CHAPTER II.
GETTING TO WORK
"This process of 'setting the day on its legs' is certainly a noisy one," was Abner's first thought next morning as he awoke in the gray dawn to find that the place beside him in the big feather bed had already been vacated by Henry.
Above the clatter made by dogs, chickens and geese in the yard below, could be heard the stentorian tones of Mason Rogers evoking his black myrmidons. "Hi, thar, Rube, Tom, Dink, Eph! Wake up, you lazy varmints!" From the negro quarters came, in answer to each name, "Yes, suh! Comin', Marstah!" The creaking boards of the back porch, the slamming of doors, the clatter of cooking utensils, and the admonishing voice of Mrs. Rogers attested that she, too, was taking "holt on the day" in earnest.
Dudley slipped into his clothes and hastened down the steep stairway in search of such toilet accessories as his attic apartment did not afford. When he reached the porch, the twins provided him with a basin of water, a "noggin" of lye soap, and a towel; and telling him he would find the "coarse comb on the chist of drawers in the settin'-room," hurried to the poultry-yard, where the chickens were already off their roosts and clamoring for their morning meal.
His toilet completed, Dudley started for a ramble before breakfast. At first a faint pink light began to tinge the eastern sky, but presently, from over the crest of the hills across the road, the sun arose like a red ball, dispersing the chill gray mist, and the new day, fresh and radiant and vibrant with the songs of birds, the crowing and cackling of chickens, and the lowing of cattle, was fully inaugurated.
If the stranger found the scene in front of the house quietly beautiful, no less interesting was the more homely one to the rear. In the stable lot Susan and Rache were each stooping beside a long-horned cow, milking. In another enclosure Eph was struggling to head off a determined little calf from its mother, a fierce-looking spotted cow which a negro woman was trying to milk. At the window of the barn loft could be seen a negro man tossing down hay to the horses; and in a lot across the way a number of hogs, in answer to Henry's loud "Soo-e-ey, soo-e-ey!" came clamoring and squealing for the corn "nubbins" he was tossing from the sack across his shoulders.
Soon after breakfast, Abner, accompanied by Henry, set out with the subscription paper.
"How many signers did you git?" inquired Rogers that night when the family were again assembled around the fire.
"Forty-three down, four more doubtful, and two more promised conditionally."
"Who air the conditionals?"
"The Hinkson children."
"Whut's Bushrod Hinkson mekin' conditions fur, I'd lak to know?" exclaimed Mrs. Rogers. "I'll bet it's jes' his stinginess. He'd skin a flea fur its hide an' taller, any day."
"He will send his children only on condition that I work out a certain problem which it seems the last two schoolmasters could not solve."
"Pshaw!" ejaculated Rogers. "Is he still pipin' on thet ole sum? It's in po'try, ain't it?"
"Yes," replied Dudley, taking a slip of paper from his pocket and reading therefrom:
"A landed man two daughters had,And both were very fair;To each he gave a piece of land,One round, the other square."Twenty shillings to an acre,Each piece this value had;But the shillings that could compass itFor it just ten times paid."And if once across a shilling be an inch,As which is very near,Which had the better fortune,The round one or the square?"
"A landed man two daughters had,And both were very fair;To each he gave a piece of land,One round, the other square.
"A landed man two daughters had,
And both were very fair;
To each he gave a piece of land,
One round, the other square.
"Twenty shillings to an acre,Each piece this value had;But the shillings that could compass itFor it just ten times paid.
"Twenty shillings to an acre,
Each piece this value had;
But the shillings that could compass it
For it just ten times paid.
"And if once across a shilling be an inch,As which is very near,Which had the better fortune,The round one or the square?"
"And if once across a shilling be an inch,
As which is very near,
Which had the better fortune,
The round one or the square?"
"Kin you wuck it?" asked Rogers, anxiously.
"Oh, yes, I think so. It doesn't seem a very complicated affair."
"Bushrod Hinkson sartinly is the crankiest ole somebody I evah hearn tell on," was Mrs. Rogers' verdict. "What diffruns would it mattah ef you couldn't wuck thet fool sum? His two shavers hain't no fu'thah 'long in ther books then my twins, air they, Susan?"
"Lawdy!" ejaculated Rogers. "I hope you kin wuck it, an' shet him up fur good an' all. He thinks he knows it all when it comes to figgahs, an' kin siphah fastah'n a hoss kin gallop. It's time somebody took him down 'bout thet ole po'try sum. I'd lak to choke him on it.
"Reckon Gilcrest put you through yer gaits, too, didn' he?" Rogers asked presently, removing his cowhide shoes, stretching his legs out in front of the fire, and proceeding, as he explained, "to toast his feet befoh goin' to roost."
"Yes, sir," answered Dudley, "and he looked so stern and eyed me so keenly from underneath his grizzled eyebrows that I felt as though I were before the Inquisition."
"Jes' so!" Rogers assented, although he had probably never heard of the Inquisition. "Hiram's three hobby hosses air 'good roads, Calvinism and slavery.' Which o' them ponies wuz he ridin' this mawnin'?"
"He took a gallop on all three," laughingly answered Abner; "but he rode the doctrinal steed longest and hardest."
"Egzactly!" said Rogers, taking a chew of tobacco. "He's daft on good roads; kinder rabid on slavery; but when it comes to the 'five p'ints,' he's rank pizinous. I s'pose he rid the good-roads hoss fust. He ginerly does."
"Yes, he took a preliminary canter on it. Then he looked at me searchingly and asked if I was opposed to slavery. I rather think he suspected me of being here on some secret mission to stir up insurrection among the negroes; but when I said that I thought they were much better off as slaves than they were in their native heathen condition, he relaxed considerably. He then worked around to church and doctrinal matters, and was argumentative and dictatorial about 'predestination,' 'effectual calling,' etc.; but I finally told him that though not a church-member, I had been reared under strict Presbyterian influences. This delighted him, and he said I was doubtless well grounded, and that if I was one of the 'elect,' I would be called in the Lord's own good time."
"I'm glad you got through so well. Hiram's a good man at bottom, but ez full o' prejudice ez a aigg's full o' meat. He even claims thet Stone hain't sound on orthodoxy, which means he ain't so streenous 'bout God Almighty's fav'rin' some folks to etarnal salvation, befoh the foundations o' the world, and others, jes' ez good, to everlastin' damnation. Brother Stone he's mighty quiet an' mild-like, but kindah hints thet God Almighty's too just to hev fav'rites. I tell you, thar's trouble brewin' on this very p'int; and thar's gwintah be a tur'ble split 'foh long in Cane Ridge meeting-house."
"Did you see the rest o' the folks at Gilcrest's?" Mrs. Rogers asked.
"No, ma'am, the interview was held at the stile block; but Major Gilcrest asked me to return after seeing the other patrons, and take dinner; and he also said something about my boarding with him."
"Boahdin' at Gilcrest's!" said Rogers. "Not ef me an' Cynthy Ann knows it! Of course you'll stop with us."
"Yes," added his wife, "me an' Susan's been all maw-nin' a-fixin' up the north room fer you, so's you kin hev——"
"You are certainly most kind, Mrs. Rogers. I'm sure I'll be pleased with everything which you and Mr. Rogers arrange."
"Well," said Rogers, again taking up the subscription paper and making a calculation, "you've done fine gittin' up a school, an' will mek a purty little sum outen yer wintah's wuck—'bout one hundred an' thirty dollahs, I mek it. Now, how many acres et a dollar an' two bits a acre kin be bought fer thet? 'Bout one hundred an' four, hain't it?"
