CHAPTER XIII
The realization that before another sunset I should be at home, should take mother, grandmother, and little Jean in my arms, clasp my father's hand and meet his welcoming eye, thrilled me with a joyous excitement such as I had not felt since, nearly three years before, I had led my squad of recruits out of the valley.
The road between the foot of the mountain and Staunton seemed elastic – as if it stretched as I traveled it. Not for six months now had I heard from home. The last letter had been brought me by a recruit from our valley, before the fight at Chestnut Hill, and was then several weeks old. It told of my grandmother's gradually failing strength, of Aunt Martha's increasing vexation with still unconquered Ellen, of Jean's rapid development into womanhood; of my mother's good health and father's continued vigor; also of the fine crops harvested during the year, and sold at good prices, after a generous proportion had been given to help load the wagon train sent from the valley to help to feed General Washington's army. There were, also, bits of local news and gossip most interesting to me.
A chill, misty March drizzle came on with the twilight, my steed drooped his head wearily, and lifted his feet with mechanical, springless effort.
"Poor tired beast," I said, patting his flanks, "we'll stop this night in Staunton, and you shall have supper and stable if there's a barn left in the town." He appeared to understand my promise, for his gait quickened, his head was lifted hopefully, and a moment later, as a turn in the highway revealed the lighted windows of the town, he uttered a low, thankful nicker.
"If William Allen or John Walker is at home, we'll not lack a welcome," I added, giving him a second encouraging pat. Both these lads – they were men now, of course – had been mates of mine at "the academy," and 'twas Allen to whom I made gift of my books when I went home to enlist. Walker's house was the first reached and, leaving my horse before the gate, I rapped loudly with the hilt of my sword upon the door. It was opened somewhat cautiously, and Elder Walker's voice enquired peremptorily, "Who's without?"
"An old school mate of your son John's, Donald McElroy."
"What! Captain McElroy, whom family and friends have mourned as dead these six months past? Come in, lad, come in!" and the door was flung wide open. "You'll be chilled to the bone in that drenching drizzle, – and your horse likewise. John! John! Here's an old school friend! Call the niggers, wife! Send one of them round for Captain McElroy's horse, and have on another back log! Bring out the rum and the peach brandy! The son of William McElroy would be welcome under all circumstances, but coming from the dead, as it were, and covered with honor, doubtless, – why, there's nothing in the town good enough for him."
The house was abustle by this time, negroes running to and fro, Mrs. Walker and John overwhelming me with welcoming attention, and the Elder alternately rattling the decanters and glasses, and ringing the heavy iron poker against the massive brass andirons, as he vigorously punched the logs into a brisker blaze. I had half forgotten the warmth and heartiness of a Scotch Irish welcome, and my eyes filled with tears at the familiar sound of it all, and the sight of John's kind, homely face wreathed with glad smiles.
How pleasant the flavor of the oily peach brandy, how genial the blaze of the hickory logs, how good to hear the rich voices and the slight accent, as they called over familiar names and faces, and told me the valley news!
"Are they all well at home?" was my first question.
"All well, the last we heard, and your father continues to be one of the most prosperous and respected men in the county, and your mother the best of housewives. Little Jean has grown into a beauty, and your father has built a big new barn, and is burning brick for a spacious dwelling to take the place of the old cabin," answered the Elder loquaciously, while Mrs. Walker superintended the maid Jinsey, serving me, upon a folding table placed at my elbow, a cavalry man's lunch – which means enough for three.
"And they thought me dead, Elder?"
"They feared it, lad, having heard that you fell wounded on the field at Chestnut Hill, were taken prisoner, and carried to the prison hospital in Philadelphia – death traps they are said to be. Your father hopes still, but your mother greets sair, and fears the very worst."
It was not easy to get away from my entertainers the next morning, but I was eager to be at home, and managed to be off by half past ten, despite their urgent hospitality, and their disinclination to have my horse brought around.
"It was communion Sabbath at the Stone Church," the Elder had insisted, "and my whole family would, without doubt, spend the day at the services; so I might as well take dinner with them, and ride home in the afternoon."
