"O praise the Lord, for He is good,His mercy lasteth ever,Let those of Israel now sayHis mercy faileth never.Let those who fear the Lord now sayHis mercy faileth never."
"O praise the Lord, for He is good,His mercy lasteth ever,Let those of Israel now sayHis mercy faileth never.Let those who fear the Lord now sayHis 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.
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.
"You are a man, Donald; it would be presumption in your mother to withhold her blessing from any worthy thing you had set your heart upon. As for your safety, dear, I must leave that in God's hands. I trust you to Our Heavenly Father's care, my son, with only the shield of our hourly prayers about you."
Recruiting was no easy task, especially with the account I was free to give of the object of our expedition. I encountered all sorts of objections and discouragements, and was obliged to travel from end to end of the county, and into the district of West Augusta, with little left of my two months' anticipated holiday to spend at home. I grew impatient of my ill success, especially since all my enquiries in the county concerning Ellen were as fruitless as Thomas' had been. There was no other conclusion left us than the one my father had reached, and both Thomas and I grew more and more restless to start westward, that we might begin a more hopeful search.
At last I was enabled to add Captain Bowman's company to the score of volunteers I had been able to get together, although this made it necessary that I should yield him my place as captain, and content myself with a lieutenant's rank. Captain Bowman was encouraged by the prospect of glory and land grants, the men satisfied with large but vague promises; and by the middle of May we were ready to start.
Clark—recently made colonel by Governor Henry—with three companies, each of less than fifty men, and a band of emigrants, had already reached the falls of the Ohio, and we were ordered to join him there as speedily as possible.
It was marvelous what Clark had accomplished with less than one hundred and fifty men in the three weeks he had been at the Falls, and I now conceived a higher opinion than ever of the rare qualities of the man. He had a faculty for organization, and for using men and circumstances which amounted to genius of the noblest order. Already he had builded a substantial block house on Corn Island, just above the Falls, in which all his goods, supplies, and ammunition were stored; the newly enlisted men had been taught some idea of the duties and requirements of soldiers by the work, systematically organized, of clearing and building, by the regular camp life, and the daily drills which they practiced. Still more important, they had acquired unbounded confidence in their leader, and all his orders were obeyed with a cheerful alacrity that promised well for our project.
The camp presented a busy and cheerful scene, and the neighboring settlement of emigrants had already the promise of a village in the dozen log cabins built, or building, surrounded by newly broken ground, ready for the corn planting. Our company was received with enthusiasm, and Captain Bowman by Clark with the consideration due his rank and age. Publicly I had only the formal recognition of an acquaintance, but as soon as we had been assigned a place for our camp, and the ax-men set to cutting poles for our booths, Colonel Clark, who, meantime, had concluded his interview with Captain Bowman, and given personal attention to the pitching of a small tent for his accommodation, sent a messenger to me with word that I would please follow the man to the block-house. There Colonel Clark awaited me in a small room adjoining the one in which the ammunition and extra arms were kept; he had taken this room for his own quarters that he might watch over his precious store of lead and powder and guard against its waste.
"With three hundred like you, McElroy, I'd venture an attack upon Quebec itself," was Clark's greeting, as he seized and shook both my hands in a grip that cramped them, "I see what you've done, stepped down rank a grade in order to get Bowman's militiamen to fill up your company. It glads my heart, McElroy, to know there's one kindred spirit in this enterprise with me."
The proud distinction had been mine of claiming a personal friendship with Colonel Morgan. Also I had been commended by General Arnold for my bravery at Freeman's Farm, but more than all these Colonel Clark's recognition of a sacrifice which had cost my pride no easy struggle, gratified me. Clark read men as a master in geometry reads his blackboard, and found as little difficulty in solving the human problem. Captain Bowman he had won to hearty cooperation in his plans by treating him with the dignified consideration he deemed his due, and now he took the surest way to fasten me to him as with hooks of steel.
"You have accomplished so much already, Colonel Clark," said I, "that I have less doubt than ever before of the success of your project. Your raw recruits are already soldierly in bearing, and your camp as orderly as a barrack. Our company will be the awkward squad of your command."
"Two weeks' training will bring them up with the rest," answered Clark. "Most of them are Scotch Irishmen I see—that is saying all that is necessary. But I must tell you my plans before we are interrupted. I shall often want your secret counsel, until the opportunity comes to give you a place on my staff. How much, think you, does Captain Bowman know?"
"Only, I surmise, that we are here to protect the frontier, and that it is probable we may be commanded to make a foray into the lands of the Iroquois, in which case our chances for promotion and bounty lands will be increased."
"That is well. He knows enough to have a mind prepared for further disclosure, and is not likely to turn back when he knows all. Did any suspicion of our real object seem to occur to any one in your neighborhood?"
"To no one except to my mother, and I easily allayed her shrewd suspicions. Most of our people were disposed to blame our project as diverting strength from the cause."
"More than anything else I am dreading that the English may get some information as to our movements, their suspicions be aroused, and the garrisons at Vincennes and Kaskaskia reënforced. I have certain information, through spies I have been sending out all summer, that both places are sparsely garrisoned at present, the men having been withdrawn to defend Canadian forts, which are thought to be more exposed. Also that the commandant and most of the garrisons, if not all, at Kaskaskia are French, and not overfond of their new British masters, while the English officer in charge of Vincennes is just now absent at Detroit. You see, therefore, that we run but little risk of failure, if only our plans can be kept secret."