"Yes, one hundred and four acres, if there were no other expenses, but——"
"Whut othah expenses kin you hev wuth namin'? You've got a saddle-bag full o' clothes an' books, hain't you?—'nough to last through the wintah; so whut——"
"But my board! You haven't said how much that will be."
"Well, now," said Rogers, with a sly wink at his wife, "how much do you reckon 'twould be right ter pay?"
"About five shillings per week. I'm told that is the usual——"
"Five shillin's! The granny's hind foot! Why, boy, whut you tek me an' Cynthy Ann fur? We shan't tek five shillin's nor yit five cents. A boy like you, not much older'n our William, ef he'd 'a' lived, an' frum Lawsonville, too! Didn't I tell you you'd be jes' lak my own frum this time on? Board, indeed! Heah's plenty o' cawn pone, hom'ny, bacon an' taters, I reckon; 'sides cawn an' oats an' stable room fur yer nag. All we ax is thet you nevah say board to us agin. But, ef you like," he added kindly, "you kin holp Henry an' Cissy some o' nights in ther books, an' mek a hand to wuck roads, one Sat'dy in each month tell snow comes."
Early Monday morning, while the frost yet glistened on grass and hedge row, Abner, accompanied by Susan, Tommy and the twins, set out for the schoolhouse, a mile distant. At the same time, by a dozen different paths through woods and fields, other children with dinner pails and spelling-books hastened toward the same goal, regardless of nuts, wild grapes and other woodland attractions; for each wanted to be first to reach the schoolhouse on this, the opening day.
Cane Ridge schoolhouse was a large hut of unhewn logs, with a roof of rough boards and bark. The windows were covered with oiled paper instead of glass, and the scanty light thus admitted was augmented by that which came in through frequent gaps in the mud-daubed walls. Wind, rain and snow likewise found free admission through these crevices; but on winter days the climate of the schoolroom was tempered by the blazing logs piled in the mammoth fireplace occupying one entire end of the building.
A rude platform opposite the fireplace was the master's rostrum, whereon was his high, box-like desk of pine and his split-bottomed chair. Just back of his seat upon the floor of the platform stood a row of dinner pails, and above on wooden pegs hung the children's hats and bonnets. On each side of the room was a long writing-desk, merely a rough board resting with the proper slant upon stout pins driven into the walls. Here on rude, backless benches sat the larger boys and girls. At the right-hand side of the room, on a lower bench in front of the older pupils, sat the little boys "with curving backs and swinging feet, and with eyes that beamed all day long with fun or apprehension." Opposite them, on a similar bench, was a row of little girls in linsey dresses and tow-linen pinafores.
Every grade of home was represented—the shiftless renter's squalid hovel, the backwoods hunter's rude hut, the substantial log house of the prosperous farmer, and the more pretentious dwelling of such men as Gilcrest and Dunlap and Winston, who claimed kinship with the flower of Virginian aristocracy.
In the pioneer schools grammar, history, geography, and the sciences, if taught at all, were usually treated orally; but in the main, spelling, reading, writing and arithmetic were the only branches studied. As reading-charts for the little ones, the alphabet was pasted upon broad hickory paddles which were frequently used for outside as well as inside application of knowledge. Readers were coming into vogue, but in most schools the pupils in reading advanced from alphabetical paddle to spelling-book; from spelling-book to "Pilgrim's Progress" or the Bible. Sometimes the Bible was the only reading-book allowed by the parent, and many a child in those days learned to read by wrestling with the jaw-breaking words in Kings and Chronicles; for, as Bushrod Hinkson declared when he refused to buy a reader for his son, "The Bible's 'nough tex'-book on readin', an' when a boy hez learned to knock the pins frum undah all the big words in the 'Good Book,' he'll be able to travel like a streak o' lightnin' through all kinds o' print."
Cane Ridge Meeting-house.Cane Ridge Meeting-house.
CHAPTER III.
CANE RIDGE MEETING-HOUSE
The third Sunday in October was the regular once-a-month meeting-day at Cane Ridge Church. Early in the morning a note of preparation was sounded throughout the Rogers domain, and by nine o'clock the entire household was en route for the place of worship. On chairs in the wagon drawn by two stout farm horses sat Mr. and Mrs. Rogers and the four youngest children, while young Dudley, Henry and Susan rode horseback. Uncle Tony, by reason of age, and Aunt Dink, by reason of flesh, instead of walking with the other negroes, were allowed to sit on the straw-covered floor of the wagon behind the white occupants.
As the cavalcade neared the church, a big, weather-stained log structure, they saw that, early as it was, a crowd had preceded them. Other wagons were stationed about in the shade, and many horses were tethered to overhanging boughs.
While waiting for service to begin, Abner stood near the church and looked around with some curiosity and not a little surprise; for nearly every grade of frontier society seemed represented—aristocrats and adventurers; mistresses and slaves; farmers and land agents; ex-Revolutionary officers and ex-Indian-fighters; lately established settlers and weather-beaten survivors of early pioneer days.
"Visiting together" near the woman's entrance were a number of matrons, some in homespun gowns, calico split bonnets and cowhide shoes; others in more pretentious apparel—bombazine gowns, muslin tuckers, and "dress bonnets" of surprising depth and magnitude. Near the other entrance, comparing notes upon fall wheat-sowing or corn-gathering, was a cluster of farmers in shirt sleeves, homespun trousers and well-greased shoes. Upon the horse-block a group of merry belles, divesting themselves of mud-stained riding-skirts, stood forth in bright array—beads and ribands, flaunting chintzes, clocked stockings and morocco slippers. Some distance off, upon the roots of a wide-spreading elm, sat two barefooted, swarthy, scarred old hunters with raccoon skin caps, linsey hunting-shirts and buckskin breeches. Near by, a group of urchins listened with open-mouthed absorption to blood-curdling reminiscences of days when upon this now peaceful slope the scream of the wildcat and the whoop of the Indian were more familiar sounds than the songs of Zion and the eloquence of the revivalist. Less in accord with the quiet beauty of this October Sunday, a squad of loud-voiced, swaggering, half-intoxicated young men lounged under the trees, recounting incidents of yesterday's cock-fight or betting upon the wrestling-match next muster day.
In contrast to the other vehicles, the Gilcrest family coach, with its span of glossy-coated bays, presently drew up before the church. The negro driver sprang from his high seat, and, bowing obsequiously, let down the steps and opened the door of the coach, from which emerged, first, Hiram Gilcrest in all the glory of Sunday broadcloth; next, two small boys, then a negro woman bearing in her arms the youngest scion of the house of Gilcrest, an infant in long clothes. Lastly came Mrs. Gilcrest, a fragile, faded woman in rustling brocade and satin petticoat. Close behind the coach rode a horseback party of four—Betsy Gilcrest, two of her brothers, and a young woman in long black riding-skirt and loose jacket, her features hidden by the gauze veil depending from her dress bonnet of corded white silk.
Betsy, rosy and dimpling, unencumbered by riding-skirt, dust-jacket or veil, tossed her bridle to her brother, John Calvin, and sprang from her saddle to the stile. Her movements were light and graceful, and she looked like a woodland nymph in a gown of light, gaily flowered chintz, and a large hat encircled in a wreath of bright leaves. As her companion, the girl in the corded silk bonnet, drew up, several gallants from the group of young people near by hastened eagerly forward to her assistance. After doffing riding-skirt and loose jacket, she stood a moment upon the block, adjusting her attire, a robe of misty lavender sarcenet with a pink crepe scarf loosely knotted across the bosom.
