I shall pass over the details of our arduous midwinter march of one hundred and sixty miles to Vincennes across swamps and flooded plains. Also any account of the three separate mutinies of our French recruits and the almost irreparable loss of our boat, theWilling, and consequent lack of food and rest while we worked feverishly, knee deep in water, building canoes.
The timely capture, after we had crossed the swollen river and reached firmer ground, of an Indian canoe loaded with buffalo meat, corn, and (strange circumstance) several large kettles, alone saved our men from starving and our hazardous attempt from total disaster. On the afternoon of the eighteenth day we reached Vincennes, and with our numerous flags, which through all the suffering of the march we had never relinquished, mounted on long poles, Clark disposed his little band in squads, and ordered them to march some distance apart and to follow the winding road (easily seen from the village, though hidden from the fort) to the town.
Not only did we meet with no resistance from the townspeople, but numbers of them offered to assist us in storming the fort. Tabac and his hundred Indians, who were camping near the town, likewise offered their services as allies.
When the firing upon Fort Sackville began, General Hamilton was in Captain Helm's quarters playing piquet with his prisoner, while the latter brewed upon the hearth his favorite beverage—a spiced apple toddy. Helm's room had been pointed out to us, and we aimed at his chimney. Soot and plaster came tumbling down, half filled the kettle and ruined the smoking drink. The players sprang to their feet.
"I'll wager it's Clark, and his riflemen, General," said the jovial Helm. "They'll take the fort, for they are the finest marksmen in the world. Meantime they've spoiled our toddy, d—— 'em, and with malicious intent you may be sure; some villager has indicated my quarters to McElroy, I dare say, and he pays his respects to me, and announces their presence this way. D—— their sure bullets and their rude jokes; wish we had drunk that toddy sooner. Now look at it!" and he held out a ladle full, gritty with dried mud, and black with soot.
"You are cool ones, you Americans," said Hamilton, with an uneasy laugh. "Pray, how do you suppose Clark would get his men here through these floods?"
"They swam, maybe—oh, Clark and his riflemen are equal to anything. Might as well run up your white flag, General, and be done the sooner with this unpleasant business; we can finish our game then, and have Clark in to help drink my second brewing—he's good at that as at fighting; we'll make a jolly party."
"Curse your impudence, Helm! I'll not surrender the fort while there's a man to the guns!" and Hamilton departed, sputtering with angry excitement.
All night brisk firing was kept up on both sides; at the same time detachments of us worked like beavers to make a trench about a hundred yards in front of the main gate. Early next morning Clark sent in a flag with a bold demand for surrender, and during the respite afforded by its reception the men ate a hearty breakfast, provided by the well disposed townspeople. It was the first meal they had had in five days. This was the message sent by Clark under his flag of truce, and it is so characteristic of the man that I quote it verbatim:
"Sir—In order to save yourself from the impending storm that now threatens you, I order you immediately to surrender yourself with all your garrison, stores, etc., etc. For if I am obliged to storm, you may depend on such treatment as is justly due a murderer. Beware of destroying stores of any kind, or any papers or letters that are in your possession, for, by Heaven, if you do, there shall be no mercy shown you."G. R. Clark."
"Sir—In order to save yourself from the impending storm that now threatens you, I order you immediately to surrender yourself with all your garrison, stores, etc., etc. For if I am obliged to storm, you may depend on such treatment as is justly due a murderer. Beware of destroying stores of any kind, or any papers or letters that are in your possession, for, by Heaven, if you do, there shall be no mercy shown you.
"G. R. Clark."
An angry and scornful refusal was returned by General Hamilton to this stern demand, and the firing was renewed. Wherever a port-hole was open, a dozen rifles were aimed upon it, and the bullets poured through like hail; the gunners were killed as fast as they were sent to the guns. Even the cracks in the walls afforded targets to the death-dealing bullets of the riflemen, and more than one of the garrison fell pierced through the eye.
The afternoon of the second day brought a flag of truce from General Hamilton, asking for a cessation of hostilities for three days, and a conference with Colonel Clark at the fort. Clark refused the terms offered by Hamilton, but agreed to a conference in the village church. At this conference Clark's bold determination again won, and next morning Fort Sackville was surrendered, with all its stores and supplies, and General Hamilton and his garrison became prisoners of war.
This was on the twenty-fifth day of February, 1779. It is a date deserving enrollment among eventful days of American history. Henceforth the Northwest was Virginia territory, until ceded by her to the Union. In the negotiations which preceded the final treaty with England, it was this fact—that Virginia troops had fought for, and conquered the right bank of the Mississippi—which gave potency to the claim of our commissioners, that the Father of Waters and not the Alleghanies, or the Ohio, was our rightful boundary line on the west.
Among our Revolutionary heroes, George Rogers Clark should stand high, not only because of his daring and his achievements, but because of the important and far-reaching results of his conquest.
In the last few years, observing the rapidity with which our vast Western territory is being settled and civilized, noting the rapid increase of its population and prosperity, I begin to set a true value upon the importance of this territory to the republic. Not only has it given us room for necessary expansion, but it has quickened all our energies, kindled our imaginations, and furnished a safe outlet for the vigorous, throbbing life of our young nation. Moreover, there is no way to calculate the important part this common territory has played in uniting, into a firm and reasonable union, the several States of America. It gave us a common interest, at a time when we thought our state interests divergent; furnished us a means of satisfying with land grants our discontented and unpaid soldiers; and is teaching us, through experience learned in governing a joint possession, broad principles of democratic government. In truth, the more I think upon it, the more highly I rate the achievement of George Rogers Clark—in which those of my race bore a worthy part.
"Since fate has not ended our rivalry for us, McElroy," said Clark—when affairs had been satisfactorily settled at Vincennes, Helm reinstated with a somewhat larger garrison, and the other troops ready to return to Kaskaskia—"the decision rests still with Queen Eleanor. We must force her to a choice, somehow, and certainty is preferable to this suspense."
"The sooner we know her decision the better I shall be suited," I responded, "for, now that my year's parole has expired, I am eager to get back to the regular service, especially as reënforcements from Virginia can now be counted upon. Moreover, you are not likely to need a large force to enable you to hold what we have won."
"I agree with you," replied Clark. "You have stood by me and the enterprise, like a brave man, and a true comrade, McElroy, and I am glad our business is finished before your duty calls you back to Virginia. You have been my right hand, though all my officers and men have alike acquitted themselves nobly, from first to last."
"With a leader such as we have had, only worthy conduct is possible," I said, my eyes suddenly dim.
"Thank you for that word, McElroy. That worthy men should deem me a worthy leader, is all the praise I ask. And whatever may come between us in the future, comrade, let us not forget that we have stood together in peril and in suffering, have shared risks and dangers in a cause dear to the hearts of both—not even the love of woman should separate comrades such as we have been."
"Nor shall it," I answered earnestly. "God bear me witness, Clark, that I shall feel no malice should Ellen's heart answer to yours. I shall wish you both happiness in all sincerity, and seek solace in my duty."
"No fear, McElroy; you have the sturdiest and best traits of a noble people. I have some of them, doubtless, as my Saxon blood gives me right, but mixed, I fear, with a strain of wildness. I doubt if the anchors of duty are strong enough to hold me to a wise, sane life—unless Ellen's love shall help to weight them. As you have said, comrade, an adventurous, reckless life has strong temptation for me; therefore, if Ellen's love is not for me—and I forebode it is not, though I'm not yet ready to resign all hope—I shall take it for a sign that a kind fate is sparing her the woeful doom of a drunkard's wife." He added, after a brief pause, during which a deep melancholy settled upon his face, "Sometimes a man is doomed from his birth; from the beginning he moves on to a prefixed destiny, and all his struggles to save himself from the end he fears, avail nothing."