But "No," I said; "I would ride on to the church, hear part of the sermon, find my people, and take them home with me at the recess between the morning and afternoon service."
Elder Walker was one of those who had gone off to form a new congregation at Tinkling Spring, and I gathered from his talk that the feud caused by a secession of a part of the congregation had not yet abated. Between my Uncle Thomas and Elder Walker this split in the congregation had given rise to a lasting bitterness, and during all our conversation my Uncle Thomas' name was not mentioned.
Every rod of the way, from the town to the church, was marked with memories for me. I smiled at the recollection of the squirrel I had caught in the top branches of a certain gnarled old oak; of the deer I had shot, as it bounded across the branch in yonder meadow; of the strawberries I had gathered from the sunny hillsides. Wrapped in these recollections of a happy boyhood, I rode on, as in a dream, and came at last with the surprise of suddenness, upon the old church.
One might have supposed that a cavalry company was bivouacked in the grove, from the horses hitched to every tree and shrub, and the illusion would only be strengthened upon closer view, by the rude but strong fortifications encircling the building. How vividly came back the sounds and scenes of the Indian raid! especially the erect form and inspired face of old Parson Craig, addressing "his lads," in the spirit of a Spartan leader. Years before this intrepid man of God had gone to his reckoning, and I had no doubt as to the side of the account on which he had found that Mosaic charge he had given us to "slay and spare not."
But the sounds issuing that March morning from the closed doors of the old church were sounds of Christian harmony and pious rejoicing. The congregation was singing one of Rouse's paraphrases as I pushed the door open gently, and glided into the vacant pew against the wall. Not a head was turned, so engrossed were they all in worship, save those of two or three restless children. I drew myself close in the shadow of a pillar, and listened with glad and thankful heart to the singing. This was the psalm, and the words were set to one of those solemn, grand old tunes, which rolled so deep and full from the throats of big chested, earnest men, and devout women, that no accompaniment of instruments, such as the modern music is said to require, was needed.
"O praise the Lord, for He is good,
His mercy lasteth ever,
Let those of Israel now say
His mercy faileth never.
Let those who fear the Lord now say
His mercy faileth never."
I thought I recognized the full tones of my father's voice and my emotions almost choked me.
The instant the minister rose to give out his text, I knew him to be Parson Waddell – the eloquent, blind preacher of Hanover, who more than once had been described to me, though never before had I seen him, or heard him preach. That long, lank form; that thin face, and high, bald forehead, from which the long gray locks flowed backward; those fixed, open eyes, so evidently sightless; those long, restless arms, and hands, trembling with palsy – that ensemble could be no other than Parson Waddell – the pulpit orator of America during his generation, and one who has been seldom equaled in any age or country.
I cannot now recall the words of his text, nor their exact place in the Bible, only that it was some passage in the description of the passion of our Lord. This I remember well, that from the first sentence uttered by that mellifluous and feeling voice, I forgot everything but the scene he depicted, which scene I saw as 'twere passing before me. I agonized with Jesus in the garden; flamed with Peter's anger, when he struck off the ear of the servant of the high priest; followed, weeping, afar with the other disciples; burned with indignation against Christ's accusers and torturers; heard Pilate's decision, and the High Priest's sentence, with the despairing astonishment of His followers; grew sick and tremulous with sympathy as His bleeding form, weighted with the cross, struggled up Calvary; and my very soul was overwhelmed in horror and amaze, as I saw His broken body hanging upon the cross, scorned, reviled, His sacred head crowned with thorns, His sacred side pierced by the soldier's spear. As the preacher went on to depict Jesus' agony of spirit, when He felt Himself deserted by His Father, and uttered that piercing cry, "Eli, Eli, lama Sabachthani?" my every nerve was strung to its tightest tension, and my throat became so rigid that the moans which came from my heart could find no utterance. The entire congregation was moved almost as I was.
From Dr. Waddell's sightless eyes tears streamed like rain, and his utterances were almost choked by the heartfelt emotion which moved him. At last he was forced to pause and to cover his face with his trembling hands. For an instant the deep silence over all the church was broken only by low sobs and stifled moans.