"I wish she'd throw back that veil," thought Abner, as he stood with Henry a little apart.
"That's Major Gilcrest's niece, come from Virginia to live with them," explained Henry, seeing Abner's admiring gaze fixed upon the girl. "She's as pretty as a rosebush covered with pink blossoms; there ain't a girl comes to Cane Ridge that can stand alongside her. She makes even Sally Bledsoe and Molly Trabue look like common hollyhocks."
By this time every one save the group of young people and a few stragglers out in the shade had entered the church, from which at this moment a loud voice was heard announcing, "Hymn 642;" while at the same time Deacon Hiram Gilcrest, standing at one door, and Deacon Bushrod Hinkson at the other, admonished all loiterers to come in.
As soon as the congregation was seated, Mason Rogers, in a voice of much power and sweetness, started the hymn already announced. Others quickly joined in, until soon the building was filled with a swelling volume of melody which made the walls resound and the cobwebs tremble. The negro nurse on the doorstep crooned the hymn as she held the sleeping baby. Uncle Tony, sitting on the steps of the pulpit platform, swayed his body and nodded his head in rhythmic motion. He could not carry a tune, but now and then would join in with a single note which rang out clear and loud above all the rest. Other negroes from their places in the gallery over the doorways opposite the pulpit, though they knew not the words of the hymn, added the melody of their plaintive voices. Little girls seated by their mothers on the woman's side of the low partition, and little boys by their fathers on the other side of the church, joined in with piping treble. Deacon Gilcrest, his stern features relaxed, kept time with his hand (down, left, right, up) as he thundered forth a ponderous bass. Old Matthew Houston from one "amen corner" added his quavering notes; while from the other, Squire Trabue, his chair tilted back, his face beaming, sang with little regard to time or tune, but with melody in his heart, if not in his voice. Near the central partition Susan Rogers and Betsy Gilcrest, happy and bright-eyed, sang from the same book, their voices clear, true, and sweet as bird notes.
As the music arose in a swelling wave of melody, Abner Dudley looked through the congregation for the girl in the lavender sarcenet. Presently he discovered her seated near a window and singing with the rest. Her veil was thrown back, and from the depths of the scoop bonnet, with a wreath of roses under its brim, shone forth a face of radiant loveliness. From her broad, white brow the shining brown hair was parted in rippling masses; she had darkly fringed blue eyes, a well-rounded chin, and skin whose tints of rose and pearl were like the delicate inner surface of a sea shell.
"Abigail Patterson, of Williamsburg!" he mentally ejaculated. "What is she doing here? Henry said that she was Major Gilcrest's niece, too. So this is the 'Miss Abby' whom the Rogers children talk so much about, and whom the Gilcrest children are always quoting. And to think that I had pictured her a prim old maid."
It was not until the preacher, who until now had been hidden by the high pulpit, stepped forward, that Abner was aroused to a sense of time and place. He looked up as the clear tones of the speaker rang through the building, and saw for the first time the man who was destined to exert a powerful influence upon his career—Barton Warren Stone. At this time, Stone was about twenty-nine years old, of slender build, refined features, earnest mien, and childlike simplicity—"an Israelite indeed in whom was no guile." This third Sunday in October was the day for the regular quarterly communion service, and the emblems of the sacred feast were spread upon the table in front of the pulpit. Extending his hand, the speaker reverently pronounced his text: "Put off the shoes from off thy feet; for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground" (Ex. 3:5).
Barton Warren Stone.Barton Warren Stone.
After pausing a moment that the words of the text might have due impressiveness, Stone proceeded. He explained that the command in its spiritual significance was still as imperative upon God's people when they entered the house dedicated to his service, as it had been in its literal sense to Moses when he had stood face to face with Jehovah at the foot of Mount Horeb. The speaker's musical accents fixed the attention of every hearer, and his words impressed every heart with the solemnity befitting the place and the hour.
As soon as the people were dismissed for the noontide intermission, they scattered about the grounds, talking, laughing, and setting out, upon the table-cloths spread upon the grass, the luncheons which they had brought with them.
While these preparations were in progress, Dudley started off with Henry to look after the horses. Before reaching the grove where they were tethered, he was hailed by Major and Mrs. Gilcrest with a cordial invitation to "break bread" at their table—an invitation which he, thinking of the beautiful niece, gladly accepted. He followed his host and hostess to a cluster of trees under which Abby Patterson and Betsy Gilcrest, assisted by their dusky servitors, had already spread a repast which an epicure might have envied. But to one, at least, of the guests it mattered little what viands were served; for young Dudley was soon enthralled by the witchery of the blue eyes, rose-tinted complexion and low-toned voice of the girl beside him. He was conscious the while of little else save an unreasoning animosity for a young man in powdered queue, flowered satin waistcoat, frilled shirt, and silver knee buckles, who sat at Miss Patterson's other hand, between her and Miss Gilcrest. This man, James Anson Drane, of Lexington, lawyer and land agent, notwithstanding Dudley's jealous fancies, divided his attentions almost equally between the two damsels, and seemed quite as content with Betsy's lively sallies as with Abby's gentler, more dignified conversation. As for the two gay youths, Thomas Hinkson and William Smith, who sat opposite, if Abner thought of them at all, it was only to pity them that the width of the table-cloth divided them from the angelic being at his right; although they had for their companions, Molly Trabue and Sally Bledsoe, who in their own buxom style were accounted beauties.
Later, the young people started on a ramble through the woods. Dudley offered his arm to Miss Patterson, thus separating them in a measure from the rest of the company, who finally joined other groups of strollers, until at last he found himself alone with her.
The air, odorous with the elusive fragrance of bark and crisping leaf, breathed a delicious languor. The summer green of the chinquapin burrs had given place to a richer coloring; the sumac and blackberry bushes flushed red in the sunlight. Not even when clad in the tender freshness of springtime beauty could the woods have been a more favorable place in which to indulge in tender fancies than now when panoplied in crimson and gold and burnished bronze, the scarlet fire of the maple and the gaudy yellow of the hickory contrasting with the sober brown of the beech, the dull red of the oak, and the dark gloss of the walnut. A redbird arose from the grass at their approach and circled away into the blue ether, and a rabbit, startled by the crackling of a twig, scattered away into the deeper undergrowth.
Presently, Dudley and Abby reached a shady spot where a large spring, clear as crystal, bubbled up from a hillside cleft. Outside this leafy nook, myriads of gnats and bright-winged flies buzzed in the sunlight; the soft breeze murmured faintly through the treetops, and the far-off echo of laughter and merry shouts of other strollers accentuated the quiet of this little retreat. They seated themselves upon the gnarled roots of a big tree that guarded the spring. Abby, untying her bonnet, tossed it upon the grass, and the sunlight glinted upon her lavender gown and gave a warmer radiance to the wavy masses of her hair.
"To-day is not the first time I have seen you, Miss Patterson," Abner said presently; "I recognized you the instant I saw you in church this morning."
"Indeed!" she exclaimed, looking at him searchingly. "Are you not mistaken? I have no recollection of ever seeing you before; and I have a good memory for faces, too."
"As to your having seen me, that's a different matter," he replied, "but I've a vivid recollection of you. It was at the Assembly ball at Williamsburg just four years ago this month."
