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