Presently Dr. Waddell lifted up a face, wet with tears, straightened slowly his tall, gaunt form, lifted his left arm with solemn impressiveness, and pointing and looking upward, with a gesture of indescribable faith and assurance, said, in tones which rang in glad triumph, though an echo of the recent sobs of penitence still lingered in them,
"Friends – Socrates died like a philosopher, Jesus Christ like a God."
The effect was marvelous. The moans and the sobbing ceased, and all over the church men, women, and children bowed their heads, and wept tears of thankfulness, while the preacher went on to describe the last scenes of the crucifixion: – the rent veil of the temple, the darkness, the earthquake, the terror of the soldiers – divine signs that no mere man, but the Son of God Himself had here offered up His life a free sacrifice to satisfy Divine justice.
When the invitation had been given to the celebration of the Lord's Supper, and while the communicants were taking their places at the long tables spread in the aisles, which formed a cross, another psalm was sung. During its singing I slipped unheeded from the church, and walked back and forth under the trees, my soul more moved than ever it had been before. That hour I gave my heart, and my life to Christ, making solemn vow that from henceforth I would take my place, as my heritage and baptism, gave me right – at God's Table; that I would no longer be one of those to scorn so mighty a sacrifice, to refuse so priceless a redemption. There, under the trees, I knelt and consecrated all my future to God's service.
The very day seemed set apart by this solemn resolve, and now I did not wish to greet my family before the congregation. So I got on my horse and rode homeward.
At the bars which led from the highway across my Uncle Thomas Mitchell's fields to his house, stood my Cousin Thomas, half leaning on the stile. His gaze was fixed upon some distant object, and though he answered my greeting, as I halted before him, there was neither interest nor curiosity in his listless manner.
"You do not know me, Thomas," I said.
"Can it be Donald McElroy?" and he was interested enough now, his face aglow with pleasure. "We had given you up for dead in Philadelphia prison, Donald," and almost before I was off my horse he had his arms about me, and was hugging me as if I had been his mother.
It did not take long to tell him so much of my story as was needful he should know at once, and then I began to put questions.
"Are all well at home? Tom?"
"Yes, all well."
"Then dear grandmother has recovered from her illness; I'm glad to know that."
"And you have not heard, Donald? You do not know that grandmother has been dead these five months. But there, cousin," putting a comforting arm about me, "don't grieve for her; she went joyously, her one regret being that she could not see you once more on earth."
"And mother has stood it bravely?"
"Yes, and is if anything, kinder than before, but she grieves all the time about you. The only thing that keeps her in heart is your father's confidence in your coming. He looks for you every day, or for good news of you."
"And does little Jean believe that I am dead?"
"Oh, no; she agrees stoutly with Uncle William, and watches the road for you, each evening."
"She is almost grown now?"
"Quite grown up, and the prettiest, sweetest lass in the valley – now Ellen's gone," and Thomas sighed deeply and fixed his eyes upon the hills again.
"Ellen gone? What mean you, Thomas? Where would she go? I thought she had no other relatives."
"She has no others, and we do not know where she is. Three months ago she disappeared – my mother was harsh with her, and Ellen would not brook it. One night she slipped from her bed, took father's riding horse from the stable, and rode away. Three days later the horse came back, saddled and bridled, but we have never heard a word of Ellen, nor had a clew as to her whereabouts. Perhaps the horse threw and killed her; perhaps wild beasts devoured her; perhaps she was captured by Indians. My mother says she is hiding somewhere to spite us, and hardens her heart against grieving for her; but father and I keep up constant search and inquiry for her.
"Meantime, Donald, our peace is gone, and our home is disgraced. We have driven the orphan, and one of our own blood, forth into the wilderness, to perish by savages or by wild beasts – yet we boast our religion, pray our prayers, sing our psalms, and blame harshly the intolerance of the established church, and the tyranny of the British! Do you wonder that I'm half Tory, and whole heretic, Donald? – at war with my race, my religion, and my family?"
"Then you loved Ellen O'Niel, Thomas?" I said, coming to the prompt conclusion that such morbid vehemence could spring but from one root.