"Certainly the prospect is so far encouraging. When do we start and by what route?"
"In ten days or two weeks, down the river by boat to the mouth of the Tennessee, and, I suppose, landward to Kaskaskia—since that is the weaker point. Meantime we must drill and enthuse our men, load our boats and get all in readiness for a forced march. It will be best, I think, not to inform the men of our destination till necessary.
"Hello, Givens!" as a face appeared before the open window—"come in!" Then, lowering his voice to me—"be careful, McElroy, in your talk to the scout; he doesn't know all yet, and it is necessary to reveal our plans to him gradually, and to use some persuasion; he hates the Indians, and longs to fight them, but he has never consented to bear arms against Great Britain. Nor do I want to persuade him against his convictions, but he'll not be of much service to us unless he is one with us. If he does consent freely to go on he will be as valuable as an interpreter as he has been so far as a scout and guide. I'm loath to lose his services."
Givens had by this time made his way through the armory, and was knocking on Clark's door. His recognition of me was immediate.
"Glad ter meet yer ergin, Capt'n McElroy," speaking with his usual emphatic drawl, and with hand outstretched cordially. "Couldn't resist ther temptation, yer see, uv goin' ergin ther red-skinned devils onct more 'fore ole age kitches me, en' lays me by ther heels. But ther savages's wary, sence they larn't thet last lesson we sot 'm so mighty well et Pint Pleasant. 'Tain't ther intentions, 'pears like, ter walk inter no more sich traps; besides er leader like Cornstalk's precious sildom found 'mongst 'um. They'll be mighty apt, though, ter be at ther native tricks uv skulkin' roun' en' bushwackin' en' ambushin' ef we give 'um enny chanst. Long es we keeps tergether, howsomever, en' in ther open they ain't no ways likely ter distarb us."
"This block-house is a substantial warning to them, Givens," put in Clark; "I wish we had forts all through the Ohio and Mississippi country; that would be the surest way to drive and hold back the savages."
"And now that the English are arming the Indians and using them to intimidate the border colonies, we must make a big show of strength, or all our frontier settlements will be wiped out," said I.
"Do you believe thet thar 'tale, Capt'n?" asked Givens, a flush rising to his cheeks. "'Tain't like the gallant English."
"I think there's small doubt of it, it's by King George's command and is not approved by his ministers, I understand. Governor Henry has had most positive information to that effect recently."
"If thet's so, I ain't no longer countin' myself er loyal subject," said Givens, speaking even more slowly and emphatically than usual. "Ef ther English king es capabul' uv armin' red skins, en' turnin' 'em loose on ther settlements ter murder innocent wimmen en' babies, then I'm done bein' loyal ter 'im. I'd es lief jine ther Continentals en' fight 'um wid ther rest uv yer."
Clark gave me a sly and eloquent look and, with that tact which amounted to a sixth sense with him, turned the subject at precisely the right moment. "Where's your foster son this afternoon, Givens? I haven't seen him since drill this morning."
"Oh, I got a furlough fur 'im, en' sont 'im over ter ther settlement. He ain't over strong, so I saves 'im all thet's possible. He's powerful frens uv some uv ther wimmen en' chillun down ter the settlement, en' sence he ain't so mighty strong I'm glad fur 'im ter hev ther milk en' ther eggs they meks 'im eat."
Just then Clark was called out a minute, and I took this opportunity to tell Givens about Ellen O'Niel, of her having left her home, of our long fruitless search for her, and of our finally having reached the conclusion that she had been captured and carried off by Indians; of our hope of finding her or getting some clew to her fate during this expedition, and my reliance on him to help me make enquiries among the various Indian tribes we might meet.
At first he asked me a few questions as to the time Ellen left home, her age, appearance, etc. Then he pulled his cap over his eyes, and listened silently.
"You do not think it likely the Indians have killed her?" I asked anxiously, his silence seeming ominous.
"'Taint like ther red skinned devils ter kill er handsum' young gal."
"Then do you not think we have good prospect of finding her, and will not the Indians be glad to take a big ransom for her?"
"Thar's some prospects, I reckin', en' ef we find 'er we'll git 'er," was the scout's answer, as he got up and marched off, his skin cap still pulled down over his eyes.
Once during the next two weeks, I had Givens' step-son pointed out to me; his youth, his shyness, and the scout's special watchfulness over him, seemed to have excited a good deal of interest. I, too, felt some curiosity. Givens had said nothing to me of a foster son the day I had visited him, though it is true our conversation was confined to the one topic, and there was no occasion to mention any other. Perhaps he was not then with Givens, or the form I took to be a woman's in the adjoining room was his, the swish of a woman's skirts being added by my imagination. Well, it was no concern of mine, either way, and I had enough to do and to think about.
Thomas Mitchell, who had improved greatly in health and spirits, under the influence of an outdoor, active life, and manly duties, came to me about a week after our arrival at Corn Island, and with an air of mystery led me off down the river some little distance from the camp.
"Do you know, Donald," he said almost in a whisper, "I am convinced the scout, Givens, knows something about Ellen?"