"Ah, that Assembly ball!" she exclaimed sadly. "That was the closing scene of my happy young girlhood. Trouble followed quickly upon trouble immediately after that night, until, within six weeks, I had lost everything that made life sweet. But," she asked with a quick change of manner, "if you were at that ball, how happened it I did not see you? Were you not among the dancers?"
"On the contrary," Abner laughingly replied, "I was there as an uninvited guest. Not for me were the delights of minuet, cotillion and Roger de Coverly; for I had neither the costume nor the courage to penetrate into the ballroom. With several fellow-students, I had stolen from the college that night to witness the gay doings at the Capitol. As I stood in a doorway wishing I could exchange my sober college garb for that of a gentleman of fashion, you were pointed out to me as the belle of the ball; and memory has ever since treasured the radiant picture of the girl in a richly flowered brocade gown, who, with bright eyes glowing, powdered head held high, and with little feet that scarce touched the floor, led the dance with a handsome young soldier in officer's uniform."
"Ah! those were happy days!" she said sadly. "I wonder you recognized me to-day; I've had so much to change and age me."
"Changed you certainly are," he replied; "but, if I may say so, it is a change which has but enhanced your claims to the verdict I heard pronounced upon you that night—'the most beautiful woman in Virginia.' As for having aged, I can not agree with you. Beauty that owes its charm even more to sweetness of expression than to perfection of coloring and regularity of features never grows old. Besides, four years is not a long period, even when reckoned by youth's calendar. Some authorities, moreover, with whom I heartily agree, assert that no woman is older than she looks. According to that, you can not be more than sixteen."
"But," she replied archly, "another and equally reliable theory is that a woman is as old as she feels. That would make me at least thirty-six. So, perhaps, between two such conflicting opinions, it would be well to take middle ground and place my age correctly, at twenty-six. But here!" she added laughingly, "you have actually inveigled me into confessing my age, and that, you know, is what no woman likes to do—especially when, as I suspect to be the case here, the woman is several years older than the man. I am forgetting, too, to do the honors of our spring, which is said to be the largest and most unfailing in Kentucky—at any rate, it is known all through this section as 'the big spring.' Boone declared this water to be the coolest in the State. I wish it was like that magical fountain of Lethe, and that a draught from it could make me forget my old life. But, there! I will not look back, although your reminder of that Assembly ball has stirred old memories to the depths. That road out there was once a buffalo trail, and the buffaloes, doubtless, always stopped at this spring to quench their thirst—at least, old hunters declare that this was their favorite camping-ground. It was also a favorite resort of the Indians, and a battle was fought here between them and the white settlers, before the terrible massacre at Bluelicks had aroused the whites to determined and well-organized resistance and war of extermination. You should get old Mr. Lucky or Mr. Houston to describe the battle at this spot—they were in it. But now you must drink of this spring before you can be properly considered a member of this community in 'good standing and full fellowship."
"See!" she added, offering him a drink from an old gourd kept in a cleft of the rock for the use of chance passers-by. "This water is almost ice-cold—and just look at this mint. Uncle Hiram declares it to be the finest flavored he ever tasted. He never comes here without carrying away some for his morning julep. I will take a handful to stow away in the lunch-basket; it will save him a trip here after service this afternoon."
Before drawing on her lace "half-hand" mitts, she held out her hands, and asked him to pour water from the gourd upon them. Then she drew from the swinging pocket at her belt a tiny embroidered square, but before she could use it, Abner rescued it, and, substituting his own handkerchief, dried her hands himself. Her loose sleeves fell back to the dimpled elbows, and as he lingered over his task, he noted the delicate tracery of blue veins along the inner curve of her white arms. He saw, too, the freckles upon her rounded wrists, and that her well-formed hands were sun-browned and hardened by work.
"Are you counting the freckles?" she asked demurely, smiling at him from the depths of her white bonnet. "I fear you will not have time to make a complete inventory of all the freckles, needle-pricks and bruises; besides, it is some time since I heard voices, and we are far from the meeting-house. Uncle Hiram would think it no light offense to be late at afternoon service—and there is Betsy yonder by the big oak on the hill, waving and beckoning frantically. Let us join her at once."
"Yes, we must hasten," assented Dudley, consulting his big silver watch, after thrusting his wet handkerchief into the bosom of his coat.
David Purviance, a young licentiate awaiting ordination at the next session of presbytery, preached the afternoon sermon, and handled his theme, "The Final Perseverance of the Saints," in a masterly manner. But Abner Dudley gave little heed to the discourse; for his thoughts, stirred by the vision of the beautiful girl across the aisle, were wandering in an earthly paradise.
Through the deepening twilight he rode home alone that evening in a tumult of bewildered feeling, scarcely able to realize that only that morning he had been on that same road with Henry and Susan; for in the interim he seemed to have entered an entirely new world of thought and feeling.
CHAPTER IV.
WINTER SCHOOL-DAYS
Soon beautiful, misty Indian summer had vanished before the stern approach of winter. The chestnut burs had all opened; the wild grapevines, clinging to fence rails along the roadside and twining in drooping profusion over the trees in wood and thicket, had long ago been robbed of their glistening, dark clusters of frost-ripened fruit. The squirrels had laid in their supply of nuts; the birds had given their last Kentucky concert of the season and had departed to fill their winter engagements in the Southland; and the forest trees waved their bare arms and bowed their heads to the wind that wailed a mournful requiem for departed summer.
By this time the wheat had been sown, and the last shock of corn gathered. The school forces were, therefore, augmented by the advent of a dozen or more larger boys and young men, eager to gain all the learning that could be compassed in the months which intervened before early spring plowing and seeding would call them again to the fields.
In the icy gray dawn of these winter days the boy whose week it was to build the schoolhouse fire, would resist the temptation to snug down again in the soft folds of the big feather bed for another trip into delicious dreamland, and would hurry from his warm nest to attend to his morning chores, so that as soon as the early breakfast was over he could hasten through the snow-covered fields to the schoolhouse. There he would pile the fagots high in the big fireplace, eager to have them blazing and crackling before the clap of the master's ferule upon his desk at eight o'clock should summon the school to its daily work.
Cane Ridge school, under the gentle yet energetic sway of Abner Dudley, presented a busy scene. The click of the soapstone pencil upon the frameless slate, the scratch of the quill pen across the bespattered copybook, the shrill tone of the solitary reader as he stood with the rest of the class "toeing the mark" before the master, or the shriller tones of the arithmetic class reciting in concert the multiplication table, kept up a pleasant discord throughout the short day. The rear guard of this army of busy workers, the rows of chubby-faced little boys in short-legged pants and long-sleeved aprons, and of rosy-cheeked little girls in linsey dresses and nankeen pantalets, sat on their slab benches, droning mechanically "a-b, ab; e-b, eb," and looked with wonder at the middle rank of this army, adding up long columns of figures or singing the long list of capitals. Those of the middle rank, in their turn, as they gave place before the master's desk to the three bright pupils of the vanguard, wondered no less to see them performing strange maneuvers called "parsing and conjugating," or battling successfully against Tare and Tret, or that still more insidious foe, Vulgar Fractions. Ahead of this vanguard, on a far-off, dizzy peak of erudition, was Betsy Gilcrest, the courageous color-bearer of the army—actually speaking in an unknown tongue called Latin, and executing surprising feats of legerdemain with that strange trio, x, y and z, who had somehow escaped from their lowly position at the tail end of the alphabet, to play unheard-of antics and to assume characters utterly bewildering.