"Yes, Donald, I loved her, and will always love her – or her memory, more than aught else in the world. It was, I think, the suspicion that I was growing to love Ellen, and the fear of her influence over me, that made my mother more and more harsh to her. She is beginning, however, to find out that if I have lost Ellen, she has lost a son, and what is more to her, I think, the church has lost a preacher. She thought I would soon get over it, but now she is beginning to worry about it, and to wish me to find Ellen. I care little any more; however, mother's worries are her chief sources of happiness."
"I do not believe Ellen is dead, Thomas," I said, ignoring his disrespect to his mother. "Either she is hiding somewhere, as Aunt Martha surmises, or she has been carried off by the Indians. In either case, Thomas, we'll find her, for I intend to join you in the search, and will not give up 'till we have a sure clew. Don't let it trouble you so, laddie, but cheer up and expect good news every day as father has done. And I'm sorry, Thomas, to hear you express yourself so bitterly against religion on this day of all others – when for the first time I have felt the influence of converting grace," and then I told him of Parson Waddell's sermon, and my resolve to be a Christian.
Thomas was moved, I could see, but he held firmly to his latest view, that religion in most people was naught but fanaticism, and Presbyterianism a narrowing creed. "If ever I find Ellen alive," he concluded, "I shall become a Catholic and marry her. Should I be assured of her death I shall go west as pioneer or scout or else turn monk."
"I can offer you a better career than either of those," I replied, laying my hand on his arm, and speaking cheerfully, "and not only a fine career, but, if all our searching hereabouts fails, your best chance to find Ellen. Come to see me, and we'll talk it over."
At the first bend in the road, I turned to wave to Thomas; he was still leaning dejectedly upon the stile, his back to me, and his absent gaze fixed upon the mountains. And now surprising thoughts and feelings took possession of me. My sympathy for Thomas was marred by sudden and unreasoning jealousy. What right had he to fall in love with Ellen O'Niel in my absence? Had she not shown plainly enough her preference for me? He had not been man enough to protect her from his mother's tyranny, and yet he talked as presumptuously of marrying her as if he had earned a right to her. He had not even found her in all these weeks, and was now hanging idly on his father's stile, whining, and uttering blasphemies. Find her and marry her indeed! I'd find her myself, and, marry her, too, if I pleased, for all he might say. Nor would I turn Catholic and abuse my relatives, and the religion of my fathers to win her; rather, I'd make her see she had acted foolishly and teach her to honor our creed, as I should honor hers. Ellen, I plainly saw, had needed sympathy, and love, also some one to show her the dangers of her own impetuous, and self-willed nature.
Thinking these thoughts, I put my horse to graze in the meadow, and sat down on the porch, drinking in, with profound content, the well remembered prospect, and planning how I should search minutely all over the country for Ellen, and get together my recruits for Clark's expedition at the same time. Then I fell to castle building, and it was Ellen, restored to us with added beauty and a nobleness of character developed by her trials, who was to lend charm and grace to my "Castle in Spain."
Already I avoided thoughts of Nelly Buford, and though they often forced themselves upon me, they brought me always regret and mortification, mingled still with a lively sense of her powers of fascination.
CHAPTER XIV
The meeting with my parents has a place in my memory so sacred that description seems desecration. My mother went white as the linen handkerchief she wore, and with one sharp cry, "O! William, it is Donald, our son! Oh my laddie, my laddie!" fell into my outstretched arms, weeping and laughing, in a violent hysteria of joy.
"There, there, Rachael, wife, don't take on so," said my father. "Of course it's Donald! You know I've always said he was not dead; he's well and strong, only broader and more manly looking," – and he took mother out of my arms, and began to stroke her hair and to soothe her.
"And this is the little sister I left three years ago" – turning to Jean to hide my own emotion. "I can hardly believe it, yet the eyes are the same," and I kissed her and held her off to look at her, saying teasingly, "Why, Jean, you are almost as pretty as our mother."
"Do you hear that, mother?" asked my father in pleased tones. "Don hasn't forgotten his blarneying ways, either; – just the same lad who went away from us so many months ago."