"And why do you think so?"
"I was telling him the story of her disappearance, and our vain search for her, to-day, in the hope of getting him interested, and he seemed already to know everything."
"Well," I laughed, "that is not strange. I also told him a week ago, and for the same reason."
"Oh, did you! Still that does not fully account for his manner, Donald, nor his unwillingness to continue the subject. He's got some clew, I'm sure."
Colonel Clark now detailed eighteen of the least bold of his men to remain behind at the block-house, for the protection of the settlers, and of our extra supplies. He then allowed his officers to make known that we were about to start on a further journey down the Ohio—the object and destination of which would be revealed just before the start was made. Confusion and speculation reigned in camp; boats were loaded; rifles cleaned; ramrods whittled from the hearts of hard wood saplings; a supply of bullets molded, and a lot of new moccasins and bullet pouches made, by those skilled in such work, from the skins we had collected.
At the afternoon drill hour, on the twenty-third of June, Clark presented himself, in riflemen's uniform, before his men, and was greeted with enthusiastic cheers. He gave orders to the captains that the men should form in two columns, and then swing out in double line facing him. The maneuver was executed without a hitch, and our small force presented a fine soldierly appearance. Most of the men were past early youth, either brawny pioneers or substantial freeholders, many of them being persons of some education, and considerable weight in their own communities. They were not, as some have charged, a set of mere adventurers.
The occasion and the scene were well calculated to impress one who realized their import, and as I walked back and forth to dress the line, my imagination took fire, and all the daring deeds I knew of tradition and history marshaled themselves in my memory—a long and glorious array.
"My men," spoke Colonel Clark, when all were waiting in expectant silence—"shall we press onward to a glorious enterprise—or having conducted our emigrants, and established them here in safety, shall we turn homeward without having wrought any deed worthy to be written on the page of our country's history? I can lead you on to the performance of such deed, my men—that noble friend of liberty, Patrick Henry, has sanctioned a daring enterprise, which all along, I have had in my mind, and which, if successfully executed, will bring honor and dominion to our noble commonwealth, and to each of us renown, fortune, and the gratitude of all Virginians. Not only so, but in executing this bold plan, we shall strike a telling blow for that cause we all hold dearest.
"No need, my men, to say what that cause is—the cause to which the heart of every man present, I truly believe, responds as gladly, as the tenderly nurtured infant to its mother's loving call. The cause of liberty for which each one of us would proudly shed his blood! Nor is the cause unworthy such devotion, my comrades, for 'tis not only that of our country's independence, of American liberty, of blessed freedom and rare privileges for our descendants—'tis the cause of the world's liberty, of the freedom from kingly tyranny and the right to seek happiness for all future generations of men, till time shall be no more. My brothers, future ages will look back to us and call us blessed, will offer thanks to Heaven for the brave and determined people of the new continent, who freely risked all for liberty—threw into the scales against the claims of oppressed humanity, every present good, every hope for the future. Are you willing, my men, to sacrifice still further, to risk still more for the cause? Shall I tell you more? Shall we press onward?"
"Onward! Colonel, onward!" yelled the men in wild enthusiasm—"tell us more, tell us more! Onward! Onward!"
Then Clark told them the true object of our expedition, and unfolded all his plans, which had been so well concealed, hiding from them nothing of the hardships and risks of the undertaking. Yet he dwelt long and eloquently upon the tremendous consequences of success, the glory that would be theirs, and the important results to Virginia and the cause. He added that he wanted no half hearted consent, that he far preferred that all those who were not enlisted heart and soul in the enterprise—ready to do and to dare all things,—should make their decision now. They could do so by stepping out of ranks. Seventeen men stepped out, looking sullen and ashamed of themselves.
"You are free to go," said Clark, with a contemptuous wave of the hand toward the east; then he faced the faithful again, and made them a brief speech, which set them wild, and sent them off to their booths so eager to begin our adventure that they could scarcely wait for the night to pass.
During the first part of Colonel Clark's address, I had watched Givens, close by. His face was a study of mingled interest, eagerness and doubt. When Clark gave the command that all who did not wish to follow him should step out of ranks, he started forward, hesitated, then dropped back into rank, where presently, he was cheering with the rest. When all were gone except the officers assembled around Clark, Givens came up to him.
"Colonel," he said, "I've tuck my stand by yer fur good en' all; yer may fight Injuns, ur British, ur what yer please, I'm with yer."
"Thank you, Givens," said Clark, shaking his hand heartily; "we could ill afford to lose you."
"Mebbe you'd better thank that boy uv mine. Him yer've plum bewitched, en wher' he goes, goes Givens."
That night as I wandered about the camp—it was all astir till long after midnight—I got wind of the fact that some of the deserters were lurking around trying to persuade others to sneak off with them, and went straight to Clark with the information.
"Detail a squad from your company, McElroy, and surround the camp with a close cordon of guards," said Clark, promptly.
I did so; then Clark had the drum beat, and the men called to the drill ground, where waning moon and twinkling stars gave barely light enough for them to see each other's faces.
