness is this?'' he said, eying the dripping
drum.

``Sure, Colonel,'' said McCann, swinging it on his back,
``we'd have no heart in us at Kaskasky widout the rattle
of it in our ears. Bill Cowan and me will not be feeling
the heft of it bechune us.''

``Get into ranks,'' said the Colonel, amusement
struggling with the anger in his face as he turned on his heel.
His wisdom well knew when to humor a man, and when
to chastise.

``Arrah,'' said Terence, as he took his place, ``I'd as
soon l'ave me gun behind as Davy and the dhrum.''

Methinks I can see now, as I write, the long file of
woodsmen with their swinging stride, planting one foot
before the other, even as the Indian himself threaded the
wilderness. Though my legs were short, I had both
sinew and training, and now I was at one end of the line
and now at the other. And often with a laugh some giant
would hand his gun to a neighbor, swing me to his shoulder,
and so give me a lift for a weary mile or two; and
perchance whisper to me to put down my hand into the
wallet of his shirt, where I would find a choice morsel
which he had saved for his supper. Sometimes I trotted
beside the Colonel himself, listening as he talked to this
man or that, and thus I got the gravest notion of the
daring of this undertaking, and of the dangers ahead of us.
This north country was infested with Indians, allies of the
English and friends of the French their subjects; and the
fact was never for an instant absent from our minds that
our little band might at any moment run into a thousand
warriors, be overpowered and massacred; or, worst of all,
that our coming might have been heralded to Kaskaskia.

For three days we marched in the green shade of the
primeval wood, nor saw the sky save in blue patches here
and there. Again we toiled for hours through the coffee-
colored waters of the swamps. But the third day brought
us to the first of those strange clearings which the French
call prairies, where the long grass ripples like a lake in
the summer wind. Here we first knew raging thirst, and
longed for the loam-specked water we had scorned, as our
tired feet tore through the grass. For Saunders, our
guide, took a line across the open in plain sight of any
eye that might be watching from the forest cover. But
at length our column wavered and halted by reason of
some disturbance at the head of it. Conjectures in our
company, the rear guard, became rife at once.

``Run, Davy darlin,' an' see what the throuble is,'' said
Terence.

Nothing loath, I made my way to the head of the
column, where Bowman's company had broken ranks and
stood in a ring up to their thighs in the grass. In the
centre of the ring, standing on one foot before our angry
Colonel, was Saunders.

``Now, what does this mean?'' demanded Clark; ``my
eye is on you, and you've boxed the compass in this last
hour.''

Saunders' jaw dropped.

``I'm guiding you right,'' he answered, with that
sullenness which comes to his kind from fear, ``but a man will
slip his bearings sometimes in this country.''

Clark's eyes shot fire, and he brought down the stock
of his rifle with a thud.

``By the eternal God!'' he cried, ``I believe you are a
traitor. I've been watching you every step, and you've
acted strangely this morning.''

``Ay, ay,'' came from the men round him.

``Silence!'' cried Clark, and turned again to the
cowering Saunders. ``You pretend to know the way to
Kaskaskia, you bring us to the middle of the Indian country
where we may be wiped out at any time, and now you
have the damned effrontery to tell me that you have lost
your way. I am a man of my word,'' he added with a
vibrant intensity, and pointed to the limbs of a giant tree
which stood at the edge of the distant forest. ``I will
give you half an hour, but as I live, I will leave you
hanging there.''

The man's brown hand trembled as he clutched his rifle
barrel.

`` 'Tis a hard country, sir,'' he said. ``I'm lost. I swear
it on the evangels.''

``A hard country!'' cried Clark. ``A man would have
to walk over it but once to know it. I believe you are a
damned traitor and perjurer,--in spite of your oath, a
British spy.

Saunders wiped the sweat from his brow on his buckskin sleeve.

``I reckon I could get the trace, Colonel, if you'd let me
go a little way into the prairie.''

``Half an hour,'' said Clark, ``and you'll not go alone.''
Sweeping his eye over Bowman's company, he picked out
a man here and a man there to go with Saunders. Then
his eye lighted on me. ``Where's McChesney?'' he said.
``Fetch McChesney.''

I ran to get Tom, and seven of them went away, with
Saunders in the middle, Clark watching them like a hawk,
while the men sat down in the grass to wait. Fifteen
minutes went by, and twenty, and twenty-five, and Clark
was calling for a rope, when some one caught sight of the
squad in the distance returning at a run. And when they
came within hail it was Saunders' voice we heard,
shouting brokenly:--

``I've struck it, Colonel, I've struck the trace. There's a
pecan at the edge of the bottom with my own blaze on it.''

``May you never be as near death again,'' said the
Colonel, grimly, as he gave the order to march.

The fourth day passed, and we left behind us the patches
of forest and came into the open prairie,--as far as the
eye could reach a long, level sea of waving green. The
scanty provisions ran out, hunger was added to the pangs
of thirst and weariness, and here and there in the
straggling file discontent smouldered and angry undertone was
heard. Kaskaskia was somewhere to the west and north;
but how far? Clark had misled them. And in addition
it were foolish to believe that the garrison had not been
warned. English soldiers and French militia and Indian
allies stood ready for our reception. Of such was the
talk as we lay down in the grass under the stars on the
fifth night. For in the rank and file an empty stomach is
not hopeful.

