The mother's breakdown was not allowed to stop the Boy's education. Both father and older brother were determined on this. They would use the schools at home now.
He was sent to the County Academy in the fall. The Boy didn't like it. After the easy life with the kindly old monks at St. Thomas, this academy was not only cheap and coarse and uninteresting, but the teacher had no sense. He gave lessons so long and hard it was impossible to memorize them.
The Boy complained to the teacher. A lesson of the same length was promptly given again. The rebel showed the teacher he was wrong by failing to know it.
"I'll thrash you, sir!" was the stern answer.
The Boy would not take that from such a fool. He rose in his wrath, went home and poured out the indignant story of his wrongs.
The father was a man of few words, but the long silence which followed gave a feeling of vague uneasiness. He was never dictatorial to his children, but meant what he said. His voice was quiet and persuasive when he finally spoke.
"Of course, my son, you will have to choose for yourself whether you will work with your hands only, or with your head and hands. You can't be an idler, I need more cotton pickers. You don't like school, try the cotton, I'll give you work."
The Boy flushed and looked at his father keenly. It was no joke. He meant exactly what he had said, and a boy with any sand in his gizzard couldn't back down.
"All right, sir," was the firm answer. "I'll begin in the morning."
He went forth to his task with grim determination. The sun of early September had just risen and it was already hot as he bent to work. Cotton picking looked easy from a distance. When you got at it, things somehow were different. A task of everlasting monotony, this bending from boll to boll along the endless rows! He never realized before how long the cotton rows were. There was a little stop at the end before turning and selecting the next, but these rows seemed to stretch away into eternity.
Three hours at it, and he was mortally tired. His back ached in a dull hopeless pain. He lifted his head and gazed longingly toward the school he had scorned.
"What a fool!" he sighed. "But I'll stick to it. I can do what any nigger can."
He looked curiously at the slaves who worked without apparent effort. Not one of them seemed the least bit tired. He could get used to it, too. After all, this breath of the open world was better than being cooped up in a stuffy old schoolhouse with a fool to set impossible tasks.
"Pooh! I'll show my father!" he exclaimed.
The negroes broke into a plantation song. Jim Pemberton, the leader, sang each stanza in a clear fine tenor that rang over the field and echoed through the deep woods. The others joined in the chorus and after the last verse repeated in low sweet notes that died away so softly it was impossible to tell the moment the song had ceased.
The music was beautiful, but it was impossible for him to join in their singing. He couldn't lower himself to an equality with black slaves. This cotton picking seemed part of their scheme of life. Their strong black bodies swayed in a sort of rhythmic movement even when they were not singing. Somehow his body didn't fit into the scheme. His back ached and ached. No matter. He had chosen, and he would show them he had a man's spirit inside a boy's breast.
At noon the ache had worn away and he felt a sense of joy in conquering the pain.
He ate his dinner in silence and wondered what Polly was thinking about at school. Girl-like, she had cried and begged him to go back.
With a cheerful wave of his hand to his mother, he returned to the field before the negroes, strapped the bag on his shoulder and bent again to his task. The afternoon was long. It seemed at three o'clock there could be no end to it and still those long, long rows of white fleece stretched on and on into eternity—all alike in dull, tiresome monotony.
He whistled to keep up his courage.
The negroes whispered to one another and smiled as they looked his way. He paid no attention.
By four o'clock, the weariness had become a habit and at sundown he felt stronger than at dawn. He swung the bag over his back and started to the weighing place.
"Pooh—it's easy!" he said with scorn.
The negroes crowded around his pile of cotton.
"Dat Boy is sho one cotton-picker!" cried Jim Pemberton, regarding him with grinning admiration.
"Of course, I can pick cotton if I want to—"
"But ye raly don't wanter?" Jim grinned.
"Sure I do. I'm sick of school."
Jim laughed aloud and, coming close, whispered insinuatingly:
"I'se sho sick er pickin' cotton, an' when yer quits de job—"
"I'm not going to quit—"
"Yassah, yassah?—I understan' dat—but de pint is,whenyerdoquit, don't fergit Jim, Marse Jeff. I likes you. You got de spunk. I wants ter be yo' man."
The appeal touched the Boy's pride. He answered with quiet dignity:
"All right, James—"
Jim lifted his head and walled his eyes:
"Des listen at him call me Jeemes! I knows a real marster when I sees him!"
That night, the father asked no questions and made no comment on the fact that he had picked a hundred and ten pounds of cotton—as much as any man in the field. His deciding to work with his hands had apparently been accepted as final.
This thing of deciding life for himself was a serious business. It would be very silly to jump into a career with slaves, coarse and degrading, just because a fool happened to be teaching at the County Academy. He must think this thing over. Tired as he was, he lay awake until eleven o'clock, thinking, thinking for himself.
It was lonesome work, too, this thinking for himself.