My reply combatted Clark's fatalism with all the arguments I could command, but I soon saw that his views on the subject of his destiny were fixed; that with all his cheerful courage, and calculating boldness, there was in his nature that strange vein of superstition or fatalism which has marked so many military heroes:—Hannibal, Alexander, Cæsar, Robert Bruce, Frederick the Great, and others less renowned. Nor can one lay the fatalistic views Clark held to the charge of his religion. Though Scotch-Irish by birth, he knew no more of Presbyterian doctrines than did Father Gibault, and he had no religious principles.
Clark, as I have said, was a fatalist, though he had no religion. I was and am a Presbyterian, yet I have always believed in cause and effect, the working of natural laws to natural ends. Nevertheless, though it be apparently a contradiction, I believe in an overruling Providence, and the care of God over the most insignificant of His creatures. Therefore, when I knew myself to be ill, on that last day of our return march, and said to Clark, "It seems, after all, comrade, as if fate meant to settle this matter of rivalry between us," I meant it not as it was said, but as Clark might look upon it. My future lay, I knew, in God's hands, and even in that hour of evil apprehension—for I realized that my illness would be a long and serious one—I felt satisfied to leave it there, and to trust my life and Ellen's to His guidance.
A faith that can sustain a man, and leave him calm and undismayed in each crisis of his life, is worth much to him—call it by what name or sect, distinguish it by whatsoever creed, you will. And these small variations of our small minds, are, I conceive, little taken into account by the Infinite, who knows we are but children, in mental and spiritual development, and values our faith and our honest striving without regard to the creeds with which we confuse ourselves.
Beyond this comforting assurance of my religion, there was but one idea floating through my confused and fever-consumed brain, and that was a longing vision rather than an idea—a vision of my mother's downy, rose-scented beds; and then, as next best, of the heaps of feathers, covered with gay Indian blankets, which constituted the pride of the Kaskaskian homes. Oh, to feel a thick pillow under my head, to stretch my aching limbs on the yielding feathers! It was the one thing in life I wanted. I longed for rest as a tired infant longs for his mother's soft breast, and tender arms. The hope of it alone gave me courage to drag my weighted feet over the last two miles of our way.
It was a little strange that the realization of the bliss of repose was my first conscious thought after an illness of many days, so that I could never realize that more than a night had intervened between the longing and the realization, the agony and the relief. My first conscious moment lasted just long enough for me to appreciate the comfort of my couch; almost immediately I sank again into sleep or unconsciousness. The next time I came to myself I was not only wide awake, but alert and curious as I opened my eyes to note my surroundings. They were rough limed walls with a low sloping ceiling; bright-hued Indian rugs were upon the floor, and half-burned logs on heavy dog-irons, with sputtering candle ends, burning upon a round stand, in the farthest corner. In the shadow of the corner sat a figure, its head against the wall. Some one had been good enough to sit up all the night with me, and now that day was breaking, his eyes could be kept open no longer, and he had fallen into a doze. I would be very quiet and not wake him.
Presently the figure stirred, rose and came to the bedside. I recognized Clark, even in the dimness of the gray dawn.
"You have been watching me, my Colonel?" I questioned, trying to smile, and to put out the hand that was too feeble to answer to my will. Clark came closer, saw my purpose, gave my hand a warm pressure, and lifted me a little higher on my pillows.
"Have I been very ill?" I asked.
"You have been near enough the happy hunting ground to know the way, my lad. But, thank God, you are better, and will live long enough, I trust, to forget the route before you take another journey in that direction."
"Where are we?"
"In Kaskaskia, in one of the loft rooms of the Commandant's house."
"Is Ellen below?"
"Yes, and asleep, I hope; she and Angélique tend you by day, Légère, Givens and I by night; but you must not talk yet a while; that's Dr. Lafonte's orders. Drink this and go to sleep."
I obeyed like a child, settling myself deeper in the feathers, with a sigh of content.
Upon my third awaking, I recognized Ellen's voice, and felt her soft hand upon my brow.
"Ellen!" I whispered, and opened my eyes to look at the face bending above mine with the rapture a saint might feel upon seeing some beatific vision, long prayed for.
"Do not talk, Cousin Donald," she said, beaming a smile of cheerful affection upon me; "Dr. Lafonte says you must be very quiet for a few days more."
I managed, despite my weakness, to get hold of her hand, and clung to it feebly. "I will be perfectly quiet," I answered in tones so weak that I wondered if it could be really I who was speaking, "if you will sit beside me and hold my hand."
She smiled, flushed a little, and as she held a glass of cordial to my lips said coaxingly, "If you'll drink this and go to sleep, I will." Then she sat down beside me, and held my nerveless fingers in her warm, soft clasp, till I was dreaming an odd jumble of pleasant visions through all of which flitted Ellen's face and form.
This sort of half dream life went on I know not how long. I only remember an incident here and there—floating faces, cups held to my lips, and then the pleasant drifting off into long periods of dreamless rest. At last I was strong enough to sit part of each day in a high-backed chair, and after that I saw little of Ellen. She came twice each day for a brief visit, but Angélique brought my broth and wine, helped me from bed to chair, smoothed my pillows, and sometimes sang me to sleep with wild, sweet Acadian ballads. Clark came in and out with cheery presence, and encouraging words—but now that summer had come again he had more affairs to administer, and so less time to give me. Givens would linger, though, when he came on his daily visit, to tell me the gossip of the village, of which the half wild, half drowsy life suited him well. Légère and others visited me almost daily, and my monotonous life was not a lonely one, though forced inaction grew more and more irksome as my strength returned.
"Clark," I said to him one day, "I can't stand this suspense any longer. I want to know all, even if it be the worst. Since I am better, Ellen comes in only when others are here, and makes prompt excuses to get away. Her kindness is barely cousinly. And you too seem to avoid being left alone with me. Have you spoken to Ellen?"
"Yes, I have spoken—though to do so, comported not fairly with our compact. But my feelings overmastered me. I have avoided telling you till you should be stronger."
"I am strong enough now," I answered, though I trembled from head to foot; "tell me all—and quickly."
"It was one evening when we thought you dying. I followed her from the room, and was moved to tell her your last words to me—when you left her to my care, and bade me give her perfect freedom in the disposition of her life, but left us your blessing could she love me enough to link her fate with mine. She wept afresh at the recital of your words; and then with friendly candor there was no mistaking, thanked me for my love, and accepted my offer of protection, even while she told me that whether you lived or died there was no hope for me. Her quiet decision awed me, and forced back all the protestations I had formulated against her vow of nunnery. She declared it was no rash or hasty one, made to be repented of, but that she held it to be more sacred and binding than any other claim upon her heart and life, and that she waited only for your restoration to health to go, under Father Gibault's escort, and yours, if you would, to the convent at Quebec."
"Comrade," I said, putting out my shaking hand to clasp his, "that is not the news I expected—but it is much more distressing to me."