The next morning we took up our march silently with
the dawn, the prairie grouse whirring ahead of us. At
last, as afternoon drew on, a dark line of green edged the
prairie to the westward, and our spirits rose. From
mouth to mouth ran the word that these were the woods
which fringed the bluff above Kaskaskia itself. We
pressed ahead, and the destiny of the new Republic for
which we had fought made us walk unseen. Excitement
keyed us high; we reached the shade, plunged into it, and
presently came out staring at the bastioned corners of a
fort which rose from the centre of a clearing. It had
once defended the place, but now stood abandoned and
dismantled. Beyond it, at the edge of the bluff, we halted,
astonished. The sun was falling in the west, and below
us was the goal for the sight of which we had suffered so
much. At our feet, across the wooded bottom, was the
Kaskaskia River, and beyond, the peaceful little French
village with its low houses and orchards and gardens
colored by the touch of the evening light. In the centre
of it stood a stone church with its belfry; but our searching
eyes alighted on the spot to the southward of it, near
the river. There stood a rambling stone building with
the shingles of its roof weathered black, and all around it
a palisade of pointed sticks thrust in the ground, and with
a pair of gates and watch-towers. Drooping on its staff
was the standard of England. North and south of the
village the emerald common gleamed in the slanting light,
speckled red and white and black by grazing cattle. Here
and there, in untidy brown patches, were Indian settlements,
and far away to the westward the tawny Father of
Waters gleamed through the cottonwoods.

Through the waning day the men lay resting under the
trees, talking in undertones. Some cleaned their rifles,
and others lost themselves in conjectures of the attack.
But Clark himself, tireless, stood with folded arms gazing
at the scene below, and the sunlight on his face illumined
him (to the lad standing at his side) as the servant of
destiny. At length, at eventide, the sweet-toned bell of the
little cathedral rang to vespers,--a gentle message of
peace to war. Colonel Clark looked into my upturned
face.

``Davy, do you know what day this is?'' he asked.

``No, sir,'' I answered.

``Two years have gone since the bells pealed for the
birth of a new nation--your nation, Davy, and mine--
the nation that is to be the refuge of the oppressed of
this earth--the nation which is to be made of all peoples,
out of all time. And this land for which you and I shall
fight to-night will belong to it, and the lands beyond,'' he
pointed to the west, ``until the sun sets on the sea again.''
He put his hand on my head. ``You will remember this
when I am dead and gone,'' he said.

I was silent, awed by the power of his words.

Darkness fell, and still we waited, impatient for the
order. And when at last it came the men bustled hither
and thither to find their commands, and we picked our
way on the unseen road that led down the bluff, our hearts
thumping. The lights of the village twinkled at our feet,
and now and then a voice from below was caught and
borne upward to us. Once another noise startled us,
followed by an exclamation, ``Donnerblitzen'' and a volley
of low curses from the company. Poor Swein Poulsson
had loosed a stone, which had taken a reverberating flight
riverward.

We reached the bottom, and the long file turned and
hurried silently northward, searching for a crossing. I
try to recall my feelings as I trotted beside the tall forms
that loomed above me in the night. The sense of protection
they gave me stripped me of fear, and I was not
troubled with that. My thoughts were chiefly on Polly
Ann and the child we had left in the fort now so far to
the south of us, and in my fancy I saw her cheerful, ever
helpful to those around her, despite the load that must
rest on her heart. I saw her simple joy at our return. But
should we return? My chest tightened, and I sped along the
ranks to Harrod's company and caught Tom by the wrist.

``Davy,'' he murmured, and, seizing my hand in his
strong grip, pulled me along with him. For it was not
given to him to say what he felt; but as I hurried to keep
pace with his stride, Polly Ann's words rang in my ears,
``Davy, take care of my Tom,'' and I knew that he, too,
was thinking of her.

A hail aroused me, the sound of a loud rapping, and I
saw in black relief a cabin ahead. The door opened,
a man came out with a horde of children cowering at his
heels, a volley of frightened words pouring from his mouth
in a strange tongue. John Duff was plying him with
questions in French, and presently the man became calmer
and lapsed into broken English.

``Kaskaskia--yes, she is prepare. Many spy is gone
out--cross la riviere. But now they all sleep.''

Even as he spoke a shout came faintly from the distant
town.

``What is that?'' demanded Clark, sharply.

The man shrugged his shoulders. ``Une fete des negres,
peut-etre,--the negro, he dance maybe.''

``Are you the ferryman?'' said Clark.

``Oui--I have some boat.''   

We crossed the hundred and fifty yards of sluggish
water, squad by squad, and in the silence of the night
stood gathered, expectant, on the farther bank. Midnight
was at hand. Commands were passed about, and men ran
this way and that, jostling one another to find their places
in a new order. But at length our little force stood in
three detachments on the river's bank, their captains
repeating again and again the part which each was to
play, that none might mistake his duty. The two larger
ones were to surround the town, while the picked force
under Simon Kenton himself was to storm the fort.
Should he gain it by surprise and without battle, three
shots were to be fired in quick succession, the other
detachments were to start the war-whoop, while Duff and some
with a smattering of French were to run up and down the
streets proclaiming that every habitan who left his house
would be shot. No provision being made for the drummer
boy (I had left my drum on the heights above), I chose
the favored column, at the head of which Tom and Cowan
and Ray and McCann were striding behind Kenton and
Colonel Clark. Not a word was spoken. There was a kind
of cow-path that rose and fell and twisted along the river-
bank. This we followed, and in ten minutes we must have
covered the mile to the now darkened village. The starlight
alone outlined against the sky the houses of it as we
climbed the bank. Then we halted, breathless, in a street,
but there was no sound save that of the crickets and the
frogs. Forward again, and twisting a corner, we beheld
the indented edge of the stockade. Still no hail, nor had
our moccasined feet betrayed us as we sought the river
side of the fort and drew up before the big river gates of
it. Simon Kenton bore against them, and tried the little
postern that was set there, but both were fast. The spikes
towered a dozen feet overhead.