There was not one of those fifty pupils who did not soon find a warm place in the master's heart; but, though he took care by special kindness to the others to hide his partiality, yet soon pre-eminent in his regard were the four advanced pupils, Henry and Susan Rogers, plodding, thoughtful, thorough; John Calvin Gilcrest, shrewd, retentive, independent; and Betsy Gilcrest, bright, original and ambitious.
Betsy at sixteen was a capable, well-grown girl, such as the freedom and vigor of those pioneer days produced—glowing with health, instinct with life, and of saucy independence to her finger-tips. She possessed a fund of native wit which might, perhaps, often have taken the turn of waywardness, had not her scholarly pride held her girlish love of fun and frolic somewhat in check. Kindly-natured, bright-faced Betsy, champion of the poorest and meanest, helper of the dull and backward, idol of the little children, and object of the shy and silent but sincere adoration of all the big, uncouth boys! She was an exceedingly winsome lassie, with a light, graceful figure, and a richly expressive face framed in by a wealth of clustering dark hair. The sparkling light in the great brown eyes, the saucy curve of the scarlet lips, and the dimple in the rounded cheek betokened a laughter-loving nature; while the proud poise of head, the exquisite turn of sensitive nostrils, and the firm moulding of chin indicated dignity, refinement, and force of character. In her stuff dress of dark red, her braided black silk apron with coquettish little pockets, and her trim morocco shoes, she presented a striking contrast to the linsey-clad, coarsely shod girls on each side of her at the rude writing-desk, or even to her especial chum and chosen friend, Susan Rogers, in homespun gown, cotton neckerchief and gingham apron. It was well for the young schoolmaster that his heart was fortified by its growing love for Abby Patterson, else he could not, perhaps, have withstood the charming personality of Betsy Gilcrest, and a deeper regard than would have been in keeping with their character of master and pupil might have mingled with his interest in this warm-hearted, brilliant girl.
The fashionable people from Lexington who visited at "Oaklands," the home of the Gilcrests, wondered that Major Gilcrest sent his only daughter to this backwoods school, and his wife sometimes urged that Betsy be sent to some finishing-school in Virginia, or at least to the fashionable female seminary at Lexington, or to the lately opened young ladies' college at Bourbonton. Probably, had Betsy seconded the hints of these friends and the rather languid suggestions of her mother, this might have been done; but this independent child of nature loved her home and the humble little schoolhouse by the spring; and her father, whether at the pleading of his daughter, or because of his ingrained dislike of any suggestions from outsiders, continued to send her to the little neighborhood school. In so doing he was building better than he knew; for humble as was the Cane Ridge school, there was in it an atmosphere of happiness and refinement more real than could be found amid the superficial culture, genteel primness and underlying selfishness of most of the fashionable female seminaries of that day. The young Virginian schoolmaster was teaching these boys and girls far better things than could be found in any text-books—independence of thought, reverence for learning, and love of purity and truth; and it was lessons such as these that made these Bourbon County boys and girls reverence their master and love their backwoods school.
CHAPTER V.
"SETTIN' TILL BEDTIME"
One night in November the Rogers household had gathered as usual around the hearth in the spacious living-room. The fire roared and crackled merrily, dancing on the whitewashed walls, and shining brightly on the brass andirons and the glass doors of the cupboard.
The candle-stand stood in the center of the room; on one side of it sat Abner Dudley, reading aloud from the "Kentucky Gazette"; on the other, Mrs. Rogers, seated in the cushioned rocker, was patching a linsey jacket for Tommy, who, with his youngest brother, was playing jackstones on the floor behind the stand. To supplement the light from candle and fire, a huge hickory knot had been thrust into the fireplace, against one of the andirons. By its light Henry was weaving a basket, the floor around him littered with the long, pliable osier slips which the twins were sorting for his use. In the opposite corner, on a low stool, the negro girl, Rache, nodded over a piece of knitting. Mason Rogers, enjoying his after-supper pipe, was engaged in mending a set of harness. Susan, dreamily staring into the fire, held her sewing idly in her lap until her mother's voice aroused her.
"Come, Cissy, don't set thah with folded hands, ez though you wuz a fine lady. Ef you can't see well 'nough to do the overcastin' on thet jac'net petticoat, git out yer tettin' or them quilt squares. Rache, you triflin' niggah, wake up. You don't airn yer salt. I declar' I'll hev you sold down South the nex' time ole Jake Hopkins teks a drove to Alabam'. I reckon you won't hev much time fur noddin' down in them cottonfields, with the overseer's lash a-lippin' yer back ever' time he sees you idlin'. You'd better mek yer needles fly, fur nary a thing 'cept a switch an' some ashes will you git in yer Chris'mas stockin', ef all them socks fur Rube an' Tom ain't done by then. Lucy, you an' Lucindy leave 'lone them strips; you're jes' hend'rin' yer brothah. Git yer nine patch pieces. Gre't, big gals lak you ortn't idle."
"Some one's comin'!" exclaimed Mr. Rogers, the first to notice the barking of the dogs outside. "See who 'tis, Henry."
"Heah, Lucy, gether up them twigs," bustled Mrs. Rogers, as she swept the hearth. "Rache, tek thet harnish out. I declar', Mason, I wish you'd do sich wuck in the kitchen or stable. Folks'll think I ain't no sort o' housekeepah."
"How's Mrs. Gilcrest?" asked Mrs. Rogers a moment later, as she shook hands with Major Gilcrest and nodded to his boys, Martin Luther and Silas. "Wish she'd come with you, but I reckon she's feared to be out in the night air."
"Why didn't Betsy come?" Susan asked.
"Oh, Abby had company; Drane and Hart rode out from Lexington to spend the evening. Abby felt that she couldn't entertain two beaux at once, so Betsy stayed to help her."
"Don't pull the house down, childurn," Mr. Rogers called cheerily, as his four youngest and the Gilcrest boys were hurrying off to the kitchen for a game of romps. "Hold out yer apurns, gals, an' tek some apples 'long," he added to the twins. "You kin roast 'em on the h'arth."
"I hear, Mr. Dudley," said Gilcrest presently, "that you use the Bible as a reading-book in your school."
"Only in one instance," replied Dudley. "Eli and Jacob Hinkson use the Bible as a reader because their father refuses to get them any other."
"Ah!" exclaimed Gilcrest; "I must remonstrate with Hinkson."
"I'll be obliged if you will. I said all I could to him with no avail."
"It's a wrong use of the Word," said Gilcrest.
"Oh, I don't say that," Dudley replied. "If the text were not such hard reading for the little fellows, I'd be satisfied to have the Bible the only reader used in school."
"No, no!" Gilcrest objected with an emphatic shake of his head. "Such a course would tend to lead the young mind into error."
"On the contrary," returned Dudley, thoughtfully, "might not the seed of the gospel, thus sown, fall unconsciously into the child's heart and bear fruit for good when he is older?"
"No! It's dangerous to place the Bible in the hands of the unconverted young."
"Do I understand you to mean that children should not read the Bible at all?" asked Dudley.
"The mysteries of the Scriptures are not for the child to tamper with. When I was a schoolboy in Massachusetts, the New England Primer was the only reading-text, and I wish it were in vogue in our schools now; it contained the Lord's Prayer and the Shorter Catechism, and that's all a child should know about the Bible until after he is converted."
"But," asked Dudley, "how can a child learn the way of salvation if not by Bible reading?"
"By study of the catechism, of course," answered Gilcrest. "Once rooted and grounded in that, he will not be liable to fall into error later on, and put wrong interpretations on the Holy Scriptures. I'd rather have the Bible a sealed book to the unconverted, so that the Spirit may work untrammeled and sovereignly on his heart."