"Perhaps I am wrong to tell you, and am but making the harder for you the final disappointment," continued Clark after a silence of some moments, during which he seemed to be thinking deeply, "but I am not convinced that Ellen looks forward to the life of a nun. I believe she once made a foolish vow and thinks it sacrilege to break it. And if I can read a woman's heart through her face, McElroy, Ellen O'Neil feels for you a tenderness that is neither usual nor natural for a woman to feel towards one she regards only as a distant kinsman. I believe she loves you—yet I cannot honestly say I think you will win her. Her will is strong, and her religion has so far been the dominant principle of her life. One side of her nature is fitted to the martyr's role, the other side is strongly human—throbs with the full current of youth, loves daring and doing, experiencing and enjoying, even as you and I. Which part of her complex nature will triumph I cannot foresee. This I can say honestly, comrade," and Clark laid a hand upon my knee, and his truth-speaking eyes looked straight into mine, "even with my own grievous disappointment fresh upon me, I would see Ellen the happy and joy-giving wife of my true-hearted friend with delight, compared to the feeling with which I shall see her the self-immolated 'bride of the church'—which is, in my opinion, but another name for victim to superstition and priestly tyranny. The fates grant that you may win her, McElroy."
An hour I sat in deep thought—then I made my vow. If in Ellen's heart there dwelt but the weakest germ of love for me, it should grow on until it uprooted all other influences. I bade the whole Roman Church defiance. A girl's superstition to come between Ellen and her life's fulfillment? between me and lifelong happiness? I swore it should not be! She should love me more and more till love mastered her, choking superstition and conquering her will. Once convinced, she would see it all as I did, and be glad all her life that I had saved her from a fatal mistake. I girded myself afresh for the conflict, as it were, each hour of the days that followed, and planned my campaign against a maiden's heart as carefully as a general plans an advance into the enemy's country. My first move must be to keep her from reaching a final decision as long as possible; my second to take her, upon some pretext, back to the valley with me.
Meanwhile I hastened my recovery by every means possible, watching impatiently the summer moving on to autumn. From my window I could see the slow, gliding river, glancing in the sun's rays, and the stagnant, spreading bayous, gay with spotted lilies, and fringed with swaying grasses, while birds, as gayly colored as the blossoms, rode blithely upon the springy reeds. The meadows were green with waving corn, or yellow with the ripened grass, and the rich odor of the wild grapes came upon the breeze with other and more elusive fragrances. But gliding river, reed-fringed bayou, and luxuriant meadow, were not half so fair to my real vision as the dear valley to my imaginary one. I longed to see the undulating blue ranges, and the varied landscape, with the comfortable farmhouses dotted over it. I was eager to be off for home, to hear the late news from the war, and to bear Ellen away from Romish influences.
At last spirit could wait the body's leisure no longer, and though still weak and emaciated, I made a firm resolve to start for home within a week or two. Then I sent Angélique with a message to Ellen, demanding a private interview.
"Your message is earnest, almost peremptory, Cousin Donald," said Ellen, coming in with a playful smile on her lips; "am I to have another scolding, and for what? My conscience acquits me this time; I have stopped coquetting with the officers, or walking alone without the village; therefore I know not what wrong I have done to deserve a kinsman's reprimand."
"'Tis not to scold, but to entreat that I have sent for you, Ellen," I replied. "Will you sit down here before me, and give me your serious attention for a brief while?" Perhaps it was the tone of my voice, or it may have been that my face betrayed me, for Ellen flushed and dropped her lids an instant over her eyes, as she took the chair I had indicated, yet saying with an air of banter:
"My 'serious attention,' Cousin Donald? You plead for it as if 'twere a rare favor, and one most difficult to obtain;—am I so seldom serious?"
"Two weeks from to-day, Ellen, I start back to Virginia," ignoring her playful manner; "my duty calls me thither; but I cannot leave you here in Kaskaskia without lawful guardian or protector. You have long known, Ellen, that I love you with my whole being, that the dearest and most sacred wish of my heart is to make you my wife. Will you marry me, Ellen, and go back to Virginia to a home of your own, with the protection and constant devotion of one whose whole life shall be dedicated to your happiness?"
The flush on Ellen's cheeks leaped upward to her brow in a flame of crimson; her eyes grew darker; and upon her face came a look of mingled sorrow, yearning and resolve.
"Oh, my cousin, have I not said it often enough," with the sob-suggesting catch, vibrating like harp tones through her words—"that never can I be wife to any man? Do even you believe that all this time I have been jesting on a subject so sacred—that I have but used pretense of holy calling as a coquettish wile to lure men on? Yet how can I find fault with you for having thought so, since my life has so belied my words? I have been naught but a frivolous coquette these months past—as if I would get all of worldly triumph, and food for vanity possible out of my life, during the respite which circumstances have afforded me from the fulfillment of my vow. Mine has been lip service, only, not yet have I known true heart consecration. But I will know it, Donald, will possess the true nun's heart, if all of self must be immolated by hourly chastisement and self-denial to achieve it. I have solemnly pledged my life to prayer, and penance, and holy service. Will not you, Cousin Donald, my only friend and protector, my one source of human strength, help me to keep my vow to God?" and she clasped her hands in passionate entreaty, and lifted moist eyes and trembling lips to my serious gaze.
"Dear Ellen!" and I spoke with a new emotion of respect for the depth of her feeling, "I want more than aught else to help you, but I do not fully understand, nor see the reason for your being so determined, and feeling so strongly—will you not tell me all, so that I can better understand you? When was this vow you speak of made?"
"That bitter night I was lost upon the mountain, when, numb with cold, and shaken with terror of the wolves pursuing us, I fell from the rearing horse, frightened too by the wild beasts, and lay there in agony of fear and pain, through long hours, listening to the wolves, as they chased the poor horse, and each moment expecting to feel their fangs in my flesh. I prayed as never I had prayed before, to the Holy Virgin and her sacred Son, promising to consecrate all the rest of my life to prayer and humble service, in some rigorous convent, if they would send me deliverance from a violent death. Even as I prayed I fell into sleep, or unconsciousness, and awoke in Father Givens' house. He nursed me back to health, and I had it in my mind to induce him to take me to Baltimore to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, had you not come by with the message from Mr. Jefferson. I saw the scout's desire was to go with you, and I would not stand between him and his wish. Already he had done too much for a willful girl who had no claim upon his charities, save the claim of common humanity. I gave all my energies to persuading him that a life of adventure appealed to me even more strongly than the life of a convent retreat, and so fed his inclination to join in the adventure that he could not resist it. At last he consented to purchase for me the coveted disguise as his foster son, and when once he had seen me wear it, and watched my rifle practice, he grew interested in my plans, and made no further difficulty.
"For the first weeks I was buoyed by the spirit of excitement, and enjoyed the free, outdoor life I had been accustomed to as a child. Not until you and Thomas joined us did I realize the boldness of my deed. I dreaded to have you find me out, yet I could not bear to be left behind in Kentucky. What the result might be haunted my thoughts and my dreams. Again I added daily vows to daily prayers. Were I safely delivered once more, delivered from the coil of questionable circumstances with which I had rashly surrounded myself, I would without delay, find my way to some peaceful convent and atone for all my willful past by years of devout consecration. You know how wonderfully I was delivered—was spared even blame or question; how fortunately I have since been placed.
"Were not all my prayers heard and answered? Dare I then break my vows—lie to the holy Virgin and her sacred Son? Accept divine deliverance, and repay with broken promises, violated oaths? Could you love and trust a wife who would come to you with a sacrilege upon her conscience?"