``Quick!'' muttered Clark, ``a light man to go over
and open the postern.''

Before I guessed what was in his mind, Cowan seized
me.

``Send the lad, Colonel,'' said he.

``Ay, ay,'' said Simon Kenton, hoarsely.

In a second Tom was on Kenton's shoulders, and they
passed me up with as little trouble as though I had been my
own drum. Feverishly searching with my foot for Tom's
shoulder, I seized the spikes at the top, clambered over
them, paused, surveyed the empty area below me, destitute
even of a sentry, and then let myself down with the aid
of the cross-bars inside. As I was feeling vainly for
the bolt of the postern, rays of light suddenly shot my
shadow against the door. And next, as I got my hand on
the bolt-head, I felt the weight of another on my shoulder,
and a voice behind me said in English:--

``In the devil's name!''

I gave the one frantic pull, the bolt slipped, and caught
again. Then Colonel Clark's voice rang out in the night:--

``Open the gate! Open the gate in the name of
Virginia and the Continental Congress!''

Before I could cry out the man gave a grunt, leaned
his gun against the gate, and tore my fingers from the
bolt-handle. Astonishment robbed me of breath as he
threw open the postern.

``In the name of the Continental Congress,'' he cried,
and seized his gun. Clark and Kenton stepped in
instantly, no doubt as astounded as I, and had the man in
their grasp.

``Who are you?'' said Clark.

``Name o' Skene, from Pennsylvanya,'' said the man,
``and by the Lord God ye shall have the fort.''

``You looked for us?'' said Clark.

``Faith, never less,'' said the Pennsylvanian. ``The
one sentry is at the main gate.''

``And the governor?''

``Rocheblave?'' said the Pennsylvanian. ``He sleeps
yonder in the old Jesuit house in the middle.''

Clark turned to Tom McChesney, who was at his elbow.

``Corporal!'' said he, swiftly, ``secure the sentry at the
main gate! You,'' he added, turning to the Pennsylvanian,
``lead us to the governor. But mind, if you
betray me, I'll be the first to blow out your brains.''

The man seized a lantern and made swiftly over the
level ground until the rubble-work of the old Jesuit house
showed in the light, nor Clark nor any of them stopped to
think of the danger our little handful ran at the mercy of
a stranger. The house was silent. We halted, and Clark
threw himself against the rude panels of the door, which
gave to inward blackness. Our men filled the little passage,
and suddenly we found ourselves in a low-ceiled
room in front of a great four-poster bed. And in it,
upright, blinking at the light, were two odd Frenchified
figures in tasselled nightcaps. Astonishment and anger
and fear struggled in the faces of Monsieur de Rocheblave
and his lady. A regard for truth compels me to
admit that it was madame who first found her voice, and
no uncertain one it was.

First came a shriek that might have roused the garrison.

``Villains! Murderers! Outragers of decency!'' she
cried with spirit, pouring a heap of invectives, now in
French, now in English, much to the discomfiture of our
backwoodsmen, who peered at her helplessly.

``Nom du diable!'' cried the commandant, when his lady's
breath was gone, ``what does this mean?''

``It means, sir,'' answered Clark, promptly, ``that you
are my prisoner.''

``And who are you?'' gasped the commandant.

``George Rogers Clark, Colonel in the service of the
Commonwealth of Virginia.''  He held out his hand
restrainingly, for the furious Monsieur Rocheblave made an
attempt to rise. ``You will oblige me by remaining in
bed, sir, for a moment.''

``Coquins! Canailles! Cochons!'' shrieked the lady.

``Madame,'' said Colonel Clark, politely, ``the
necessities of war are often cruel.''

He made a bow, and paying no further attention to
the torrent of her reproaches or the threats of the helpless
commandant, he calmly searched the room with the lantern,
and finally pulled out from under the bed a metal
despatch box. Then he lighted a candle in a brass
candlestick that stood on the simple walnut dresser, and
bowed again to the outraged couple in the four-poster.

``Now, sir,'' he said, ``you may dress. We will retire.''

``Pardieu!'' said the commandant in French, ``a
hundred thousand thanks.''

We had scarcely closed the bedroom door when three
shots were heard.

``The signal!'' exclaimed Clark.

Immediately a pandemonium broke on the silence of the
night that must have struck cold terror in the hearts of
the poor Creoles sleeping in their beds. The war-whoop,
the scalp halloo in the dead of the morning, with the
hideous winding notes of them that reached the bluff beyond
and echoed back, were enough to frighten a man from his
senses. In the intervals, in backwoods French, John Duff
and his companions were heard in terrifying tones crying
out to the habitans to venture out at the peril of their lives.