"Ah! I see now why the priests in olden times chained up the Bible so that the common people could not have access to it," observed young Dudley, with a sarcasm which was entirely lost on Gilcrest. "But isn't it the idea of this age and country that there should be a 'free Bible for a free people'?"
"Yes, for a 'free' people," retorted Gilcrest, "but not for those who are still under bondage to sin. Besides, those who have not been well instructed in the catechism, know nothing about 'rightly dividing the word.'"
"How about that passage," asked Abner, "'All scripture is given by inspiration, and is profitable for—for—for——'?"
"Henry kin say it fur you," interrupted Mason Rogers, thinking that the schoolmaster's Biblical knowledge had failed him; "he's mighty peart on quotin' Scriptur."
Whereupon Henry, who up to this time had been a silent but interested listener to the discussion, repeated the passage.
"Precisely!" Gilcrest exclaimed. "All Scripture is profitable—but to whom? To 'the man of God.' To such—the elect, the called—how are the Scriptures profitable? Why, as Paul says, to reprove and correct when he goes off into forbidden paths, and to instruct him further in righteousness. Only the regenerate, the elect, are referred to; for they only can do good works. Moreover, the very passages that are 'a savor of life unto life' to the called, are 'a savor of death unto death' to those out of Christ."
"Egzactly! I see that p'int, anyway," said Mason Rogers, as he sat with chair tilted back, meditatively nibbling at the stem of his unlighted pipe. "Sartain Scriptures air made to suit sartain diseases, lak doctah's physic; an' ef took when the systum hain't jes' in the right fix fur it, they might kill, instid o' cure."
Here Mrs. Rogers, who until now had been dutifully silent, intent on her sewing, remarked, "Well, Hirum, Preacher Stone hain't o' yo' way o' thinkin'; he's allus urgin' Bible readin'."
"Ah! Sister Rogers, Stone has much to learn and to unlearn. He's too broad in his views. In fact, I sometimes question whether he believes in Calvinism at all."
"Well, whut ef he don't, so long ez he lives right an' preaches right?" asked Mrs. Rogers. "When I heah him preach, I feel lak I want to be bettah. An' hain't thet whut preachin's fur, to mek folks want to live bettah lives? Whut diffruns whuthah he b'lieves in Ca'vinism, or not? It's jes' a big, onmeanin' word, anyway."
"That won't do, Sister Rogers. Calvinism is the stronghold of the Christian religion. Furthermore, it's a logically constructed system of belief, and if you are loose on one point, you're loose on all. Every departure from Calvinism is a step towards atheism. The downward grades are from Calvinism to Arminianism; from Arminianism to Pelagianism; from Pelagianism to deism; from deism to atheism."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Mrs. Rogers, undaunted. "It teks a scholard to undahstand all them jawbreakahs. Common folks lak me nevah'd git the meanin' intah ther head pieces. An' I say thet the sort o' preachin' to do good is them plain, simple truths whut Bro. Stone gives us."
"Yes, Hiram, Cynthy Ann's right," said Rogers. "The gospel ez Stone preaches it seems plain ez the nose on yer face, but when the 'five p'ints' is discussed, I git all uv a muddle."
"But, Mason," asked Gilcrest, "you surely believe in the Confession of Faith of your church, do you not?"
"Why, I s'pose I do b'lieve it—leastways, I subscribed to it when I jined the chu'ch; but I'll be fetched ef I understand it."
"We've hed 'nough talk on religion fer one spaill, I think," now put in Mrs. Rogers. "Let's hev some apples an' cidah. Susan, see whut them childurn air about. They're mekin' 'nough fuss to tek the roof off." As she spoke, there came from the kitchen the sound of loud peals of laughter, much scampering, and the cry, "Pore Puss wants a corner!" indicating that the children were having an exciting game.
Presently Gilcrest, as he took another apple, said, glancing at the "Gazette" on the stand: "So Aaron Burr came within one of the Presidency! I'm glad the House decided in favor of Jefferson. He is bad enough, but Burr would have been even worse. Are you a Federalist or a Democrat, Mr. Dudley?"
"How could a Virginian be anything but a supporter of the great Jefferson?" replied Abner. "Could I have done so, I should have remained in Virginia until after the election, so as to cast my vote for Jefferson; but it was necessary for me to come to this State."
"An' glad we air thet you come," said Rogers, heartily.
"Being a Virginian ought to make you a Federalist, I should say," suggested Gilcrest. "You forget that a greater than Jefferson was born in Virginia."
"Then, as Massachusetts is your native State," said Dudley, "I suppose your Federalistic convictions are modeled according to the hard-and-fast principles laid down by Adams, rather than the more elastic federalism which Washington taught. That is, if place of birth really has anything to do with shaping one's political views."
"One could not have a better leader than John Adams," Gilcrest stoutly asserted.
"Whut!" exclaimed Rogers. "Afteh them Alien an' Sedition outrages?"
"Why, man!" Gilcrest retorted, "those very laws were for the saving of the nation."
"Though a Democrat, I'm inclined to agree with you there, Mr. Gilcrest," Dudley said.
"Ha, Mr. Dudley," said Gilcrest, pleasantly, "I've hopes of your conversion into a good Federalist yet. You're young, and your political prejudices haven't become chronic—as is the case with Mason here."
"My motto," rejoined Rogers, "is, 'Our State fust, then the nation.' The Federal Government didn't do no gre't shakes towa'ds he'pin' Kaintucky when redskins an' British skunks wuz 'bout to drive us offen the face o' the livin' airth."
"But, Mason, remember that at that time our nation was battling for independence, and could ill spare aid for us in our struggle for supremacy in this western frontier."
"Jes' so!" retorted Rogers. "An' whar'd you an' me an' the rest uv us who wuz strugglin' fur footholt heah hev been, ef we'd depended on the Federal Government to fight Caldwell, McKee, Simon Girty, an' ther red devils? We had to do our own fightin' then, you'll agree, Hiram."
"Why, Major Gilcrest," Dudley exclaimed, "were you an Indian-fighter? I thought you were a Revolutionary soldier."
"So I was," Gilcrest answered, "from the battle of Lexington until badly wounded in Virginia by Arnold's raiders in the spring of '81. Then, early in the next year I came to Kentucky."
"You surprise me," Abner replied. "I thought you did not settle here until after Indian depredations had ceased."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Gilcrest. "You thought I came like Abram from Ur of the Chaldees, bringing family, servants, goods and chattels, did you? No, I made that sort of migration several years later. I first came alone, to spy out the land, and to find a suitable location wherein to plant a home and rear a family. Descriptions of this new country beyond the mountains had led me to picture it a paradise of peace and plenty and tranquil beauty; but when I came, I found the picture obscured by the red billows of savage warfare. Why, the first time I ever saw Mason here, he was equipped with knife and tomahawk, rifle, pouch and powder-horn, and just setting forth to the relief of a beleaguered station."