"My dear one!" answering her solemnly, as she had spoken, and taking the fluttering fingers firmly in my own to still them; "I will not ask you to violate a vow you regard so sacredly. I will live all my life with an unsatisfied longing, an aching, hungry heart, rather than to say one word to urge you against your conscience. But I think you reason and feel morbidly. Is there no other life of consecration to God's service for a woman than that to be found behind convent walls? Think you the life of wife and mother less holy, less self-sacrificing, of less savory incense to God than that of a nun?
"What service can a nun render to God that a consecrated wife and mother may not offer Him? Prayer? Does not the wife pray with added fervor—for herself, that she may live a worthy exemplar to those she loves—for them, with more earnest zeal because love prompts each petition—and for all the world more fervently because those she lives for are a part of it. Deeds of unselfish charity? Are they less in God's sight, believe you, than the daily immolation of her own wishes which each true wife practices upon the altar of domestic duty. And what need we most in this new world? Is it not consecrated men and women to spend all the powers of their being for peace, purity and enlightenment? We hope to found in this virgin land a wondrous republic where freedom of conscience and equal opportunities will be offered to the downtrodden of all nations. But we may not hope to perpetuate such republic, unless there be noble women—women of the unusual intelligence and gifts with which God has honored you—to strive with us toward that ideal."
"There is truth in most you say, Donald," a glow answering mine on her face, her hands still and warm now in mine; "you move me always by your calm reasoning. Yet I am bound by my vow. Did I let my selfish inclinations plead, I might easily persuade myself that your logic is as true for me as it would be for another, not so solemnly pledged as I am. But the very leaning of desire warns me to guard my sacred promises the more sturdily against temptation." In her earnestness she did not realize the half confession she had made, but my heart leaped within me, and a quiver of joy thrilled to my finger tips.
"Tell me, Ellen," and I held her hands in a tighter clasp, and claimed the full gaze of her eyes, "had you never made this vow, could you consent to be my wife—would there have been hope of happiness for me?"
"Oh, Donald!" a cry of entreaty, following the blush that swam upward to the roots of her hair, "it is not fair to ask me—you have promised to help me—you should not make my duty so hard—so very hard for me."
I kissed the hands now cold and trembling again, not with passion, but with reverence on my lips, and laid them gently on her knee; then said, with a mighty effort at self-control—for I would have given the world to take her in my arms, and dared hope she would find it hard to resist me:
"Forgive me, Ellen; I will ask you nothing; you shall follow your duty as you see it. If you feel your promise binds you to the utmost self-sacrifice, I shall use no power your confidence has given me to persuade you from your duty. But why should you remain in this wilderness unprotected—for I must needs follow my soldier's duty back to Virginia—waiting the uncertain chance of safe convoy to Quebec, when you could go under my escort to the valley, stay there with your lawful protectors till the war is over, and then be escorted by them, with due consent and proper honor to your chosen retreat in Baltimore? There you will not only have wider sphere of usefulness among people of your own race and language, but you will be near your parents' graves and in reach of your relatives, should they need you, or you them. There I might even visit you sometimes—it would be a consolation and a joy had I only the happiness to hold your hand an instant, and to catch the old dear smile through the grating of convent bars.
"Moreover, Ellen, though I say this not in harshness, you would feel, I think, surer of God's blessing on your sacrifice if you were to enter your holy life at peace with all men—without bitterness in your heart toward the unfaithful guardians to whom your parents left you."
"That thought has troubled me," said Ellen, tears springing to her eyes, and making a soft film over their velvet blueness; "it does not seem meet for me to take the sacred veil with a spirit unforgiving and unforgiven. I would welcome the opportunity to beg Uncle Thomas' forgiveness, and to apologize to Aunt Martha for my willfulness. I had no wish, believe me, Donald, to cause them suffering. I thought to relieve Uncle Thomas of an obstacle to his domestic happiness, and Aunt Martha of a source of much annoyance. Remorse has pursued me since I knew of Thomas' following me, that he was willing to desert his parents and his religion for me. I made what reparation I could by sending him back to them, and his nature is not one to grieve long. If you, Cousin Donald, would but carry to them my repentance, and obtain their forgiveness, and their consent to my taking the veil, I might be able to do sufficient penance for my other sins."
"The truest reparation you can make them, Ellen, the one they would most value, and which will alone relieve them from the reproach of their consciences, and the odium of their neighbors, will be to go back with me, live in peace and amity with them for a time, and go from them in kindness to your convent seclusion."
"It is indeed a cup of humbling you would hold to my lips," said Ellen, paling suddenly—"yet doubtless I need to drink of that very cup. Pride, I think, is my besetting sin."
"Pride and love of your own will, Ellen,—unseemly faults for a fair and gentle woman—yet offset by rare virtues."
"Do not flatter me, Donald; let me face the truth; in showing me my real self, you are my truest friend. Pride and self-will! when I should possess 'a meek and quiet spirit,' and 'an humble and a contrite heart' before I shall be ready for my holy calling."
"May it not be, Ellen, that you are mistaking your determination to fulfill a rash vow, made under exciting circumstances, for a true call founded on real consecration of heart and spirit? Talk with Father Gibault; he is a holy man, yet a just and reasonable one; tell him all, and ask him to help you to determine your path of duty. Then come and tell me your decision—and with God's help, dear one, I will add to yours all my strength and courage, to enable you to follow where your conscience leads you. But oh, Ellen, will you not tell me once, just once, that you do love me, and would give yourself to me if you were free?"
"Donald! Donald! you must not disturb my soul by such entreaties!" she cried in pleading tones. "Do you not see that if once it were said, it could never again be unsaid?" and she left me hastily, her head drooping like a flower upon its stalk.
What if Father Gibault's priestly zeal should prove stronger than the common sense, and sound humanity, I credited him with? What if he should conclude that the immolation of two lives was necessary to the saving of one soul? Should strengthen Ellen's superstition as to the sacred obligation of her impulsive vow? Well! in that case I should have two strong forces to war against, Ellen's superstition, and a priest's influence. But I had no thought of resigning Ellen until the authority of the Roman Church had put her forever beyond reach of my hopes. She had been created for love, and happiness, for the duties and ties of earth; once the fervor of self-sacrifice had exhausted itself, she would be miserable in a convent. I thought I knew her nature better than she understood it, and meant to save her from self-immolation for a happier life, and one, I truly believed, not less holy in God's sight. As impatient as I was to take once more my part in the struggle waging beyond the Alleghanies, I meant not to leave the Illinois Country until Ellen had consented to go with me, or was immured for life behind convent walls.
Father Gibault was with her when she came to me the next morning, and my heart beat fast with apprehension; his presence seemed to convey a hint of doom to my hopes. Ellen's face was very serious, but rigidly self-controlled, and about her was an air of unaccustomed meekness and humility.
"The Father has made my duty plain, Cousin Donald," she began; "I must go back to the guardians to whom my parents left me, and go from them to my seclusion, when, by meekness and obedience, I have won their forgiveness; I must shrive myself for the holy life by conquering will and pride," and she turned and left us, without having once lifted her eyes to mine. But my first point was gained, and my heart beat more calmly as I turned to Father Gibault, still standing by the window, looking pensively upon the landscape, to exclaim vehemently:
"And you think a rash vow, made by a child, under stress of fright and suffering, obligatory, Father Gibault? You will allow this girl to feel herself doomed to self-immolation because of an irresponsible promise to her own excited conscience? Cannot you foresee that she will live a long life of regret, and unavailing struggle against natural inclinations? And can you believe a half-hearted sacrifice, an immolation of the body only, is more likely to fit Ellen for Heaven, or more sure to do God's service, than the thrice holy calling of Christian wife and mother?"