Within the fort a score of lights flew up and down like
will-o'-the-wisps, and Colonel Clark, standing on the steps
of the governor's house, gave out his orders and despatched
his messengers. Me he sent speeding through the village
to tell Captain Bowman to patrol the outskirts of the
town, that no runner might get through to warn Fort
Chartres and Cohos, as some called Cahokia. None stirred
save the few Indians left in the place, and these were
brought before Clark in the fort, sullen and defiant, and
put in the guard-house there. And Rocheblave, when
he appeared, was no better, and was put back in his house
under guard.

As for the papers in the despatch box, they revealed I
know not what briberies of the savage nations and plans
of the English. But of other papers we found none,
though there must have been more. Madame Rocheblave
was suspected of having hidden some in the inviolable
portions of her dress.

At length the cocks crowing for day proclaimed the
morning, and while yet the blue shadow of the bluff was
on the town, Colonel Clark sallied out of the gate and
walked abroad. Strange it seemed that war had come to
this village, so peaceful and remote. And even stranger
it seemed to me to see these Arcadian homes in the midst
of the fierce wilderness. The little houses with their
sloping roofs and wide porches, the gardens ablaze with
color, the neat palings,--all were a restful sight for our
weary eyes. And now I scarcely knew our commander.
For we had not gone far ere, timidly, a door opened and
a mild-visaged man, in the simple workaday smock that
the French wore, stood, hesitating, on the steps. The odd
thing was that he should have bowed to Clark, who was
dressed no differently from Bowman and Harrod and
Duff; and the man's voice trembled piteously as he spoke.
It needed not John Duff to tell us that he was pleading
for the lives of his family.

``He will sell himself as a slave if your Excellency will
spare them,'' said Duff, translating.

But Clark stared at the man sternly.

``I will tell them my plans at the proper time,'' he said
and when Duff had translated this the man turned and
went silently into his house again, closing the door behind
him. And before we had traversed the village the same
thing had happened many times. We gained the fort
again, I wondering greatly why he had not reassured these
simple people. It was Bowman who asked this question,
he being closer to Clark than any of the other captains.
Clark said nothing then, and began to give out directions
for the day. But presently he called the Captain aside.

``Bowman,'' I heard him say, ``we have one hundred
and fifty men to hold a province bigger than the whole of
France, and filled with treacherous tribes in the King's
pay. I must work out the problem for myself.''

Bowman was silent. Clark, with that touch which made
men love him and die for him, laid his hand on the
Captain's shoulder.

``Have the men called in by detachments,'' he said, ``and
fed. God knows they must be hungry,--and you.''

Suddenly I remembered that he himself had had
nothing. Running around the commandant's house to the
kitchen door, I came unexpectedly upon Swein Poulsson,
who was face to face with the linsey-woolsey-clad figure
of Monsieur Rocheblave's negro cook. The early sun cast
long shadows of them on the ground.

``By tam,'' my friend was saying, ``so I vill eat. I am
choost like an ox for three days, und chew grass. Prairie
grass, is it?''

``Mo pas capab', Michie,'' said the cook, with a terrified
roll of his white eyes.

``Herr Gott!'' cried Swein Poulsson, ``I am red face.
Aber Herr Gott, I thank thee I am not a nigger. Und
my hair is bristles, yes. Davy'' (spying me), ``I thank
Herr Gott it is not vool. Let us in the kitchen go.''

``I am come to get something for the Colonel's
breakfast,'' said I, pushing past the slave, through the open
doorway. Swein Poulsson followed, and here I struck another
contradiction in his strange nature. He helped me light the
fire in the great stone chimney-place, and we soon had a pot
of hominy on the crane, and turning on the spit a piece of
buffalo steak which we found in the larder. Nor did a
mouthful pass his lips until I had sped away with a
steaming portion to find the Colonel. By this time the
men had broken into the storehouse, and the open place
was dotted with their breakfast fires. Clark was standing
alone by the flagstaff, his face careworn. But he
smiled as he saw me coming.

``What's this?'' says he.

``Your breakfast, sir,'' I answered. I set down the
plate and the pot before him and pressed the pewter spoon
into his hand.

``Davy,'' said he.

``Sir?'' said I.

``What did you have for your breakfast?''

My lip trembled, for I was very hungry, and the rich
steam from the hominy was as much as I could stand. Then
the Colonel took me by the arms, as gently as a woman
might, set me down on the ground beside him, and taking
a spoonful of the hominy forced it between my lips. I
was near to fainting at the taste of it. Then he took a
bit himself, and divided the buffalo steak with his own
hands. And when from the camp-fires they perceived the
Colonel and the drummer boy eating together in plain sight
of all, they gave a rousing cheer.

``Swein Poulsson helped get your breakfast, sir, and
would eat nothing either,'' I ventured.

``Davy,'' said Colonel Clark, gravely, ``I hope you will
be younger when you are twenty.''

``I hope I shall be bigger, sir,'' I answered gravely.

CHAPTER XIV

HOW THE KASKASKEIANS WERE MADE CITIZENS

Never before had such a day dawned upon Kaskaskia.
With July fierceness the sun beat down upon the village,
but man nor woman nor child stirred from the darkened
houses. What they awaited at the hands of the Long
Knives they knew not,--captivity, torture, death perhaps.
Through the deserted streets stalked a squad of
backwoodsmen headed by John Duff and two American
traders found in the town, who were bestirring themselves
in our behalf, knocking now at this door and anon at that.