"Silence!" commanded Clark, stilling the confusion with a word. "I understand that the cowards who deserted us this evening are in the camp attempting to stir up mutiny. It must be stopped. The deserters must leave camp immediately, or suffer the penalty of mutineers and traitors. Should any other man, except these, attempt to leave the camp he will be arrested or shot by the guards now surrounding it. You had your chance, men, and took your choice; you must now abide by your decision. To-morrow we start for Kaskaskia."
A June sky and a resplendent sun, undimmed by cloud or mist, beamed upon the camp next morning, as we made last preparations for our departure. Those of the men who had been detailed to "stay by the stuff," at the block-house, were plainly dissatisfied, now that they realized that they were to be left out of the adventures and chances, as well as the toils and dangers of our enterprise. Those who had made the bolder choice were as eager as boys starting on a first bear hunt. The uncertainty as to what might befall us, the unknown country we must traverse, the very dangers we would probably encounter, all lent mystery and excitement to our undertaking.
The entire population of the settlement, and all the block-house garrison were assembled on the river bank to say good-by to us. The women were in tears, the men quiet and serious; we, on the contrary, were hilarious with excitement.
Colonel Clark again addressed the men in words stirring and heroic, and the command to embark was given. Company by company we stepped upon the flat boats, and drifted rapidly down the Ohio to the falls, each raft guided by a skilled poleman, who stood erect, steering carefully for the one channel through which we could safely shoot the falls. The crowd on the bank was still cheering the last boat load, as the first dropped over the edge of the rapids. At that moment the sun, which had beamed less fiercely for some time, though in our engrossment we had taken little notice of the fact, became suddenly obscured, and the dimness of twilight fell upon gliding river, green banks, and tumbling falls. One could scarcely recognize the faces of his companions beside him in the boat, nor the polemen see to steer. The cheering ceased, and over man, beast and nature fell an awesome stillness. The birds in the branches of the overhanging trees ceased their glad caroling, the insects their buzzing, the fish their plunging, even the hurrying river seemed hushed into a more subdued murmur, and the noise of the falls to subside into a muffled roar.
The men in my boat drew in their breath; one uttered a stifled sigh, another a low moan; and I realized that a word might precipitate a panic. I stood up and studied the sky for explanation of the phenomenon. The sun held his wonted place in a cloudless sky, but over his radiant face lay a black disc, leaving only a bright rim upon one edge.
"It is an eclipse, comrades," I called, in my loudest tones, "an eclipse of the sun. I take it for a good sign—symbol of what we shall do for autocratic power upon this continent, only that will be a lasting, as well as a total, eclipse."
My words had magic effect upon the men in our boat, and in the two others near enough to hear my words. Clark must have said something similar to those in his, and adjacent boats, for I saw him spring to his feet, pointing to the sun, and simultaneously with our shouts of "Eclipse, eclipse! good sign, good omen! Thus we'll blot out the forts in the northwest," came like cries from the other boats, and answering cheers from the bank. So the ominous portent, as it seemed at first, was changed into a symbol of encouragement.
Often since, I have thought of this incident, which seems to illustrate the way life should be met. Allow ourselves to be discouraged by apparent auguries of failure, and we will turn our backs upon success, when our feet are already pressing its threshold; yet such signs read by the light of a steadfast purpose, and a courageous heart, may become but prophecies of victory, and encouragement to more strenuous effort.
Our journey down the river was as rapid and uneventful as the most hopeful of us could have asked; we reached the mouth of the Tennessee without a single adventure worth recording. On the way, however, Colonel Clark had learned a most cheering piece of news, and one momentous to our undertaking. The rumored French alliance was made public, and France had promised liberal and immediate aid of men, money, and a fleet. That night when we had disembarked at the mouth of the Tennessee, after we had tied up the boats, and killed and cooked our suppers, Clark assembled the men, and announced the joyous intelligence he had received, pointing out all the fortunate consequences to our expedition to be expected from the French alliance. This was all that was needed to give the men assurance of success, and to make them ready to brave everything.
Next morning we shouldered all the ammunition we could march under, and set out for Kaskaskia. We were still following the river, when, an hour after starting, we hailed a boat load of hunters. They proved to be Americans—a new appellation among us—but eight days out from Kaskaskia, and after a conversation between them and Colonel Clark, one of them, a certain John Saunders, consented to act as our guide through the Illinois country, with which he professed to be perfectly familiar. This solved our one difficulty, for until now we had lacked a guide. With light hearts we resumed our tramp across prairie, marsh, and forest, seeing victory within our grasp—renown and wealth as the individual reward of each, and for our country extended dominion, and added glory.
Good luck continued to attend us, while six more days passed. We had fine weather and made good progress, considering the unbroken; wilderness through which our route lay. Time was most precious, for everything depended upon our reaching Kaskaskia before any rumors of our approach should get to the ears of the commandant. Signs of lurking Indians, pointed out from time to time by Givens and Saunders, made the least enthusiastic among the men eager to hurry on; but these filled Thomas and me with impatience, because even Givens discouraged our wish to seek out their camps, and to question them in regard to Ellen. It would be foolhardiness, declared Givens, and result only in our being ambushed—he'd find "the gal" fast enough for us when once we were safe behind the walls of a fort, and could kill the "redskin devils" at our leisure.