"You are vehement in your argument beyond necessity, monsieur," answered the Father, in his soft precise English, and smiling calmly at me from the chair in which he had seated himself, while I strode up and down the room excitedly.
"The matter excuses vehemence," I answered. "Have you not guessed that I love my Cousin Ellen, that I wish her for my wife? And I would have good hope of winning her but for this absurd superstition of your cold and bigoted faith, that a fair and innocent young woman does honor to God by shutting herself up and doing penance—thus perpetuating a heathen custom, originating in the need of unprotected women for a place of refuge in a lawless age, to a more civilized time, which has greater need of the example and the inspiration of holy matrons, than for useless bead-counting nuns."
"You have unsuspected fluency of the tongue, Captain McElroy," and Father Gibault's habitual expression of gentle benevolence had given place to one of droll humorousness. "Priest though I be, and with mind, I trust, fixed usually on holier things, I could not easily have blinded myself to signs of earthly love so evident as those you have shown for your cousin. I guessed many things when the maiden lay ill of fever last autumn, and you haunted my steps for news of her. I wonder not that you love Ellen O'Neil. A maiden more sweet I have not known, nor one better worth a man's heart. When I learned of her vow, I thought first of you, with much sympathy, and fearing that her convictions were but the expression of extreme sensibility natural to girlhood, I was most careful not to say aught to fix them into resolve. Later, seeing that she took a maiden's natural pleasure in her small court, and that her influence over Colonel Clark and the rest of you was good, softening and restraining you, I soothed Ellen's unquiet conscience, and showed her that the holy God had given her a present work she could not wisely abandon until the way was opened to her. Moreover, I advised her to test farther her heart, and to be sure of full, free consecration before she should take the holy vows of a nun. Neither the Supreme God nor the holy church value half-hearted service, and such vow as Ellen made is binding only so long as conscience, will, and heart are in full accord. Ellen goes with you, Captain McElroy, free in conscience, unfettered by priestly admonition."
These words of Father Gibault's lifted a weight from my heart. I seized both his hands, and shook them gratefully, saying: "You are as honest and as true hearted as I thought you, Holy Father," calling him for the first time by the reverend title the Kaskaskians gave him. "I have not words sufficient to express my appreciation of your interest in my happiness and your regard for Ellen's welfare."
"I have advised you both as my conscience dictates," he answered, resuming the expression of benevolence, blended with worldly abstraction, and the tone of fatherly authority usual to him. "In doing so I have shifted my responsibility for Ellen O'Niel's future to you, until she is safe in her uncle's home; even then you must share jointly with her other kinsmen the trust which I, as her priestly guardian, have transmitted to you. Had I not full confidence in your honor, and your manly faith, Captain McElroy, I could not give you so delicate a charge with free conscience. You are to conduct this maiden in all safety and honor to her uncle's home; you are to leave her there in unmolested peace for at least one year—longer if she desires—and then allow her to choose, with absolute freedom, between your love and a nun's life. She is to choose, I repeat, freely, as her heart dictates and her conscience approves. Meantime, while she is under your sole guardianship you are to take no slightest advantage of her unprotected state, nor even of her new-found humility, to wring from her any promise or to exact any condition; you will not so much as trouble her with protestations, nor frighten her with appeals and entreaties."
"Most solemnly, I promise all, Holy Father," and I raised my eyes and hand to Heaven; "in no way will I trouble Ellen's peace for a full year; I will conduct her in honor and safety to the care of her lawful guardians, who shall in future be accountable to me for her happiness; and if she shall adhere to her resolutions to take nun's vows, my mother shall escort her to the convent she may choose."
"You leave for Virginia at once, Captain McElroy?"
"In ten days, if my cousin can be ready so soon."
"You will take all the brightness from Kaskaskia with Ellen, and leave many sad hearts behind. Others go with you?"
"Captain Bowman and twenty of his company."
"You make the journey by water?"
"To the headwaters of the Alleghany; there I shall procure horses, and we will make our way to the valley by the nearest pass."
Givens, after much deliberation with himself and others, concluded to remain with Colonel Clark; there was strong possibility, indeed, that he would settle in Kaskaskia for the rest of his life. Only one thing seemed to mar his content—that he would have fewer opportunities in the Illinois country for killing Indians than in Kentucky, or almost anywhere else in our borders. Colonel Clark had concluded an alliance with all the tribes in that part of our territory, and was very positive in his instructions that no quarrel was to be stirred up among them, and no excuse whatever given them to molest the whites, and they seemed equally to desire to live in friendly relations with the Americans.
"Wut in ther name uv all ther saints en all ther holies," said Givens, who had been almost converted to the Catholic faith, "Cunnel Clark mout be hevin' en his mind I doan' know—but, ef he'd er listened ter me he'd never made no sich er terms with ther murderin' savages es ud lef no chance fur er man ter git his revenge on 'em fur injuries es is more an human flesh en blood ought ter be axed ter forgive."
Ellen parted with Givens, Father Gibault, and the faithful Angélique and her many friends in Kaskaskia, with heartfelt sorrow, and they from her with evident grief. It seemed, at the last, almost cruel to take her away from so much tenderness, and sympathy, to a cold, loveless atmosphere. I, too, bade them, and gay Majore Légère, and genial Dr. Lafonte, farewell, and took my leave of the pleasant village of Kaskaskia with genuine regret.
The parting with Clark was a real heart wrench. He had said good-by to Ellen cheerfully, even gayly,—for it was not his way to wear heart on sleeve—presenting her with a large Indian basket full of amulets, chains of shells, small totems, rugs, blankets, beaded moccasins, and other curious things of Indian workmanship, to remind her, he said, of a year's life among savages, red savages and white:
"The happiest year of my life," said Ellen, beaming gratitude upon him for his cheerful and unselfish God-speed to us; "and also the most glorious of Colonel Clark's. I go back to chant the victories, both in war and diplomacy, of our American Hannibal!"
"The comparison is too flattering, Queen Eleanor," said Clark, but I knew he was pleased. I thought of Hannibal's end, even as I saw the force of Ellen's comparison, and a sad premonition was borne in upon my mind, adding to my grief at parting with him.
"If our expedition has been successful, even beyond our hopes," added Clark, "most of the credit is due to my loyal officers and my brave men. Especially must I share any glory that is mine with this brave, true comrade," and he laid a hand upon my shoulder, and looked into my eyes with his own bold and piercing ones, softened to the tenderness of a woman's. I knew this generous speech was made to forward my cause with Ellen, and I choked in my throat as I grasped his hand again, and, when I had given him one look of thanks, must needs turn aside to regain control of my feelings.
"If you needed me, Clark, I could not leave you," I found voice, presently, to say; "I but go to fight for our cause beyond the Alleghanies. But never can I have a commander more honored, or more beloved."
"Success to you, McElroy, in war and peace!—in all things you may have at heart!" he answered me, also much moved; "and when you have won all you strive for I shall come to rejoice with you. Farewell, comrade!"
"Farewell, Queen Eleanor! A pleasant journey and a pleasant home-coming! Forget me not in your prayers, sweet saint!" and he bent and kissed her hand, then handed her into the boat with a courtly grace which well became him.