``The Colonel bids you come to the fort,'' he said, and
was gone.

The church bell rang with slow, ominous strokes, far
different from its gentle vesper peal of yesterday. Two
companies were drawn up in the sun before the old Jesuit
house, and presently through the gate a procession came,
grave and mournful. The tone of it was sombre in the
white glare, for men had donned their best (as they
thought) for the last time,--cloth of camlet and Cadiz
and Limbourg, white cotton stockings, and brass-buckled
shoes. They came like captives led to execution. But
at their head a figure held our eye,--a figure that spoke
of dignity and courage, of trials borne for others. It was
the village priest in his robes. He had a receding forehead
and a strong, pointed chin; but benevolence was in the
curve of his great nose. I have many times since seen his
type of face in the French prints. He and his flock halted
before our young Colonel, even as the citizens of Calais in
a bygone century must have stood before the English king.

The scene comes back to me. On the one side, not
the warriors of a nation that has made its mark in war,
but peaceful peasants who had sought this place for its
remoteness from persecution, to live and die in harmony
with all mankind. On the other, the sinewy advance
guard of a race that knows not peace, whose goddess of
liberty carries in her hand a sword. The plough might
have been graven on our arms, but always the rifle.

The silence of the trackless wilds reigned while Clark
gazed at them sternly. And when he spoke it was with
the voice of a conqueror, and they listened as the conquered
listen, with heads bowed--all save the priest.

Clark told them first that they had been given a false
and a wicked notion of the American cause, and he spoke
of the tyranny of the English king, which had become
past endurance to a free people. As for ourselves, the
Long Knives, we came in truth to conquer, and because
of their hasty judgment the Kaskaskians were at our
mercy. The British had told them that the Kentuckians
were a barbarous people, and they had believed.

He paused that John Duff might translate and the gist
of what he had said sink in. But suddenly the priest
had stepped out from the ranks, faced his people, and was
himself translating in a strong voice. When he had
finished a tremor shook the group. But he turned calmly
and faced Clark once more.

``Citizens of Kaskaskia,'' Colonel Clark went on, ``the
king whom you renounced when the English conquered
you, the great King of France, has judged for you and the
French people. Knowing that the American cause is just,
he is sending his fleets and regiments to fight for it against
the British King, who until now has been your sovereign.''

Again he paused, and when the priest had told them
this, a murmur of astonishment came from the boldest.

``Citizens of Kaskaskia, know you that the Long Knives
come not to massacre, as you foolishly believed, but to
release from bondage. We are come not against you,
who have been deceived, but against those soldiers of the
British King who have bribed the savages to slaughter
our wives and children. You have but to take the oath
of allegiance to the Continental Congress to become free,
even as we are, to enjoy the blessings of that American
government under which we live and for which we fight.''

The face of the good priest kindled as he glanced at
Clark. He turned once more, and though we could not
understand his words, the thrill of his eloquence moved
us. And when he had finished there was a moment's
hush of inarticulate joy among his flock, and then such
transports as moved strangely the sternest men in our
ranks. The simple people fell to embracing each other
and praising God, the tears running on their cheeks. Out
of the group came an old man. A skullcap rested on his
silvered hair, and he felt the ground uncertainly with his
gold-headed stick.

``Monsieur,'' he said tremulously ``you will pardon an
old man if he show feeling. I am born seventy year ago
in Gascon. I inhabit this country thirty year, and last
night I think I not live any longer. Last night we make
our peace with the good God, and come here to-day to die.
But we know you not,'' he cried, with a sudden and
surprising vigor; ``ha, we know you not! They told us
lies, and we were humble and believed. But now we are
Americains,'' he cried, his voice pitched high, as he pointed
with a trembling arm to the stars and stripes above him.
``Mes enfants, vive les Bostonnais! Vive les Americains!
Vive Monsieur le Colonel Clark, sauveur de Kaskaskia!''

The listening village heard the shout and wondered.
And when it had died down Colonel Clark took the
old Gascon by the hand, and not a man of his but saw
that this was a master-stroke of his genius.

``My friends,'' he said simply, ``I thank you. I would not
force you, and you will have some days to think over the
oath of allegiance to the Republic. Go now to your homes,
and tell those who are awaiting you what I have said. And
if any man of French birth wish to leave this place, he may
go of his own free will, save only three whom I suspect are
not our friends.''

They turned, and in an ecstasy of joy quite pitiful to see
went trooping out of the gate. But scarce could they have
reached the street and we have broken ranks, when we
saw them coming back again, the priest leading them as
before. They drew near to the spot where Clark stood,
talking to the captains, and halted expectantly.

``What is it, my friends?'' asked the Colonel.

The priest came forward and bowed gravely.

``I am Pere Gibault, sir,'' he said, ``cure of Kaskaskia.''
He paused, surveying our commander with a clear eye.
``There is something that still troubles the good citizens.''

``And what is that, sir?'' said Clark.

The priest hesitated.

``If your Excellency will only allow the church to be
opened--'' he ventured.

The group stood wistful, fearful that their boldness had
displeased, expectant of reprimand.

``My good Father,'' said Colonel Clark, ``an American
commander has but one relation to any church. And that
is'' (he added with force) ``to protect it. For all
religions are equal before the Republic.''