Mother smiled at this, and ceased weeping, and together we went joyfully into the big room, where I was forced to turn aside to the window to blink back the tears that welled up at the recollections of my grandmother, which the familiar room with her chair still in its place called forth. Not until mother followed me to my room that night, to sit on the side of my bed, as she used to do when I was a little boy, did we talk of her. None of us wished to dim the pure joy of our first hours together by reference to our bereavement, and I had so much to tell them, so many questions to answer.
Then, mother gave me a minute history of grandmother's last days. "You and I, dear daughter," she had said to my mother, "will not for long be separated; I am just gangin' on a little before you, to make our real hame the mair ready for your welcome, but Donald's a young man, and will live a lang an' useful life, I trust. I should like to see him once mair on earth, an' gie him my last message. But since that could not be, Rachael, kiss him for me, and tell him the message's just the verra same as that I told him the day he held the last hank o' yarn for me – he'll not fail to remember, I'm sure."
Then I told my mother what it was grandmother had said to me, and also of the resolution I had made that day to live hereafter a Christian's life. Mother wept with me, tears of joy mixed with tears of regret that grandmother was not there to hear the glad news. "I hope, dear Donald," she said, as she kissed me good night, after the clock had chimed the midnight hour, "that your dear grandmother in heaven knows of your conversion, and that it adds to her perfect joy this day, as it has to mine."
I was too happy to go to sleep, my heart too full of thankfulness and high resolve, to be willing to waste the blessed moments in unconsciousness. So I lay awake until daybreak, tasting with keener and keener relish my new found holy joy. Then I fell asleep, and slept so restfully that, after two hours' repose, I awoke feeling as fresh as the robins, caroling joyously in the branches of the elms that shaded the eastern window of my room.
Mother seemed to avoid talking of Ellen. I knew it was because she could not bear to blame her sister, and yet she could not, in justice, exonerate her; but with father I discussed the matter freely. He blamed Aunt Martha's severity, and had little excuse to make for her:
"She was not only unsympathetic, and harsh with the child," he said, "but, in all save blows, she was cruel. She overworked her, and tried hard to break her spirit. Many a child would have been driven to lying, but Ellen was honest through all, if she was at times defiant and disrespectful. I do not blame her for running away; it is what any high spirited lad would have done, long ago."
"Yes, father," I answered, "but Ellen, being a girl, should have been more submissive to authority, more meek it seems to me. Think what fearful risks she took in running away."
"The very fact that a woman must take such grave risks in pursuing any course of action not countenanced by her lawful protectors, makes her condition the more pitiable under oppression. Ellen was completely in your aunt's power; no relief was possible to her, save from some act of desperation such as the one she was guilty of."
"Could she not have found refuge somewhere in the neighborhood?"
"No one would have taken her in. It would not do to encourage the child in disrespect and disobedience."
"What do you surmise has been her fate, father?" with an effort to speak calmly.
"I think it most likely she has been carried off by some band of roving Indians. She doubtless tried to find her way back to Baltimore, lost her way, and was picked up by the savages. She, I surmise, watched the chance to turn the horse loose, that he might find his way home."
"They would hardly kill her."
"No; more likely they have taken her to their village, and are training her for a chief's squaw."
The thought blanched my cheek, and I resolved to make inquiry and search from the crest of the Blue Ridge all the way to the Mississippi, and not to return home till I had found Ellen, or had gotten some clew to her fate.
"Uncle Thomas has searched the neighborhood thoroughly you think?"
"He and Tom have made enquiry at every house in the county, I am sure; have sent to Charlottesville and Richmond; written to Baltimore, and posted notices at every store and cross roads between here and Maryland. No, I think there's little room for doubt that she's been carried west by Indians."
"That's what I told Thomas, yesterday, and advised him that our best chance to find her was to go with Clark on this expedition to the Kentucky border, next month."
"What expedition, son? I had heard no rumor of it – and do you mean George Rogers Clark, the Kentucky pioneer and friend of Daniel Boone?"
"The very same, father, and a most remarkable young man he is." Then I went on to tell of my interview with Governor Henry, Captain Clark, Mr. Jefferson and the rest, and of the service to which I had engaged myself.