He was still standing upon the wharf, when we made the first bend in the river—his arms folded, his gaze fixed upon the receding boat, as if he saw it but as part of a vision. We waved to him, but he did not move. The virgin freshness of the early morning, and the roseate radiance of the newly risen sun brought out, with added force, the heroic proportions and carriage of the man, silhouetted like a carven statue, representing human will, against the far sweeping, luxuriant bluffs, crowned with the growth of centuries, marking that vast and opulent territory which his single purpose had won and held for his country.
Floating down the river through the soft October haze on our comfortably fitted flat boat was ideal journeying. Often now when I fall into reveries, I live over again those golden autumn days, and see the rich and varied landscape through which we drifted with the swift current of the majestic Mississippi.
Ellen spent the days and half the nights on deck, protected from sun and dew, by the overhanging roof of the little cabin in which she slept. She had her own chair which Clark had ordered conveyed on board from the commandant's house, and there were thick Indian mats for her feet. I sprawled on these, hour after hour, making talk to amuse her, or listening to her when she pleased to entertain me, and entirely content were she silent, or talkative, gay or pensive, so only there was no shadow of regret upon her face. But one thing was lacking,—a book or two to read from. In lieu of them we told each other stories we had read, or repeated passages, prose or poetry, as we could remember. Ellen gave me long extracts from Shakespeare. I recited parts from "The School for Scandal"—that being, in truth, all the poetry I had learned by heart since my schoolboy days, and, seeing Ellen was interested, described the costumes we wore at its playing in Philadelphia, and the appearance and air of the players. From that I was led on to talk of the society I had mingled with in Philadelphia, and then of the Bufords and their kindness to me. Ellen's questions and shrewd guessing brought me at last to narrate the whole story of my whilom infatuation for Miss Nelly, and the narrow escape I made from being led to play a traitor's part by her wiles.
"She must be loyal Tory, indeed," was Ellen's comment, "or else she knew you less than her opportunities permitted, for she risked her happiness most rashly."
"Her happiness was little at stake, I have thought since; had she truly loved me she would have prized my honor more."
"She is fair and very winsome, did you say?"
"Yes; her manner wins you whether you will or no, and her beauty is of a kind to bewitch—to lead a man on like a swamp light, till, before he realizes his danger, he is hopelessly entangled."
"Would she not resume her sway over you were you to see her again?"
A throb of joy set my blood bounding at this question. Did it not suggest a twinge of jealousy in Ellen's heart? And the thought modified my answer somewhat.
"Can a man ever measure the influence of a woman's beauty and fascination upon him? Miss Buford bewitched me once; she might be able to do so again—unless my heart had some firm anchor to hold by."
Ellen sighed lightly, "I wish you had been born a Catholic, Cousin Donald."
"Or you a Protestant, sweet Ellen."
Her eyes did not answer the playful smile in mine, nor did she, as usual, chide my endearment; instead, she sighed lightly again, and looked dreamily at the water, breaking about our boat in golden ripples under the slanting rays of a declining sun. "It were a difficult thing for a Catholic to be happy in the valley, Donald."
"When Mr. Jefferson has carried his statute of religious liberty it will not be. The persecuted become readily persecutors; but when we shall all enjoy complete religious freedom, such as this statute gives us, we shall be more liberal toward others. And when the war is ended, and we have formed a free government, we shall have ideals so lofty before us, and scope so broad for all our energies, that there'll be small time or inclination for narrow bickering about creed or doctrine."
"And this statute will be enacted?"
"Without doubt. It is one of Mr. Jefferson's cherished measures; and when peace is won, he with Mason, Henry and others, I among them, of divergent creeds, but a single ideal, are pledged to give all our energies to its enactment."
"The brave, I think, are ever liberal-minded," said Ellen, "yet they are stubborn too, fixed as adamantine in their principles." And then, as she was wont to do when the talk between us grew personal, she called Captain Bowman to her side and asked him laughingly, if he still thought a Catholic worse than an unbeliever, and priests monsters of superstition, now that he had lived among them, and had known good Father Gibault?
"If ever I have thought so I do no longer," replied Bowman. "The Kaskaskians are honest Christians, and have been faithful friends to us, while Father Gibault is, I must admit, the equal for piety and charitableness of any Presbyterian parson I have ever known."
"Then will you not tell them so in the valley?" pleaded Ellen; "cannot you, with good conscience, speak a kind word for a misunderstood and reviled sect?"
"But I have yet one serious objection to your church, Queen Eleanor, that it encourages the immuring behind convent walls such as you—women whom the worldneedsto leaven its sodden mass of selfishness and sin. Since you have relinquished your vow of nunnery, however, and are half willing to reward as he deserves this brave comrade of mine, I can heartily promise not only my tongue but my rifle also to your defense, and the defense of your religion—should there ever be need."
"But you misapprehend my cousin's purposes, Captain Bowman," I made haste to say; "she is not my promised wife; she but goes to her uncle's home under our protection, and from there, when she is fully ready, to a convent."
"Grant me your pardon for a soldier's bluntness," said Bowman with an embarrassed bow to Ellen; then followed my lead eagerly, as I broached another subject.
Fair weather attended us the entire route, with only summer showers now and then to drive us to the cabin's shelter; and placid currents made the rowing, when we came to ascend the Ohio and the Alleghany, easy work. More fatiguing was the landward journey, which Bowman, Ellen, and I continued, in company, across mountain range after mountain range, valley after valley. When the top of the last ridge was reached, and the fair land of the Shenandoah lay unrolled to my eager vision, I lifted my hat, and said aloud:
"Thank God! once more I am home!"
"Aye, thank God for this crowning mercy!" added Bowman devoutly. There it lay, the sweet, peaceful scene I loved better than nature's grandest efforts! My horse must have felt the joyful impetus throbbing in my heart and tingling through my nerves, for he quickened his gait to match my eagerness.
We were still some miles from home, and the sun was setting, when Bowman halted at a farm gate.
"A cousin of mine lives a mile beyond this meadow," he said, "and I shall spend the night with him. He will gladly welcome my friends, and since you cannot hope to reach home before midnight, McElroy, why not come with me? Queen Eleanor is already tired; see how her shoulders droop; and for an hour she has not spoken."
I thought I saw assent in Ellen's eyes and so answered him, "Thank you, Captain, for a kind suggestion. I accept gladly for my cousin, but I am too hungry for a sight of home to need rest. On the day after to-morrow, Ellen, I shall return for you."
"You are very thoughtful, Cousin Donald," said Ellen, in low tones, as Captain Bowman considerately rode up to the gate, and occupied himself with its fastenings. "You will break the news of my coming, and soften the way for me. Good-by—till Thursday." Then she added with a merry smile, "You may promise what you will for me; I shall be good, and meek, and humble; I will even learn the Shorter Catechism, and wear my beads and crucifix beneath my bodice. It is easier to be good"—her expression changing to one of serious gratitude—"when one has a friend and sympathy."
"And love, you should say, also, Ellen. My tongue is bound by a promise, for a year, yet I wish you not to forget that I shall love you with unchanging devotion to the end of my life. Every breeze that caresses your hair, Ellen, every sunbeam that kisses your cheek, will bring a love message from my heart to yours. You cannot get away from my love, dear one, never again while you live! It will follow you even behind convent walls, should ever your conscience take you there. You will then bury my happiness as well as your own."