"No wondeh," exclaimed Rogers, "thet you found me an' ev'ry otheh able-bodied man uv us should'rin' our guns an' gittin' knives an' tommyhocks ready! You see, Abner, the Injuns undeh ther white leadahs wuz thet year mekin' a stubbo'ner an' bettah planned warfare than eveh befoh. Ruddell's an' Martin's stations hed been demolished, an' follerin' close hed come, airly in the spring, the defeat at Estell's, an' a leetle later, Holder's defeat; an' heah in August, on top o' them troubles, comes accounts uv more massacrein's an' sieges. If eveh the right man come at the right hour, it wuz you, Hiram," Rogers continued, "when you rid inteh Fort Houston jest afteh we'd got the news. Ez soon's I clapped eyes on you I sized you up ez a fellah afteh my own heart—a man ready to go whar danger wuz thickest, a man whut would stand by a comrid tell the last drap uv his own blood wuz spilt. Will you eveh furgit thet seventeenth o' August, Hiram, an' the tur'ble days whut follehed on its heels?"
"Never, while life lasts," replied Gilcrest. "And, as for a comrade in time of peril, one could not want a braver or a truer than yourself, Mason. You see," he continued, turning to Dudley, "it was this way: Early that morning had come tidings that the Indians, a few days before, had surprised the scattered families around Hoy's, and had butchered many ere they could reach the fort. Hardly had this tidings been related before two more runners, half dead with fatigue, half-crazed with horror, came panting in from Bryan's to tell how Caldwell and Girty and their hordes of savages had surprised and surrounded that garrison. These two runners had managed to steal out under shelter of the tall corn back of the fort at Bryan's, to bring messages from Colonel Todd, imploring Fort Houston to come to the rescue. Other messengers had carried the same appeal to other stations. Ah!" he continued enthusiastically, "the men of Kentucky were brothers indeed in those trying times! And the garrisons of Houston, Harrods, St. Asaph's and all the other forts, responded as one man to that cry from Bryan's."
"Did you leave the women and children in Fort Houston?" asked Dudley.
"No, indeed," answered Rogers before Gilcrest could speak. "'Twuzn't safe. Houston's wuz li'ble to be attacked in our absence. Besides, it wuzn't ez big an' strong ez Bryan's, whar the stockades wuz bullet-proof, the gates uv solid puncheons, an' the houses within built afteh the ole block-house pattern. So we tuck our women an' childurn with us. Cynthy Ann, with our little William in her lap, rid behind me on the nag, an' I carried befoh me in the saddle a little chap belonging to one uv our men, who hed a sick wife an' a two-weeks-ole baby to look afteh. Thet was a sad, sad trip fur me an' Cynthy Ann," he murmured with a sudden break in his voice and a wistful look at his wife. "The hurryin' gallop oveh eighteen mile o' rough country with the br'ilin' sun a-scorchin' down on us all the way, cost us the life uv our fust-borned, our purty little William. I tell you," he added excitedly, "ef the men o' thet day showed up brave an' faithful, our women, God bless 'em, wuz even braver an' more endurin'."
"They were indeed," Gilcrest heartily agreed with an appreciative glance at Mrs. Rogers, "and it was their heroic self-sacrifice and noble endurance that made it possible for us to subdue this wilderness. When I reached here that summer of '82, and saw the terrible life of the pioneer women, I was thankful I had left my betrothed bride in Virginia. It took women of stout courage and nerve, such as you, Sister Rogers, to be really a helpmeet to a man in this wilderness of twenty years ago. A woman of weak nerve or faint heart would have succumbed under the hardships and danger."
"Like pore Page's wife," added Rogers.
"Pore Mrs. Page!" exclaimed Mrs. Rogers. "I'll nevah furgit her hard fate."
"She was the wife of one of the Page brothers who were with us at Blue Licks, was she not?" asked Gilcrest.
"Yes," Rogers answered. "The two brothers hed come oveh the mountains the spring befoh, an' hed built a cabin an' made a sort o' cl'arin' out in the wilderness 'bout two mile frum Houston's, on the road to Bryan's. One uv the brothahs—I can't re-collect his fust name—wuzn't married; but the otheh hed a wife an' a four-year-old boy when they come, an' anotheh child wuz borned to 'em 'bout two weeks befoh thet last Injun raid. They hed been warned agin an' agin thet it wuzn't safe outside the fort; but still they lived on out thar till thet tur'ble August mawnin'—when they runs pantin' inteh Houston's with the tidings thet the savages hed attacked ther cabin. They'd been roused in the night by the stompin' an' nickerin uv the hosses. It wuz a starlight night, an' peepin' out uv a loophole in the front uv ther house, they seen redskins skulkin' in the shadow o' the trees. They couldn't tell how many ther wuz, but nigh a dozen they thought, an' they didn't know how many more might be hidin' in the bushes. So they decided it wuz no use to try to defend themselves, an' that ther only chance to save ther scalps wuz to steal out befoh the Injuns got to the door. You see, they couldn't git to the hosses, fur the red imps wuz between the house an' whar the hosses wuz in the woods which grew up close to the cabin in front. But at the back the trees wuz all cl'ared off, an' ther wuz a gairden patch next to the cabin, an' then a cawnfiel'. The only door wuz in front, an' thar wuz no windah either in the back—only two little loopholes. One uv the puncheons in the floor hed been left loose a purpus, an' they took it up without mekin' any noise. Then, afteh waitin' tell they saw thet the Injuns hed skulked up nearly to the door, they crawled through the gap in the floor, an' then frum undeh the house into the gairden, an' then to the cawnfiel', an' stole through it to the woods on t'otheh side. Then they run fur ther lives, expectin' ev'ry minit to be attacked. It wuz a meracle they eveh reached the fort alive. Pore Mrs. Page wuz 'bout tuckered out. You see, her baby wuz barely two weeks old; besides, she 'peared to be a pore, weak-sperrited creeter, anyway; an' the long run an' the skeer hed well-nigh done fur her. It wuz her little boy, the four-year-old shaver, whut I toted befoh me as we hurried to Bryan's. On the road, we hed to pass the Pages' cl'arin', an' thar, still burnin', wuz the remains o' their cabin which the redskins hed fired. Ther gairden an' cawnfiel' wuz trompled an' blackened an' ruined; an' jes' on the aidge uv the woods by the roadside thar lay ther pore cow, still breathin', but welterin' in her own blood. The red devils hed split her wide open with a tommyhock. Mrs. Page fainted away when she saw thet, an' wuz most dead when we got to Bryan's. She got bettah, though, an' the next day when we sot out in pursuit uv the Injuns, her husband went with us. But, pore woman, she an' her baby both died thar in the fort befoh we got back."
Abner Dudley, listening with fascinated attention, was thrilled into strange excitement by the tantalizing impression of his having once been, as a little boy, a spectator or a participator in just such an episode as Mr. Rogers was describing—of the terror-stricken little family fleeing through the woods at night. He also seemed to recall the picture of a burning cabin, and of a slaughtered cow lying on the roadside. Still another picture seemed to flit before him—that of a group of women and children alone within high log walls, and of a bewildered, heart-broken little boy being lifted by one of these women from a rude pallet where lay a dying mother and a still-faced, tiny babe.
Often before to-night Dudley had had dim, fleeting fancies or imaginings of such a scene which always, when he would have recalled more clearly, would vanish entirely. Realizing how impossible it was that he, born and reared in a quiet Virginia village, could ever have lived such a scene, he had always, when tormented by the fancy, concluded that the impression was evoked by the memory of some tale heard in early childhood of the horrors of pioneer life. So now, instead of trying to follow up these tantalizing fancies, he dismissed them again from his mind.