I saw at once that my father was not pleased, and now for the first time, I felt the chilling influence of his disapproval of my plans. He had never approved the forward movement into Kentucky, believing it to have been worked up by land companies, that they might line their pockets at the expense of the lives of the settlers.
"I have never grudged your services in the cause of our independence, Donald," he said, "nor would I your life even, were the sacrifice of it necessary; but I cannot feel it our duty to give you up a victim to the scalping knife of some savage, in order that this rash project of the premature settlement of Kentucky should be encouraged. Have we not already more land than we can protect, and properly cultivate? The Kentucky settlers would do much better to move back over the mountains 'til our independence has been won – when Virginia will be able to establish posts, garrison them adequately, and furnish sufficient protection to make emigrating to Kentucky other than wanton self-destruction. Why not stay with us, lad, since you are honorably released from service for a while? – you'll never know how much we've missed you these three long years."
"Father," I replied, laying my hand on his, and inwardly reproaching myself bitterly for my comparative indifference, now that I realized how much my long absence had really meant to him, "if my word had not been given, if I had not already taken service for this expedition, it would be my pleasure to make my own wishes second to yours. But now, father, it is too late. I cannot honorably draw back. Moreover, I must join in the search for Ellen. I could never stay quietly at home as long as there is uncertainty as to her fate. And I think I can unite the two duties, follow Clark and make constant search for Ellen from the mountains to the mouth of the Ohio. Thomas will go with me, I think. He'd far better do that than some of the rash things he is contemplating."
"It will almost break his mother's heart, but she deserves it," spoke my father, harshly for him, who was usually calm and mild in his judgments.
I think at this time I had more tolerance for Aunt Martha than any one in the family, except my mother. To my mind Ellen had not been blameless, and Aunt Martha's harshness was to have been expected from her character, and the spirit in which she had received the child. I put much of the blame on Uncle Thomas for his unmanly meekness, and part on the neighborhood for not speaking out its sympathy for the child until too late. And when I thought of her probable sufferings, and dangers, I almost ground my teeth in impotent rage with them all.
Poor little Ellen! With her indomitable spirit, and courageous faithfulness, what a cold, hard, loveless life she had had these three years! And hers was a nature made for happiness and love, one to expand under appreciation and sympathy, as a morning glory opens in the early sun's rays, and to fold close all its beauty and sweetness under the chilling influence of disapproval, as the morning glory on a cold and sunless day.
"You'll not withhold your consent, I hope, father, to my going with Clark," I said when we had sat together in silence for a while. "This expedition means far more to our country than appears, and before the expiration of my year's parole I shall be back, I hope, ready to engage in the regular service again, should the war not yet be ended."
"You will take my consent and blessing, Donald, and my love and prayers upon any honest adventure you see fit to enter. But I grieve, lad, for your mother. This last strain of anxiety about you, following so soon upon the shock of her mother's death, came nigh killing her. Tell her yourself, lad, and soften the blow as much as you can."
Women are unaccountable creatures. They are apt to do the least expected things, and to take quietly the news you most dread to break to them. So it proved in my mother's case. She went white for an instant, and her hands began to tremble, but she spoke quietly:
"I knew, Donald, you'd never be content to dwell idly at home, when there's so much doing in the land; nor would I be so proud of my lad were he less a man of deeds, and duty. Governor Henry and Captain Clark honored you in taking you into their confidence; they saw that my son is no ordinary man," and she stroked the hand that had taken hers, and smiled tearfully upon me.
"That such men as Governor Henry, Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Mason, and Mr. Wythe take an interest in the expedition would seem to mean, Donald," she went on presently, "that they have some more important object in view than to protect a few scattered emigrants. If the rumored alliance of the French with us is confirmed, they may intend to use Clark's troops to make a surprise advance on the western forts, recently ceded by France to England. That would overawe the Indians and strike a blow at the British power at the same time."
My mother's shrewdness so astonished me that I came near telling her all I knew. "You may be right, mother," I answered nonchalantly, after a moment; "certainly we hope to overawe the Indians, but our present instructions go no further than safe conduct for the band of emigrants, and an attack upon the Indians, should we find them on the warpath, or plotting an attack on the border settlements. It lifts a weight from my heart, mother, dear, to have your approval," I added.