The priest gazed at him intently.

``By that answer,'' said he, ``your Excellency has made
for your government loyal citizens in Kaskaskia.''

Then the Colonel stepped up to the priest and took him
likewise by the hand.

``I have arranged for a house in town,'' said he.
``Monsieur Rocheblave has refused to dine with me there. Will
you do me that honor, Father?''

``With all my heart, your Excellency,'' said Father
Gibault. And turning to the people, he translated what the
Colonel had said. Then their cup of happiness was indeed
full, and some ran to Clark and would have thrown their
arms about him had he been a man to embrace. Hurrying
out of the gate, they spread the news like wildfire, and
presently the church bell clanged in tones of unmistakable
joy.

``Sure, Davy dear, it puts me in mind of the Saints' day
at home,'' said Terence, as he stood leaning against a picket
fence that bordered the street, ``savin' the presence of the
naygurs and thim red divils wid blankets an' scowls as wud
turrn the milk sour in the pail.''

He had stopped beside two Kaskaskia warriors in scarlet
blankets who stood at the corner, watching with silent
contempt the antics of the French inhabitants. Now and again
one or the other gave a grunt and wrapped his blanket
more tightly about him.

``Umrrhh!'' said Terence. ``Faith, I talk that langwidge
mesilf when I have throuble.''  The warriors stared at
him with what might be called a stoical surprise. ``Umrrh!
Does the holy father praych to ye wid thim wurrds, ye
haythens? Begorra, 'tis a wondher ye wuddent wash
yereselves,'' he added, making a face, ``wid muddy wather
to be had for the askin'.''

We moved on, through such a scene as I have seldom
beheld. The village had donned its best: women in cap
and gown were hurrying hither and thither, some laughing
and some weeping; grown men embraced each other;
children of all colors flung themselves against Terence's
legs,--dark-haired Creoles, little negroes with woolly
pates, and naked Indian lads with bow and arrow. Terence
dashed at them now and then, and they fled screaming
into dooryards to come out again and mimic him when he
had passed, while mothers and fathers and grandfathers
smiled at the good nature in his Irish face. Presently he
looked down at me comically.

``Why wuddent ye be doin' the like, Davy?'' he asked.
``Amusha! 'tis mesilf that wants to run and hop and skip
wid the childher. Ye put me in mind of a wizened old man
that sat all day makin' shoes in Killarney,--all savin' the
fringe he had on his chin.''

``A soldier must be dignified,'' I answered.

``The saints bar that wurrd from hiven,'' said Terence,
trying to pronounce it. ``Come, we'll go to mass, or me
mother will be visitin' me this night.''

We crossed the square and went into the darkened church,
where the candles were burning. It was the first church I
had ever entered, and I heard with awe the voice of the
priest and the fervent responses, but I understood not a
word of what was said. Afterwards Father Gibault
mounted to the pulpit and stood for a moment with his
hand raised above his flock, and then began to speak.
What he told them I have learned since. And this I
know, that when they came out again into the sunlit
square they were Americans. It matters not when they
took the oath.

As we walked back towards the fort we came to a little
house with a flower garden in front of it, and there stood
Colonel Clark himself by the gate. He stopped us with a
motion of his hand.

``Davy,'' said he, ``we are to live here for a while, you
and I. What do you think of our headquarters?''  He
did not wait for me to reply, but continued, ``Can you
suggest any improvement?''

``You will be needing a soldier to be on guard in front,
sir,'' said I.

``Ah,'' said the Colonel, ``McChesney is too valuable a
man. I am sending him with Captain Bowman to take
Cahokia.''

``Would you have Terence, sir?'' I ventured, while
Terence grinned. Whereupon Colonel Clark sent him to
report to his captain that he was detailed for orderly duty
to the commanding officer. And within half an hour he
was standing guard in the flower garden, making grimaces
at the children in the street. Colonel Clark sat at a
table in the little front room, and while two of Monsieur
Rocheblave's negroes cooked his dinner, he was busy with
a score of visitors, organizing, advising, planning, and
commanding. There were disputes to settle now that
alarm had subsided, and at noon three excitable gentlemen
came in to inform against a certain Monsieur Cerre,
merchant and trader, then absent at St. Louis. When at
length the Colonel had succeeded in bringing their
denunciations to an end and they had departed, he looked at me
comically as I stood in the doorway.

``Davy,'' said he, ``all I ask of the good Lord is that He
will frighten me incontinently for a month before I die.''

``I think He would find that difficult, sir,'' I answered.

``Then there's no hope for me,'' he answered, laughing,
``for I have observed that fright alone brings a man into
a fit spiritual state to enter heaven. What would you
say of those slanderers of Monsieur Cerre?''

Not expecting an answer, he dipped his quill into the
ink-pot and turned to his papers.

``I should say that they owed Monsieur Cerre money,''
I replied.

The Colonel dropped his quill and stared. As for me,
I was puzzled to know why.

``Egad,'' said Colonel Clark, ``most of us get by hard
knocks what you seem to have been born with.''  He fell
to musing, a worried look coming on his face that was no
stranger to me later, and his hand fell heavily on the loose
pile of paper before him. ``Davy,'' says he, ``I need a
commissary-general.''

``What would that be, sir,'' I asked.