On the eighth morning, Saunders spread consternation among us by the announcement that he was lost—that he did not know where we were, nor could he recognize a single landmark. The night before we had seen the smoke from a distant camp fire, which Saunders said he doubted not was that of some roving Miamis or Kickapoos. This fact made our predicament the more serious. At once a halt was called, and Clark sternly declared to the confused Saunders—who was half suspected of treachery by us all—that unless he quickly found the way, he might prepare for instant death. It was not possible, Givens declared, in his slow, emphatic dialect, for a scout and woodsman to lose his way in a country he had once traveled over, and Saunders had either lied to us in the first place, or was laying a trap for us now; therefore all were ready to back Colonel Clark in his evident resolve to make short work of the suspected traitor, unless he speedily found himself. Saunders saw that his doom was sealed if he could not quickly regain his bearings, and went to work desperately, closely attended by two guards, retracing our way for some distance, examining sky, stream and trees, then climbing to the tops of the tallest to overlook the landscape.
The men sat about smoking dejectedly, or muttering their suspicions to each other. Meantime I grew restless, and the sight of the anxious face of Saunders, and the stern face of Clark, oppressed me. So I picked up my rifle, and plunged into the forest which fringed the higher ground stretching eastward. A small stream flowing out of the woods promised either spring or pond, and possibly rare game, within. As I started I called to Givens asking him to sound his turkey yelper should they resume the march before my return.
The shade and freshness of the woods was most grateful and the tangle of well laden blackberry bushes in a more open space beguiled me to stop and pluck some of the fruit. The spring found, I looked about for signs of game, but seeing none, propped my rifle against a tree, laid flat down upon my chest, and buried my face in the limpid sweetness of the pure, cool water. I drank till satisfied, then fell to dreaming. The same scenes under different aspects came to me always in my day visions, or night dreams—pictures of home, recollections of my childhood, and occasionally some scenes from those few weeks of dissipation in Philadelphia, with Nelly's witching face, swimming, amidst my memories. But I liked the home scenes best, and next to seeing them in the flesh, was the happiness of closing my eyes, and conjuring up visions of my mother, of Jean, and of Ellen.
What a glad day it would be when, Ellen having been found, and our country's independence won, Thomas and I could go home and settle down to peace and happiness!
Peace and happiness! Would it be ours after all, so long as Aunt Martha set herself, in her narrow bigotry, to persecute Ellen? so long as there was estrangement between husband and wife, mother and son in my uncle's family? So tenderhearted was my mother, so loyal to her sister, that even we could not be a happy family while there was discord and unhappiness in Aunt Martha's—for mother was our happiness barometer, and the family atmosphere went up or down with her feelings. But mother should adopt Ellen, and we would make her happy, and Aunt Martha ashamed of her harshness and the narrowness of her religion.
Then and there I vowed a new crusade. I must be a soldier always, fighting upon one arena or another for some principle of human liberty—for the love of liberty and a fervent zeal for it had, from long meditation and some sacrifices in its cause, gotten into my blood, and become a part of my nature. When this war against autocratic rule should be ended I would take my stand by Mr. Jefferson, and give all my time and energies to the brave fight he was making for entire and universal religious liberty. Deeper and deeper had I plunged into the trackless wilderness of my own thoughts, till I was lost to consciousness of the place, the hour and myself.
Perhaps I had been dimly conscious of some slight movement in the bushes behind me—afterward I remembered being subtly disturbed by it, and of lifting my head to listen—but the first sounds that really aroused me were the short explosion of a rifle, followed, almost instantly, by the whistle of a bullet cutting its way through the still air, and then, scarcely a second later, a wild weird whoop, close beside me, which caused me to spring to my feet, and turned me in its direction, as if I had been an automaton. There, beside the tree, against which I had leaned, was stretched the quivering body of a dying Indian. One hand still grasped a tomahawk, while the other clutched frantically at the leaves and grasses. A last quiver and he was still, his set eyes staring into the branches, rustling softly above him.
It was all a mystery to me. Where had the Indian come from? Who had shot him? I stood an instant gazing down upon the still savage in dumbfounded amazement, then took my rifle and started back to the men in search of an explanation of it all. Presently I overtook Givens' foster son, who was hurrying forward as fast as he could. I caught up with him, halted him, and asked if he had shot the Indian. He did not answer, and only pulled his cap farther over his eyes. I took his rifle, and looked into the bore of it; it was warm, empty, and smelled strongly of powder.
"Givens," I said planting myself before him, and holding out my hand, "you have just saved my life, doubtless. Won't you let me thank you?"
The beardless lips of the lad, about all I could see of his face under his wide brimmed cap, curved into a half smile, and he said, in muffled voice, his head still on his chest:
"The savage had just poised his tomahawk for a blow when I saw him."
"You acted most promptly," I answered; "he might have brought a whole tribe down upon us, so that you have perhaps saved the entire band, as well as Donald McElroy." I continued to talk, to praise his coolness, readiness, and marksmanship, and to repeat my thanks, but I got no more out of the lad and it was so evident that I embarrassed and annoyed him that presently I walked on and left him to follow. He seemed affected with a painful shyness, and apparently preferred solitude to the most flattering society.
No immediate opportunity was given me to tell Givens of his boy's kindly deed, for, just as I joined him and Colonel Clark, talking earnestly together, Saunders, still attended by his guards, came running toward us, waving his arms, and shouting joyously. He had found a landmark, and knew our locality! We were but a day's march from Kaskaskia, and the way was safe and open!