If his father had only done the thinking for him, it would have been so much easier to accept his decision and then rebel if he didn't like it.
He returned to the field next morning with renewed determination. Through the long, hot, interminable day he bent and fought the battle in silence. His back ached worse than the first day. Every muscle in his finely strung little body was bruised and sore and on fire.
He began to ask if his father were right. Wasn't a man a double fool who had brains and refused to use them?
An idiot could pick cotton when the bag was fastened on his back. All he needed was one hand. All he had to do was to bend, hour after hour, day after day, until it became the habit of life and the ache stopped.
He could see this now, for himself. He smiled at the quiet wisdom of his father. He certainly knew how to manage boys. He must acknowledge that. He was quiet and considerate about it, too. He didn't dictate. He only suggested things for consideration and choice. It was easy to meet the views of that kind of a father. He treated a boy with the dignity of a man.
When the cotton was weighed, the Boy faced his father:
"I've thought it all over, sir, and I'd like to go back to school."
"All right, my son, you can return in the morning."
He made no comment. He indulged in no smile at the Boy's expense. He received his decision with the serious dignity of a judge of the Supreme Court of Life.
The rebellion ended for all time. Teachers and schools took on a new meaning. A lesson was no longer a hard task set by a heartless fool who had been accidentally placed in a position of power. School meant the training of his mind for a higher and more useful life.
Progress now was steady. The next year a new teacher came, a real teacher, the Rev. John Shaw from Boston, Massachusetts—a man of even temper, just, gentle, a profound scholar with a mind whose contagious enthusiasm drew the spirits of the young as a magnet.
The Boy learned more under his guidance within a year than in all his life before, and next full was ready to enter Transylvania University at Lexington, Kentucky.
The polite, handsome boy from Mississippi who had served an apprenticeship with his father's negroes in a cotton field, gave the professors no trouble. Good-natured, prudent, joyous, kind, manly, he attended to his lessons and his own business. He neither gambled nor drank, nor mingled with the rowdy set. He had come there for something else.
He had just passed his examinations for the Senior class in July, 1824, when the first great sorrow came. The wise father whom he had grown to love and reverence died in his sixty-eighth year.
His thoughtful Big Brother came in person to tell him and break the blow with new ambitions and new hopes. He had secured an appointment from President Monroe as a cadet to West Point from the State of Mississippi.
And then began the four years of stern discipline that makes a soldier and fits him to command men.
But once in those busy years did the gay spirit within rise in rebellion, to learn wisdom in the bitterness of experience.
With Emile Laserre, his jolly Creole friend from Louisiana, he slipped down to Bennie Haven's on a frolic—taking French leave, of course. The alarm was given of the approach of an instructor, and the two culprits bolted for the barracks at breakneck speed through pitch darkness. Scrambling madly through the woods, there was a sudden cry, a crash and silence. He had fallen sixty feet over a precipice to the banks of the Hudson. Young Laserre crawled carefully to the edge of the rock, peered over and called through the darkness:
"Are you dead, Jeff?"
He was suffering too much to laugh, though he determined to give an Irishman's reply to that question, if it killed him. He managed to wheeze back the answer:
"Not dead—but spachless!"
Many were the temptations of rebellion from the friends he loved in the years that followed, but never again did he yield. Somehow the thing didn't work in his case.
There was one professor who put his decision of obedience to the supreme test. For some reason this particular instructor took a violent dislike to the tall, dignified young Southerner. Perhaps because he was more anxious to have the love of his cadet friends than the approval of his teachers. Perhaps from some hidden spring of character within the teacher which antagonized the firm will and strong personality of the student who dared to do his own thinking. From whatever cause, it was plain to all that the professor sought opportunities to insult and browbeat the cadet he could not provoke into open rebellion.
The professor was lecturing the class on presence of mind as the supreme requisite of a successful soldier. He paused, and looked directly at his young enemy:
"Of course, there are some who will always be confused and wanting in an emergency—not from cowardice, but from the mediocre nature of their minds."
The insult was direct and intended. He hoped to provoke an outburst which would bring punishment, if not disgrace.
The cadet's lips merely tightened and the steel from the depths of his blue eyes flashed into his enemy's for a moment. He would bide his time.
Three days later, in a building crowded with students, the professor was teaching the class the process of making fire-balls.
The room was a storehouse of explosives and the ball suddenly burst into flames.
Cadet Davis saw it first and calmly turned to his tormentor:
"The fire-ball has ignited, sir,—what shall I do?"
The professor dashed for the door:
"Run! Run for your lives!"
The cadet snatched the fire-ball from the floor, dashed it through the window and calmly walked out.
He had saved many lives and the building from destruction. His revenge was complete and sweet. But deeper and sweeter than his triumph over an enemy was the consciousness that he was master of himself. He had learned life's profoundest lesson.