``A John Law, who will make something out of
nothing, who will make money out of this blank paper, who
will wheedle the Creole traders into believing they are
doing us a favor and making their everlasting fortune by
advancing us flour and bacon.''

``And doesn't Congress make money, sir?'' I asked.

``That they do, Davy, by the ton,'' he replied, ``and so
must we, as the rulers of a great province. For mark me,
though the men are happy to-day, in four days they will
be grumbling and trying to desert in dozens.''

We were interrupted by a knock at the door, and there
stood Terence McCann.

``His riverence!'' he announced, and bowed low as the
priest came into the room.

I was bid by Colonel Clark to sit down and dine with
them on the good things which Monsieur Rocheblave's
cook had prepared. After dinner they went into the little
orchard behind the house and sat drinking (in the
French fashion) the commandant's precious coffee which
had been sent to him from far-away New Orleans. Colonel
Clark plied the priest with questions of the French towns
under English rule: and Father Gibault, speaking for his
simple people, said that the English had led them easily
to believe that the Kentuckians were cutthroats.

``Ah, monsieur,'' he said, ``if they but knew you! If
they but knew the principles of that government for which
you fight, they would renounce the English allegiance, and
the whole of this territory would be yours. I know them,
from Quebec to Detroit and Michilimackinac and Saint
Vincennes. Listen, monsieur,'' he cried, his homely face
alight; ``I myself will go to Saint Vincennes for you. I
will tell them the truth, and you shall have the post for
the asking.''

``You will go to Vincennes!'' exclaimed Clark; ``a
hard and dangerous journey of a hundred leagues!''

``Monsieur,'' answered the priest, simply, ``the journey
is nothing. For a century the missionaries of the Church
have walked this wilderness alone with God. Often they
have suffered, and often died in tortures--but gladly.''

Colonel Clark regarded the man intently.

``The cause of liberty, both religious and civil, is our
cause,'' Father Gibault continued. ``Men have died for
it, and will die for it, and it will prosper. Furthermore,
Monsieur, my life has not known many wants. I have
saved something to keep my old age, with which to buy
a little house and an orchard in this peaceful place. The
sum I have is at your service. The good Congress will
repay me. And you need the money.''

Colonel Clark was not an impulsive man, but he felt
none the less deeply, as I know well. His reply to this
generous offer was almost brusque, but it did not deceive
the priest.

``Nay, monsieur,'' he said, ``it is for mankind I give it,
in remembrance of Him who gave everything. And
though I receive nothing in return, I shall have my
reward an hundred fold.''

In due time, I know not how, the talk swung round
again to lightness, for the Colonel loved a good story, and
the priest had many which he told with wit in his quaint
French accent. As he was rising to take his leave, Pere
Gibault put his hand on my head.

``I saw your Excellency's son in the church this
morning,'' he said.

Colonel Clark laughed and gave me a pinch.

``My dear sir,'' he said, ``the boy is old enough to be
my father.''

The priest looked down at me with a puzzled expression
in his brown eyes.

``I would I had him for my son,'' said Colonel Clark,
kindly; ``but the lad is eleven, and I shall not be twenty-
six until next November.''

``Your Excellency not twenty-six!'' cried Father
Gibault, in astonishment. ``What will you be when you
are thirty?''

The young Colonel's face clouded.

``God knows!'' he said.

Father Gibault dropped his eyes and turned to me with
native tact.

``What would you like best to do, my son?'' he asked.

``I should like to learn to speak French,'' said I, for I
had been much irritated at not understanding what was
said in the streets.

``And so you shall,'' said Father Gibault; ``I myself
will teach you. You must come to my house to-day.''

``And Davy will teach me,'' said the Colonel.

CHAPTER XV

DAYS OF TRIAL

But I was not immediately to take up the study of
French. Things began to happen in Kaskaskia. In the
first place, Captain Bowman's company, with a few scouts,
of which Tom was one, set out that very afternoon for the
capture of Cohos, or Cahokia, and this despite the fact
that they had had no sleep for two nights. If you will
look at the map,[1] you will see, dotted along the bottoms
and the bluffs beside the great Mississippi, the string
of villages, Kaskaskia, La Prairie du Rocher, Fort
Chartres, St. Philip, and Cahokia. Some few miles from
Cahokia, on the western bank of the Father of Waters,
was the little French village of St. Louis, in the Spanish
territory of Louisiana. From thence eastward stretched
the great waste of prairie and forest inhabited by roving
bands of the forty Indian nations. Then you come to
Vincennes on the Wabash, Fort St. Vincent, the English
and Canadians called it, for there were a few of the
latter who had settled in Kaskaskia since the English
occupation.

[1] The best map which the editor has found of this district is
in vol. VI, Part 11, of Winsor's ``Narrative and Critical History
of America,'' p. 721.

We gathered on the western skirts of the village to
give Bowman's company a cheer, and every man, woman,
and child in the place watched the little column as it
wound snakelike over the prairie on the road to Fort
Chartres, until it was lost in the cottonwoods to the westward.

Things began to happen in Kaskaskia. It would have
been strange indeed if things had not happened. One
hundred and seventy-five men had marched into that territory
out of which now are carved the great states of Ohio,
Indiana, and Illinois, and to most of them the thing was a
picnic, a jaunt which would soon be finished. Many had
left families in the frontier forts without protection.
The time of their enlistment had almost expired.