"Comrades," said Clark the next morning, just as we were falling into line of march, "have you remembered the day? It is the fourth of July, my men—the anniversary of our Declaration of Independence, the birthday of our liberties—day propitious in the history of the United States of America! Our guide tells me that we are but six leagues from Kaskaskia, and I have already planned our attack. Bloodless victory awaits us—for I can rely on each man of you to do only and all that is expected of him. We will march within half a mile of the fort this morning, conceal ourselves in the woods until dark, and, then, dividing into two companies, we will rush into the town from opposite ends, shouting and brandishing our knives.
"I am told that the minds of the French in this region have been filled with terror of the bordermen by horrid tales of our ruthless cruelty; we may as well take advantage of this impression to overawe them. Perhaps we may prevent bloodshed by producing astonishment and terror in the breasts of the garrison and citizens. We have no quarrel with the French, but are concerned rather with winning them peaceably to our side. After a night of fear—but you must remember, men, that we wish to arouse apprehension alone, and that a single deed of violence or rapine may ruin all—the reaction will be the greater, and our liberal terms of amnesty the more gratefully accepted. As we lie in ambush this afternoon, you will preserve the strictest silence, and not a man must venture out of hiding till the command to advance be given. Carry out this plan successfully, and Kaskaskia is ours to-morrow, and Virginia's forever!"
Cheers rent the air, and the more enthusiastic waved their caps over their heads, and shook each other's hands, as if victory were already ours.
The town lay dark and silent under the stars, as our two bands circled it, and simultaneously marched down the principal street from opposite directions, yelling, and brandishing our unsheathed hunting knives, as demon-wise as the worst of savages.
"The Long-Knives! The Long-Knives!" shouted the people upon the streets, running from house to house to spread the alarm, while women and children screamed, doors were slammed and barred within, and lights extinguished everywhere. Gradually the pandemonium of shrieks, shouts, and screams subsided into a hush of fearful expectation, during which Givens and Saunders, each of whom could speak a little French, marched captured citizens from door to door, before which they required them to announce in loud tones that the general in command of the Long-Knives had decreed that all citizens of Kaskaskia who should remain quietly within their houses would be unmolested, but that all who ventured out would be summarily dealt with.
M. Rocheblave, the commandant, was surprised in his bed-chamber, and taken prisoner. His wife, a pretty, voluble Frenchwoman, went into hysterics, and begged piteously for their lives in broken English, much mixed with French words, and interpreted with expressive gestures. Colonel Clark assured her, as best he could, that no harm would be done them, and then bade me search the apartment for papers while he stood guard in the doorway. Meantime the Commandant and Madame looked on, the latter regaining her composure, and seating herself on a small trunk, from which she watched my proceedings with smiling scorn. I searched everywhere, upsetting furniture, and even ripping open the feather beds, but few papers were found, and they of slight importance. The trunk which Madame seemed to be guarding was, evidently, the receptacle for the more important documents.
"Madame," I said, approaching her, and taking her gently by the arm, "I must search this trunk also."
But she held her place firmly, and, in better English than she had yet spoken, heaped reproaches upon me, saying that "no man worthy of the name would invade the privacy of a woman's personal belongings." Then she began to weep and to wail, and to entreat Clark piteously.
"Let her alone, McElroy," said Clark, at last; "we cannot use violence to a woman," so we marched off with our prisoner, the Commandant, and left the little Frenchwoman to destroy his papers at her leisure.
"I tell you, McElroy," said Clark, "I'd rather face a battalion, or storm a battery, than to encounter another hysterical Frenchwoman."
During the night we took possession of the ungarrisoned fort—a disused warehouse, which had served as fort since the burning of the old one—and Colonel Clark issued strict commands that only the officers and such soldiers as he should detail to guard the town from time to time, must leave the fort until further orders. By this ruse the citizens were deceived for weeks as to our real strength, their imagination readily using such adroit hints as Colonel Clark threw out to magnify our force into a strong army of invasion, and the squad left at Corn Island, into large reinforcements, expected in a few days.
All night guards patrolled the streets. The inhabitants, however, obeyed orders strictly, and did not venture forth next morning until permission was given them, with the information that the fort and the town were in our possession, and M. Rocheblave a prisoner.
Their distressed faces presented a strong contrast to the cheerful scene which greeted our eyes with the beaming sunlight of the morning. Kaskaskia, situated on the right bank of the Kaskaskia or the Okan River, six miles above its confluence with the Mississippi, was then a village of two hundred and fifty houses, situated on a beautiful and rolling peninsula. The velvet verdure of the plain, dotted with little groves of pecan, maple, ash, and button-wood, the glassy surface of the idle river, the lofty hill opposite, with its stately forest, the air scented with the fragrance of its wild flowers, the little springs gushing from its sides in sparkling beauty, all reposing in the lap of nature, with their virgin freshness yet upon them—there was a landscape to charm her most capricious lover. We gazed enchanted on the fair picture and felt that we had reached a Canaan, rich reward for all we had dared and endured.