On his graduation, the Second Lieutenant of Infantry, from the State of Mississippi, barely twenty years old, reported for duty to the Jefferson Barracks at St. Louis.
He was ordered to the frontier to extend the boundaries of the growing Republic—now accompanied by his faithful body servant, James Pemberton.
The Fort, situated on the Wisconsin River, was the northern limit of the Illinois tribe of Indians, and the starting point of all raids against the Iroquois who still held the rich lands around the village of Chicago.
The Boy Lieutenant was the first lumberman to put axe into the virgin forests of Wisconsin. He was sent into the wilderness with a detachment for cutting timber to enlarge the Fort.
Under the direction of two voyageurs he embarked in a little open boat and began the perilous journey.
The first day out his courage and presence of mind were put to quick test.
The Indians suddenly appeared on the shore and demanded a trade for tobacco. The little party rowed to the bank and began to parley. A guide's keen eyes saw through their smooth palaver the hostile purpose of a bloody surprise and warned the commander. The order to push into the river and pull for their lives was instantly given.
With savage yells the Indians sprang into their canoes and gave chase.
It was ten to one and they were sure of their prey. The chance of escape from such strong, swift rowers in light bark canoes was slight. The low fierce cries of victory and the joyous shout of coming torture rang over the waters.
The Indians gained rapidly.
The young Lieutenant's eye measured the distance between them and saw the race was hopeless. With quick command he ordered a huge blanket stretched in the bow for a sail. The wind was blowing a furious gale and might swamp their tiny craft. It was drowning or death by torture. The commander's choice was instantaneous.
The frail boat plunged suddenly forward, swayed and surged from side to side through the angry, swirling waters, settled at last, and drew steadily away from the maddened savages.
With a curious smile, the boyish commander stood in the stern and watched the black swarm of yelling devils fade in the distance.
He was thinking of his old professor at West Point. His insult had been the one thing in life to which he owed most. He could see that clearly now. His heart went out in a wave of gratitude to his enemy. Our enemies are always our best friends when we have eyes to see.
The winter following he was ordered down to Winnebago.
The village of Chicago was the nearest center of civilization. The only way of reaching it was by wagon, and the journey consumed three months.
There was much gambling in the long still nights, and some drinking. In lieu of the excitement of the gaming table, he took his fun in breaking and riding wild horses, and hairbreadth escapes were the order of his daily exercise. It was gambling, perhaps, but it developed the muscles of mind and body.
His success with horses was remarkable. No animal that man has broken to his use is keener to recognize a master and flout a coward than the horse. No coward has ever been able to do anything with a spirited horse.
He was wrestling one day with a particularly vicious specimen, to the terror and anguish of Jim Pemberton.
"For de Lawd's sake, Marse Jeff, let dat debbil go!"
"No, James, not yet—"
"He ain't no count, no how—"
"All the more reason why I should be his master, not he be mine."
The horse was possessed of seven devils. He jumped and plunged and bucked, wheeled and reared and walked on his hind legs in mad effort to throw his cool rider. The moment he reared, the Lieutenant dropped his feet from the stirrups and leaned close to the brute's trembling, angry head. At last in one supreme effort the beast threw himself straight into the air and fell backwards, with the savage purpose of crushing his tormentor beneath his body.
With a quiet laugh, the young officer slipped from the saddle and allowed him to thump himself a crashing blow. As the horse sprang to his feet to run, the Lieutenant leaped lightly into the saddle and the fight was over.
"Well, for de Lawd, did ye ebber see de beat er dat!" Jim Pemberton cried with laughing admiration.
Scarcely a week passed without its dangerous excursions against the Pawnees, Comanches and other hostile tribes of Indians. The friendly tribes, too, were everlastingly changing to hostiles in a night. Death rode in the saddle with every man who left a fortified post in these early days of our national life.
The Lieutenant was ordered on a peculiarly long and daring raid into hostile territory, and twice barely escaped a massacre. Their errand accomplished, and leisurely returning to the Fort, they suddenly met a large party of Indians.
The Lieutenant shot a swift glance at their leader and saluted him with friendly uplifted hand:
"Can you tell us the way to the Fort, Chief?"
The tall brave placed himself squarely in the path and pointed in the wrong direction.
Instantly the Lieutenant spurred his horse squarely on the savage, grasped him by the hair, dragged him a hundred yards and flung him into the bushes. The assault was so sudden, so unexpected, so daring, the whole band was completely cowed, and the soldiers rode by without attack.
Nor was the Indian the only enemy to test the youngster's mettle. The pioneer soldiers of the rank and file in these turbulent days had minds of their own which they sometimes dared to use.
The Lieutenant had no beard. His smooth, handsome face, clear blue eyes, fresh color and gay laughter, gave the impression of a boy of nineteen, when by the calendar he could boast of twenty-one.