There was a store in the village kept by a great citizen,
--not a citizen of Kaskaskia alone, but a citizen of the
world. This, I am aware, sounds like fiction, like an
attempt to get an effect which was not there. But it is
true as gospel. The owner of this store had many others
scattered about in this foreign country: at Vincennes,
at St. Louis, where he resided, at Cahokia. He knew
Michilimackinac and Quebec and New Orleans. He had
been born some thirty-one years before in Sardinia, had
served in the Spanish army, and was still a Spanish
subject. The name of this famous gentleman was Monsieur
Francois Vigo, and he was the Rothschild of the country
north of the Ohio. Monsieur Vigo, though he merited it,
I had not room to mention in the last chapter. Clark
had routed him from his bed on the morning of our arrival,
and whether or not he had been in the secret of frightening
the inhabitants into making their wills, and then
throwing them into transports of joy, I know not.

Monsieur Vigo's store was the village club. It had
neither glass in the window nor an attractive display of
goods; it was merely a log cabin set down on a weedy,
sun-baked plot. The stuffy smell of skins and furs came
out of the doorway. Within, when he was in Kaskaskia,
Monsieur Vigo was wont to sit behind his rough walnut
table, writing with a fine quill, or dispensing the news of
the villages to the priest and other prominent citizens, or
haggling with persistent blanketed braves over canoe-
loads of ill-smelling pelts which they brought down from
the green forests of the north. Monsieur Vigo's clothes
were the color of the tobacco he gave in exchange; his
eyes were not unlike the black beads he traded, but
shrewd and kindly withal, set in a square saffron face
that had the contradiction of a small chin. As the days
wore into months, Monsieur Vigo's place very naturally
became the headquarters for our army, if army
it might be called. Of a morning a dozen would be
sitting against the logs in the black shadow, and in the
midst of them always squatted an unsavory Indian squaw.
A few braves usually stood like statues at the corner, and
in front of the door another group of hunting shirts.
Without was the paper money of the Continental Congress,
within the good tafia and tobacco of Monsieur Vigo.
One day Monsieur Vigo's young Creole clerk stood
shrugging his shoulders in the doorway. I stopped.

``By tam!'' Swein Poulsson was crying to the clerk, as
he waved a worthless scrip above his head. ``Vat is
money?''

This definition the clerk, not being a Doctor Johnson,
was unable to give offhand.

``Vat are you, choost? Is it America?'' demanded
Poulsson, while the others looked on, some laughing,
some serious. ``And vich citizen are you since you are
ours? You vill please to give me one carrot of tobacco.''
And he thrust the scrip under the clerk's nose.

The clerk stared at the uneven lettering on the scrip
with disdain.

``Money,'' he exclaimed scornfully, ``she is not money.
Piastre--Spanish dollare--then I give you carrot.''

``By God!'' shouted Bill Cowan, ``ye will take
Virginny paper, and Congress paper, or else I reckon we'll
have a drink and tobacey, boys, take or no take.''

``Hooray, Bill, ye're right,'' cried several of our men.

``Lemme in here,'' said Cowan. But the frightened
Creole blocked the doorway.

``Sacre'!'' he screamed, and then, ``Voleurs!''

The excitement drew a number of people from the
neighborhood. Nay, it seemed as if the whole town was
ringed about us.

``Bravo, Jules!'' they cried, ``garde-tu la porte. A bas
les Bostonnais! A bas les voleurs!''

``Damn such monkey talk,'' said Cowan, facing them
suddenly. I knew him well, and when the giant lost his
temper it was gone irrevocably until a fight was over.
``Call a man a squar' name.''

``Hey, Frenchy,'' another of our men put in, stalking
up to the clerk, ``I reckon this here store's ourn, ef we've
a mind to tek it. I 'low you'll give us the rum and the
'bacey. Come on, boys!''

In between him and the clerk leaped a little, robin-like
man with a red waistcoat, beside himself with rage.
Bill Cowan and his friends stared at this diminutive
Frenchman, open-mouthed, as he poured forth a veritable
torrent of unintelligible words, plentifully mixed with
sacres, which he ripped out like snarls. I would as soon
have touched him as a ball of angry bees or a pair of
fighting wildcats. Not so Bill Cowan. When that worthy
recovered from his first surprise he seized hold of
some of the man's twisting arms and legs and lifted him
bodily from the ground, as he would have taken a perverse
and struggling child. There was no question of a
fight. Cowan picked him up, I say, and before any one
knew what happened, he flung him on to the hot roof of
the store (the eaves were but two feet above his head),
and there the man stuck, clinging to a loose shingle,
purpling and coughing and spitting with rage. There was a
loud gust of guffaws from the woodsmen, and oaths like
whip-cracks from the circle around us, menacing growls
as it surged inward and our men turned to face it. A
few citizens pushed through the outskirts of it and ran
away, and in the hush that followed we heard them
calling wildly the names of Father Gibault and Clark and
of Vigo himself. Cowan thrust me past the clerk into the
store, where I stood listening to the little man on the
roof, scratching and clutching at the shingles, and
coughing still.

But there was no fight. Shouts of ``Monsieur Vigo!
Voici Monsieur Vigo!'' were heard, the crowd parted
respectfully, and Monsieur Vigo in his snuff-colored suit
stood glancing from Cowan to his pallid clerk. He was
not in the least excited.