Presently came the priest to Colonel Clark, asking that the people be allowed to assemble once more in the church to say to each other a last farewell before leaving their homes, and separating forever. "Theirs," he said, "was the fortune of war, and they made no murmur—since an all wise God had willed it so. Nor could they complain of their conquerors, who so far had treated them with unexampled consideration. They had but one other favor to ask—that the men might not be separated from their wives and their little ones."
Doubtless all the night through the woeful fate of the hapless Acadians had been present to the anxious minds of the people, who were expecting for themselves, as the best to be hoped, a similar fate.
When the priest's words had been translated to Colonel Clark by Saunders, he answered with a winning smile, and a convincing air of friendliness:
"Monsieur Gibault, we have nothing whatever against your religion, nor against the citizens of Kaskaskia. Assemble your people in church when and for what purpose you will; worship God freely, as your consciences dictate. It is to win freedom of belief and personal liberty for all the inhabitants of this broad continent we have taken up our arms. But we came not to fight against the French; our quarrel is against King George of England. And why should the citizens of Kaskaskia, for the sake of being loyal to a power which has but lately subdued them, desert their comfortable homes, and wander forth again into the wilderness? Why should they not make peace, and live in harmony with the allies of their father land? Have they not heard the great news—that France and America have formed a close alliance—that a French fleet and a French army are on their way to help us fight the armies who have invaded us because we would not submit to tyranny and injustice? Does not this alliance absolve the citizens of Kaskaskia from all allegiance to England? Is not blood thicker than treaties forced upon a people at the point of the sword?
"No! M. Gibault, there is no necessity for your flock to bid each other farewell, and scatter into the wilderness to fall prey to wild beast and cruel savage! Remain peacefully in your homes! swear allegiance to Virginia! conclude with us the same alliance that France has lately entered into with the United States of America, and not a drop of blood need be shed, not a man, woman, or child need leave his home, nor resign either his religion, nor a franc's worth of his lawful property! We will pledge ourselves to secure your safety, and to maintain you in the enjoyment of all the rights and privileges of American citizens!"
The gentle face of the priest passed from distressful entreaty, through all the varying expressions of surprise, doubt, conviction, relief, and rapture, as Colonel Clark's speech, phrase by phrase, was interpreted to him. He poured out fervid and voluble thanks, called down Heaven's blessing upon such merciful conquerors, and repaired quickly to the church to spread the glad news among his flock.
Never have I witnessed a more affecting scene than the one which followed. The child-like Kaskaskians passed in an instant from despair to joy, from fear and horror of us, to enthusiastic admiration and affection. We were their allies, their brothers, not only would they share all they had with us, but they would assist us against our common enemy.
An hour later, when the first outburst of joy had somewhat subsided, Father Gibault called his flock to assemble again in the church, that they might offer to God a solemn thanksgiving for this great deliverance. Colonel Clark and I, with two others of the officers, attended this service and gave respectful attention. In a far corner of the dim little chapel I recognized the slim form of young Givens bowed in worship. Again I fell to puzzling over the lad—some mystery attended, evidently, his presence among us. Could he be a Catholic? yet Catholics were as rare as Jews in our part of the State; Ellen had been the single one in our county as far as I knew. There was no solving the mystery, unless Givens chose to disclose what he knew, and that he was little likely to do, without good reason. Well, mysteries were not rare in the New World, and we were little accustomed to concern ourselves about them beyond idle speculation.
When the religious ceremonies were over, Father Gibault announced that the rest of the day would be celebrated as a fête day, and asked that the panins, or slaves, should be given holiday. Festoons of flowers were quickly woven, and hung from house to house; maidens and youths danced upon the green; flutes, violins, fife, and drum filled the air with music; and later a supper of pan cakes and maple syrup was served to all by soft-voiced, bright-eyed Frenchwomen. Dancing, feasting and rejoicing were kept up in many of the houses until midnight. Intoxicating drinks had flowed so freely, meantime, that there was much disorder on the streets, and several fights among the panins, who mingled with their masters in a familiar manner, strange to us. To their brawls, however, we paid no attention, since only friendly demonstrations were made us, and no one ventured near the fort, in which the men were kept with some difficulty.
To Colonel Bowman's company fell the lot of marching up the river to take possession of the town and fort of Cahokia. Several of the citizens of Kaskaskia had volunteered to go with us, and, entering the town before us, easily persuaded the inhabitants to transfer their allegiance from Great Britain to Virginia. As in Kaskaskia, the news of the French alliance was all that was needed to incline to a bloodless surrender.
Chosen by Captain Bowman to carry the news of our easy success to Colonel Clark, and ask for further instructions, I was again in Kaskaskia within the week. My interview over with Colonel Clark—who took my news with rather disappointing calmness—I found Givens waiting for me, his anxious face and air of mystery giving me a sharp surprise. He led me aside, and asked abruptly,
"You hed er cousin by ther name uv Ellen O'Niel?"
"Yes," I answered, still more surprised.
"She's yander in the fort, en lyin' low. What'll we do erbout et?"
"Here, in Kaskaskia? It is not to be believed."
"All ther same, Capt'n, et's so. John Givens es Ellen O'Niel, dressed en boy's clothes. Howsomever she's down with ther swamp fever now, en must hev woman's nussin' en' priest's docterin' es soon es it's ter be got fur 'er. It's yer es must tell Colonel Clark, en' have 'er moved frum ther fort at onct."