The words had sprung from my heart, and were spoken without premeditation. I realized, as soon as they were uttered, that they strained, perhaps, the strict letter of my compact with Father Gibault; yet when I saw the flush upon Ellen's cheeks, and met for an instant a tender glance, which seemed to beam without permission from those rare blue eyes, I did not regret the impulse which had made me speak. Who can set bounds to a lover's tongue, or demand of the eye of love that it express only what cold reason bids it say? Hearts have swayed heads since Adam listened to Eve, in the garden, and will to the end of time.
The messages I bore Ellen from Aunt Martha, when I rode to Mr. White's to bring her home, were ample in assurances of forgiveness and reconciliation, while Uncle Thomas' were full of affection and satisfaction at her return. Aunt Martha I found much changed; she looked not only older, but a new expression of meekness struggled with the habitual one of self-righteousness and indomitable will. Mother, ready as ever to make excuses for the faults of those she loved, declared that Aunt Martha's whole nature had been softened by recent chastenings, and that she had even lost her restless, bustling energy, so that one could spend, now, a peaceful afternoon with her and not be conscious of having interrupted a soap boiling, a candle molding, or a quilting. It was evident from my brief talk with her that Ellen's return was a great satisfaction; that she regarded it in some sense as a vindication in the eyes of husband, son, and neighbors. Thomas had just departed for Liberty Hall Academy to continue his ministerial studies, which was one reason, perhaps, that Aunt Martha could welcome Ellen sincerely. Especially had Thomas' full confession of all that had passed between Ellen and himself softened his mother's heart toward her, and increased her regret for past harshness.
Thomas, I found, had been most considerate, having given no hint to any one of my feelings toward Ellen. But I told my mother, as we sat talking, late into the night, and got her blessing, with a promise of profound secrecy, and whatever help she might find quiet opportunity to give me. All my own affairs were for the present as I would have them, and my heart would have been as light as thistledown but for the discouraging war news I had from my father.
The year that had given us such unbroken success, and such fruitful victories in the Northwest, had been one of disaster for the American cause in the East. The British still held New York; Fort Washington had been taken, Continental currency was depreciated in value till it was no longer possible to procure necessary army supplies; the troops had not been paid for months, and were ragged, poorly equipped, half starved, and mutinous. Georgia had fallen, and South Carolina sorely beset by home and foreign enemies, could not hope to hold out much longer unless strongly reënforced from without. Worse still, the gallant and patriotic Arnold had turned traitor, and a shuddering horror and apprehension was upon the land—since the noble and high-spirited Arnold could fall to such depths, might we not look for treason everywhere? On hearing all this discouraging news, I determined at once to visit Colonel Morgan, and to urge him, despite his physical infirmities and his justly wounded pride—for Congress had not yet raised him to the rank to which his past services had entitled him—to call together his scattered riflemen once more, and go to the help of the hard-pressed patriots of the sparsely settled South. And so I told Ellen as we rode together to Uncle Thomas'.
"Shall I feel as lonely, and as friendless when you are gone, I wonder, as I did the first time you left the valley with Morgan?" said Ellen with a light sigh.
"You were a child then," I answered, "and had few resources. Now you are sufficient to yourself. I fear you will not miss me half so much as you will the kindly Kaskaskians, and the good Father, and the faithful Angélique."
"Bless their memories! I shall miss them, and long for a sight of their kind faces. But, all the more, since they are so far away, I shall miss my one true and tried friend in the valley."
"Will you be very lonely and unhappy in the valley, Ellen? Would you have been far better contented had I left you in Kaskaskia?" I questioned anxiously.
"Father Gibault thought it my duty, Cousin Donald, and more and more I understand that it is the one right thing for me. I must find the way my God would have me walk by following the lowly path of duty, and by making reparation for past sins. Do you remember, Cousin, that night before you left the valley—when you found me star-gazing on the rock overhanging the spring?"
"Aye, Ellen! The vision of you, as you looked that night, has come back to me again and again—so often that I began to question, long before I knew I loved you, as man loves but one woman in his life, what import the vision might have, and to wonder if it foretold the crossing of our lives in some fateful way. That picture was the last that floated through my dream the day I slept in the forest, when you saved me from the Indian's tomahawk."
"Memory, it seems to me, has mysterious power,—beyond our will to guide, or our reason to explain," Ellen replied. "That night of our farewell at the spring, the first fibers of affection and sympathy reached out from your heart to mine, and through all these months have stretched and held till they have grown strong enough to bring me back to my duty."
"May they grow yet stronger, Ellen, till our hearts are knitted together for life, and for eternity!"
Ellen's serious absorption was shaken by these words, and she blushed like any earthly minded maiden, as she answered:
"My heart will ever feel itself bound to yours by the fibers of a deep and strong affection, Cousin Donald, wherever my duty leads me. There can be no harm in a nun's cherishing gratitude and affection, nor in her offering hourly prayers for one who has been to her the noblest of friends."
"Your thoughts and prayers would be but cheerless consolation for a desolate life. I want your daily presence, Ellen, the hourly benediction of your smile. But, forgive me, dear,"—for I saw that her lips trembled like a grieved child's, and that a tear had slipped from underneath her lowered lids; "I am very weak. After all my promises I continue to disturb you with my arguing and beseeching. You shall have a year to think upon it all, and, meanwhile, I shall smother in my breast every word that my heart may urge to my lips."
My visit to Colonel Morgan was made before Christmas, and I returned home cheered by his promise to take the field early in the spring. Meanwhile I was put to my old work of enlisting recruits—a work much interrupted by the malarial chills which every second day tied me to the chimney corner. Gradually they wore themselves out, and by the faithful use of bitters concocted from the Peruvian bark Father Gibault had given me, I made myself fit for active duty by the early spring, and gladly joined Morgan. He had been almost grudgingly made general by Congress at last, and generously forgetting all past wrongs and differences had hastened to join Gates, after the woeful disaster of Camden.
But that unfortunate officer reaped now the fruits of his previous scheming and bragging, and fell rapidly from the favor of Congress, in which he had held so high a place since Saratoga. He was replaced by the capable General Greene, and roundly abused by the whole country. Having been sent into North Carolina with dispatches from General Morgan to certain officers of the State Militia, it was my good fortune on my return to fall in with grim backwoodsmen marching to meet and repulse the advance of Ferguson. I accepted temporary service under Colonel Campbell, and so had the honor of fighting beside those indomitable militiamen, who won the victory of King's Mountain—one of the most glorious incidents of our Revolution, and the turning point of disasters, from which events marched on, more and more successfully, to Cowpens and Yorktown. At the risk of wearying my readers with constant reiteration of the praises of the race from which I, proudly claim descent—though I have played fair with them, saying, in the beginning, that it was partly with the hope of repairing our historians' neglect of the Scotch Irish that this chronicle was undertaken—I must call attention to the fact that King's Mountain was a Scotch Irish victory, won by militiamen of that race. I doubt, indeed, if the plan could have been conceived, or if conceived could have been executed, by regulars. Men used to climbing mountains, and to the methods of Indian warfare, were needed to fight and win as the frontiermen fought and won at King's Mountain.