"When we got to Bryan's," Rogers was saying when Abner again began to listen, "Girty an' Caldwell an' ther Wyandottes hed fled. The stockade hed held out agin 'em, an' all inside wuz safe. But, land o' liberty! whut a ruination all about the outside o' them walls! Oveh three hundurd dead cattle an' hogs an' sheep lay strowed 'round through the woods; the big cawnfiel's wuz cut down an' tromped an' ruined; so wuz the flax an' hempfiel's; an' the tater craps an' the other gairden stuff wuz pulled up. No wondeh we thusted fur vengeance. So us rescuin' parties an' the Bryan Station fo'ces, afteh a night consultation, set out et daybreak nex' mawnin' to folleh up an' punish. We thought ef we hurried we could soon ketch up with the enemy; so we didn't wait, as some o' the oldeh men advised, fur the reinfo'cements whut Gen'ral Logan hed already started."
"Had we waited," interrupted Gilcrest sadly, "no doubt the story of savage butchery enacted at Blue Licks two days later, might have had a different ending."
"Maybe so," assented Rogers, "or ef, when we did git to the springs thar on the banks uv the Lickin', we'd heeded the counsels uv Boone an' Todd an' Trigg, instid o' the lead o' thet red-headed, hot-blood Irishman, Hugh McGary, when he plunged his hoss inteh the river, an' wavin' his knife oveh his haid, challenged all whut wuzn't cowa'ds to folleh him. My soul! my hair rises yit when I think uv whut come next. On we all reshed afteh McGary inteh the river, an' up the redge on t'otheh side; fur, of course, Todd an' Boone an' our otheh rightful leadehs, whose advice we'd disregawded, wouldn't fursake us when they seed we wuz detarmined to rush it. Et fust, without ordeh or caution, we hustled forwa'd—until the foes sprung out uv ambush. Good Lawd! Ev'ry cliff, ev'ry bush an' cedah-tree wuz alive with them red devils; an' it seemed lak all hell hed bust loose on us. Still, Boone an' the otheh commandahs, afteh the fust minit's surprise, managed to rally us in spite o' the hell fire whut rained on us frum behind ev'ry tree an' rock. So when we'd reached the backbone uv the redge, we formed in some sort uv ordeh. Boone, fust in command, took the left wing; Todd, the centah; Trigg, the right; an' the Lincoln County men undeh Harlan, McBride an' McGary a sort o' advance guard. But 'twuz no use then. We only fired one round. Befoh we could reload, them devils wuz on us with tommyhocks an' scalpin'-knives. Then, a hand-to-hand fight fur a minit. Afteh thet, our men—all whut wuz left uv us—wuz mekin' back towa'ds the river, with the yellin', whoopin' swarm o' hell's imps at our heels."
"Who can depict the horrors of that day!" Gilcrest ejaculated. "It has been estimated that at least one-tenth of all the able-bodied men in Kentucky either fell on that battlefield, or were carried captive to meet lingering death by torture. You see," he continued, "we had thought we could have a better chance at the enemy on foot than on horseback, so we had dismounted before forming into line; and then we were so closely pursued that few had time to reach the horses."
"An' thet," said Rogers, taking up the narrative, "give the savages anotheh big edvantidge; fur they jumped on our hosses an' galloped afteh us, while we had to mek to the river on foot."
"Yes," said Gilcrest, "and if it hadn't been for you, Mason, I'd never have reached the river. A fierce Wyandotte brave mounted on one of our horses had picked me out as his special prey, and I, exhausted by my long, hot run, and already slightly wounded, could never have reached the ford but for your timely aid."
"Fo'tunately," Rogers put in, "I, who hadn't been so close pressed, hed hed time to reload my rifle. So we left thet Injun varmint rollin' in the dust with a bullet in his back, an' you an' me jumped on thet hoss an' swum the river. But, pshaw, Hiram! talk 'bout my savin' yer life! Thet wuz nothin' to some o' the brave things you an' others done thet day. Do you re-collect how two uv our men afteh they'd got safe oveh the river, instid o' mekin' fur the bresh, stopped thar on the bank in full range o' the Injuns on t'otheh side, an' rallied the men an' made 'em halt an' fire back at the whoopin' red demons, so's we pore wretches whut wuz still swimmin' fur life could hev some chance to escape? It wuz Ben Netherlands an' one uv the Page brothehs—Marshall Page, I believe 'twuz—who did thet."
"Marshall Page!" ejaculated Abner Dudley.
"Yes, it was Marshall Page, I think," answered Major Gilcrest; "but why your exclamation, Mr. Dudley? Do you know any one of that name?"
"I can't recall that I do," answered young Dudley; "but the name seems familiar, and, in fact, I have a dim impression, absurd though it may seem to you, of having heard or experienced many incidents such as you and Mr. Rogers have been describing. But my impressions may be baseless."
"Your impressions," said Gilcrest, "are doubtless only the faint memory of some tale heard in your early childhood. Such harrowing incidents as Mason and I were recalling were common enough in the pioneer days, and have furnished the theme of many a fireside recital. As for Marshall Page, you very likely have known some one of the name; for I believe there are still many Pages living in Virginia and Maryland; but you can not have known the man I mean—either Marshall Page or his brother, whose Christian name I can not recall just now—for he was killed there on the banks of the Licking while bravely helping his comrades to escape. Which brother was it, Mason?"
"Blest ef I know," Rogers replied; "but one, whicheveh it wuz, wuz killed at the Licking, an' the otheh wuz captured by the savages. Seems to me, though, I heard aftehwa'ds thet he escaped befoh they got to the Injun town way back in Ohio, an' thet he turned up agin at Bryan's thet fall, an' took the little Page boy back across the mountains to his own people. Wuzn't thet the way uv it, Cynthy Ann?"
"Yes," Mrs. Rogers answered, "Mary Jane Hart, who kept the little boy with her at the station afteh his motheh died, tole me about it the nex' summeh when she come oveh to Houston's one day, an' uv how she hated to part with him; fur she hed no childurn uv her own then, an' hed took a mighty fancy to the pore little fellah."
"Speaking of Netherland's and Page's brave deed," here spoke Major Gilcrest, "Mason, do you remember Aaron Reynolds' equally brave and self-sacrificing rescue of young Patterson that day?"
And the two veterans, spurred by each other's promptings into livelier recollection, painted in vivid colors many more of the stirring incidents of that most tragic event in the annals of pioneer Kentucky, the battle of Blue Lick Springs.
Young Dudley and Henry Rogers, their fighting blood aroused by the realistic portrayal, sat by with kindling eyes and quickened pulses, while each in his heart pictured some deed of daring heroism which himself might have achieved had he been in that memorable battle.
Mrs. Rogers' sewing lay unheeded in her lap as she rocked slowly to and fro, her gaze fixed upon the fire. She, too, was painting pictures and seeing visions of the long ago—pictures which included not only the heroic band of Kentucky's defenders in the midst of the bloody horrors of that battlefield, but also that band of devoted women shut up alone with their helpless little ones in that lonely station, not knowing what terrible fate was befalling husbands, brothers, kinsmen out in the wilderness, nor what even greater evils from lurking foes might at any moment beset themselves within their stockade fortress; and her brave lip trembled and the visions in the fire became dimmed and blurred as she thought of that terrible ride under the scorching rays of the August sun, and of the eighteen-months-old babe, her little William, who, already ailing before the departure from Houston's, and unable to bear the merciless heat of the long journey, had died in her arms at Bryan's two days later—hours before her husband returned from that ill-fated march to the Licking.
"No," she thought, as she wiped the tears from her eyes, and resumed her sewing, "our men didn't hev all the strugglin's an' the trials; we women fought our battles, too; an' ours, afteh all, wuz the hardest parts."