"How came she with you, Givens? And why did you let her come all this way from her friends—and dressed, too, in men's clothes?" I questioned angrily.
"'Tain't no time fur explanations now, Capt'n. Ther gal needs tendin' ter, right away," and he stalked on in front of me with imperturbable manner, but anxious countenance.
It took few words to explain so much as was necessary to Colonel Clark, and not many more to enlist the sympathies of Madame Rocheblave. We soon had the poor child,—yet in her rifleman's garb, but too far gone in the stupor of her disease to know anything—removed to the Commandant's house, and left her in the care of Madame, and a fresh faced girl whom Madame called Angélique, and recommended as an excellent nurse. Then we went to see Dr. Lafonte, the village doctor, and Father Gibault, who was reputed to be skilled in herbs and roots, and especially successful in treating fevers.
When both had come, while we waited for their verdict, Givens sat down beside me on the steps of the house and told me the following story:
"Twuz one bitter cold en' snowy evenin', las' winter, as I wuz out on ther mountin', huntin'. I seed a dark heap 'long side er ther parth, en' thort 'twuz er wild beast uv sum descripshun. When I got closter I heerd er human moan, en' seed it wuz er woman, hurt, en' harf froze. I toted 'er home on my shoulder, laid 'er on my bed, en' rubbed sum life inter 'er. Fur days she did'n' know nothin'; then, when she did 'pear ter notice sum, she lay ther', too weak ter speak, en' lookin' more like er ghost than like er woman. When she could talk she 'peared not ter wan' ter, en' specully not ter keer ter talk erbout herself. I didn't ask 'er no questions, en' one day I tole 'er I'd call 'er Mary ef she'd es lieve—thet having been ther name of my own leetle gal, es ther redskin devils killed, en' her eyes somehow remindin' me uv ther chile's. She 'greed ter thet, en' got more friendly.
"One day she axed me if I could give her some paper en' er quill. I guv 'em ter 'er, made 'er sum poke-berry ink, en' she writ' er letter; thin I tramped ter Charlottsville ter post et fur er. She waited en' waited, en' twiset I went ter town ter git ther answer, afore it cum. When et did cum, et sot her ter cryin', en' took all ther red out'n her cheeks ergin—fur by this time she wuz well en' strong, doin' all my cookin' en' mendin', and makin' cheerful company fur me evenin's. She said 'twuz her own letter cum back frum ther postman, who had writ on et thet ther people et wuz sont ter didn't live in Baltimore no longer. She didn't hev no whar, now, ter go, she said, crying pitiful. She could stay with me es long es she'd er mind ter, I tole her, en' I'd be glad to hev her fur my own chile—sence the red-skinned devils hedn't left me none. Thet seemed ter cumfort her some, but you cum er few days arter thet, en' she heerd me tell yer I'd like ter go with Clark. You wuz no sooner gone then she declared she wuz goin' off so es not to be er hinderunce ter me, nur my plans. Ter thet I wouldn't ergree nohow, spechully arter she hed tole me er leetle 'bout how she happened ter be on ther mountin thet evenin'—though she never did tell me her name, nur ther name uv her kin folks.
"We talked mos' all thet night; she argified, en' I argified; et las we cum ter this ergreement:—she wuz ter go with me ter Kaintucky es my foster-son, en' we'd settle out ther, when she'd put on her gal clothes ergin, en' be my daughter fur good en' all.
"I went ter Charlottesville, got er rifleman's uniform fur 'er, en' she put it right on ter practice wearin' it, en' lookin' natural en it. Every day she went huntin' with me ter practice shootin', en' I tuk ter callin' her John. By ther time we started, 'twas all es nat'ral as if 'twere so, en' everything went smooth tel you en' Mr. Mitchell come. She wuz skeered fur fear you'd fine 'er out, en' staid most er the time at the settlement. 'Twuz my intention to leave er ther, even ef I went on with Clark, but she wuz mad fur adventure by thet time, en' would cum' on. The reason I let 'er wuz becus' uv yer two bein' her kin, in case 'twuz needful ter mek known she wuz er woman. Her being in 'tother company kept you frum seein' 'er much, en' nights I allus slept nigh 'er es you know. She's been awful sick now fur twenty-four hours, en' both uv yer gone. Et's been er terrable responserbility frum fust ter last—es fatherly as I feel ter ther poor gal," and Givens mopped the sweat from his brow, and drew a long, deep sigh of intense relief.
"Will she recover?" I asked eagerly of Dr. Lafonte, who just then opened the front door softly. To translate my question was beyond Givens' strictly limited French, but somehow Dr. Lafonte understood, and replied in his own tongue.
I gazed at him hopelessly, for then I could not understand a single word of the French language. Father Gibault, gliding behind the little doctor, smiled at my bewilderment and translated for me with many shrugs and gestures.
"He would say, Monsieur, that Mademoiselle ees very seek—boot she ees young and strong, eef le bon Dieu ees weeling she weel make recovery. I, Monsieur, have plenty Peruvian bark, et ees la grande médicine; Mademoiselle weel make recovery, I theenk, Monsieur," and he gave me a benign and reassuring smile.