By the first of January our affairs in the South were more hopeful. Recently discouraged patriots, inspired by the victory of King's Mountain, flocked to General Greene's standard, and that able officer, supported by General Morgan and Colonel Washington, and aided by the daring bands led by Sumter and Marion, soon threatened Cornwallis on both his flanks, and by a series of surprises and sudden maneuvers so confused that military pedant that he did not know what next to expect, and hardly which way to turn. Having divided his army into two bodies, Greene skillfully avoided a drawn battle, and continued to threaten the British communications. For Cornwallis to sit still was to await his doom; to march against either army was to give the other an opportunity to win a fatal advantage. He, therefore, divided his own force, sending the renowned Tarleton to hold Morgan in check, while he drew Greene after him into North Carolina.
Morgan retired slowly before Tarleton's advance to some meadows, not far from King's Mountain, and there formed his men upon the field of Cowpens, on gently rising ground, with hills to the left, and a deep, broad river in the rear. There would be no chance for the militiamen to run, for, said Morgan, with grim humor, when they had reached the river's bank they would likely be willing to turn and fight again. We slept that night upon our chosen battle ground, and until past midnight General Morgan was abroad in the camp, inspecting arms, inspiring his officers, joking with his men, and telling them what they and the "old wagoner" would do for the British regulars the next morning.
To form in fighting line, according to prearranged plan, was but an hour's work, when Tarleton's advance was discovered, and time was still left for our General to ride down the line, encouraging and animating us with a few hearty words—such as he so well knew how to fit to each heroic occasion. A furious rush, Tarleton's favorite maneuver, drove in our front line of militia, as had been foreseen, after they had obeyed General Morgan's oft repeated command to fire at least two volleys, at killing range, before breaking rank. But, behind the militia stood DeKalb and his Marylanders, and a tried company of Virginia Continentals, who met calmly the too confident pursuit of the British, and fought deliberately, till Colonel Washington's cavalry swooped down from the hills, attacking the enemy's right flank simultaneously with the charge of the militia, which had been re-formed, and marched around our position, on their left. Already entangled, by their over-eager pursuit of our first column, with their opponents, and now almost surrounded, the British fought on, gallantly but hopelessly. A bayonet charge from the Continentals in their front quickly brought about rout and panic, and nearly the whole British force engaged was killed or captured. Their loss was nearly one thousand; ours not more than seventy-five. No battle of our War for Independence was more skillfully planned, more boldly won, and to General Morgan, alone, belongs the credit for plan and execution.
A fortunately heavy rainfall cut off Cornwallis' pursuit, and gave us an opportunity to carry our prisoners across the Catawba. General Greene joined us here, escorted by a few dragoons, his force behind him. He had heard of Morgan's splendid victory, and pushed forward to help him reap the fruits of it. But Morgan was now attacked violently by his old enemy, rheumatism, and could not leave his tent; the gallant "old wagoner" who had never known defeat in battle, had more than once been vanquished by disease, the result, he bitterly admitted, of his own youthful excesses. A few weeks later he was forced to resign his command, and to return to his home.
That circumstance made easier for me the duty which had been assigned me—namely, to command one company of the militia which was to escort our seven hundred prisoners to Virginia. My latest service, on General Morgan's staff, had been most congenial to me, and even the honor now offered me of a similar position with General Greene did not console me for the loss of my first leader. The place would have been gratefully accepted, however, for I admired and trusted General Greene, both as man and leader—even with loss of the opportunity of a few days at home, and a glimpse of Ellen—had not a circumstance occurred which made me entirely willing to perform the duty which had been first assigned me. This circumstance was communicated to me by General Morgan.
"Whom, in heaven's name, think you I found this morning among our prisoners, McElroy? Young Buford—the pretty Nelly's brother, he who rescued you from Philadelphia prison hospital. He has a painful but not dangerous wound in the hip, for which reason he sent to me, asking for ambulance service, his wound having become inflamed from the march."
"Make himmyprisoner, General?" I asked eagerly; "I claim no other share of the spoils."
"Eh? You'll hold him as hostage for his sister's favor—fair stratagem, I suppose. He'll be perfectly safe in your hands, doubtless, so I'll turn him over to you."
"To him and to his entire family I owe an obligation which can be repaid in kind only; this is a longed for opportunity."
"And what will you do with him?"
"Take him to my own home, even as he did me, and leave him to my mother's nursing, till he is well enough to be discharged."
"And no parole asked? The terms granted you were less generous."
"Buford did not make the terms; but if he had, I should still wish to surpass my enemies in generosity, as well as in bravery."
"Then you will decline Greene's offer of a place on his staff? I asked it for you, thinking this excursion to Virginia in charge of prisoners less to your liking."
"It was most kind of you, General, but for this find of Buford it would have been my choice—could the place be held for me?"
"It can be, doubtless, especially if you can bring back some recruits. Greene will need reinforcements, and must look to Virginia for them. But for these swollen and painful limbs of mine,"—with a grimace toward those much swathed members—"I should be the last to desert him. It's a bitter pill, lad, to be obliged to go home—to be chained by disease to my chair, like a galley slave to his bench, when my spirit is with the front ranks, against our country's enemies."
"It is a sore grief to me, also, General, and particularly that your malady should attack you now, when your newest laurels are still green, and there are more awaiting you. Your retirement takes half the heart out of me for the service, as it does for every rifleman in the regiment."
"That spirit must not be encouraged, lad. As much as it pleases me to be regretted by my gallant boys, it would sincerely grieve me were my going to affect in any way their zeal or bravery. I shall expect them to do no less than they have always done, indeed they must fight the more determinedly because their commander has gone stiff and lame and must be content to stand like a used up horse in the stall, munching memories for diversion."
"You'll get better after a rest, General, and be at it again before the war's over. Not even disease can conquer your spirit."
"Right, lad! If the war lasts long enough for my good Abigail to tea and poultice the swelling from my joints, I'll be at 'em again."
That evening I had Buford removed to my tent, where, presently, I visited him.
"I am sorry for the occasion, Captain Buford," I said, extending my hand to him, "but since it was written that this misfortune of war should befall you, I am grateful that the opportunity has come to me to repay in some degree the courtesy and kindness I received at your hands, when my situation was similar to your present one."
"It is indeed Donald McElroy!" Buford exclaimed, in pleased tones. "I am lucky in spite of this painful accompaniment to my good fortune," pointing to his bandaged thigh.
"You are now my prisoner," I said, "and your wound shall have the best attention possible."
"You are then in command of the militia which is to convey us to Virginia? Is it proper to tell me our final destination?"
"Yours, with your consent, Captain Buford, is my own home. My mother is the best of nurses. I promise you comfort and kind care, at any rate, if you will agree to the arrangements just made between Colonel Morgan and me."
"One would think me an urged guest, rather than a poor sick prisoner," answered Buford, a smile upon his face. He was much like Nelly, though his was strictly a masculine, as hers was purely a feminine, type of comeliness. "There is small likelihood that I shall decline so generous an offer—a comfortable home and woman's nursing are all too tempting for my present weakness."
"As was your offer to me in Philadelphia. It is seldom, I imagine, that a man is granted so high a boon as the opportunity to evince in fitting deeds his gratitude. Your mother and sister are well, I hope, and in safety?"
"My mother is dead, Captain McElroy, and I fear her constant anxiety for me hastened her end. Nelly, poor girl, is left lonely and desolate. She has taken refuge for the present with Quaker friends near the city."
I expressed my regret and sympathy, and left him to make arrangements for the march next day. His news oppressed my spirit more than one would have supposed; it was hard to think of light-hearted Nelly as a sad refugee. Oh, this weary, cruel war! When would it end?