A big strapping, bearded soldier, employed in building the Fort, had proven himself the terror of his fellow workmen. He was a man of enormous strength and gave full rein to an ugly, quarrelsome disposition.
His eyes rested with decided disapproval on the graceful young master of horses.
"I'll whip that baby-faced Lieutenant," he coolly announced to his satellites, "if ever he opens his jaw to me—watch me if I don't. What does he know about work?"
The men reported the threat to the Lieutenant. The next day without a moment's hesitation, in quiet tones, he gave his first order to the giant:
"Put that piece of dressed scantling beside the window—"
The man deliberately lifted a rough board and placed it.
"The rough board won't do," said the even voice. "It must be a dressed scantling."
The soldier threw him an insolent laugh, and stooped to take up a board exactly like the one he had laid down.
The baby-faced Lieutenant suddenly seized a club, knocked him down, and beat him until he yelled for quarter.
The soldiers had watched the clash at first with grins and winks and nudges, betting on their giant. His strength was invincible. When the unexpected happened, and they saw the slender, plucky youngster standing over the form of the fallen brave, they raised a lusty shout for him.
When the giant scrambled to his feet, the victor said with a smile:
"This has been a fight, man to man, and I'm satisfied. I'll not report it officially."
The big one grinned sheepishly and respectfully offered his hand:
"You're all right, Lieutenant. I made a mistake. I beg your pardon. You're the kind of a commander I've always liked."
Again the soldiers gave a shout. No man under him ever again presumed on his beardless face. He had only to make his orders known to have them instantly obeyed.
Jim Pemberton had watched the little drama of officer and man with an ugly light gleaming in his eyes. The young master had not seen him. That night in his quarters Jim quietly said:
"I'd a killed him ef he'd a laid his big claws on you, Marse Jeff."
"Would you, James?"
"Dat I would, sah."
Nothing more was said. But a new bond was sealed between master and man.
While at Fort Crawford, the Lieutenant had been ordered up the Yellow River to build a saw mill. He had handled the neighboring Indians with such friendly skill and won their good will so completely, he was adopted by their chief as a brother of the tribe. An old Indian woman bent with age traveled a hundred miles to the Fort to warn the "Little Chief" of a coming attack of hostile bands. Her warning was unheeded by the new commander and a massacre followed.
The success of this attack raised the war spirit of the entire frontier and gave the soldiers a winter of exceptional danger and hardship. The country in every direction swarmed with red warriors on the warpath. The weather was intensely cold, and his Southern blood suffered agonies unknown to his companions. Often wet to the skin and compelled to remain in the saddle, the exposure at last brought on pneumonia. For months he lay in his bed, directing, as best he could, the work of his men.
James Pemberton lifted his weak, emaciated form in his arms as if he were a child. The black man carried his money, his sword and pistols. At any moment, day or night, he could have stepped from the door into the wilderness and been free. He was free. He loved the man he served. With tireless patience and tenderness, he nursed him back from the shadows of death into life again.
On recovering from this illness, the Lieutenant faced a new commander at the head of his regiment—a man destined to set in motion the greatest event of his life.
Colonel Zachary Taylor had been promoted to the command of the First Infantry on the death of Colonel Morgan. Already he had earned the title that would become the slogan of his followers in the campaign which made him President. "Old Rough and Ready" at this time was in the prime of his vigorous manhood.
Colonel Taylor sent the Lieutenant on an ugly, important mission.
Four hundred pioneers had taken possession of the lead mines at Dubuque against the protest of the Indians whose rights had been ignored. The Lieutenant and fifty men were commissioned to eject the miners. To a man, they were heavily armed. They believed they were being cheatedof their rights of discovery by the red tape of governmental interference. They had sworn to resist any effort to drive them out of these mines. Most of them were men of the higher types of Western adventurer. The Lieutenant liked these hardy sons of his own race, and determined not to use force against them if it could be avoided.
He crossed the river to announce his official instructions, and was met by a squad of daring, resolute fellows, armed and ready for a fight.
Their leader, a tall, red-headed, serious-looking man, opened the conference with scant ceremony. Looking the youthful officer squarely in the eye, he slowly drawled:
"Young man, we have defied the gov'ment once befo' when they sent their boys up here to steal our mines. Now, ef yer know when yer well off, you'll let honest white men alone and quit sidin' with Injuns—"
There was no mistaking his accent. He meant war.
The Lieutenant's answer came in quick, even, tones:
"The United States Government has ordered your removal, gentlemen. My business as a soldier is to obey. I shall be sorry to use force. But I'll do it, if it's necessary. I suggest a private interview with your leader—" he nodded to the red-headed man.
"Sure!"
"Talk it over!"
"All right."
The men from all sides gave their approval. The leader hesitated a moment, and measured the tall, straight young officer. He didn't like this wrestle at close quarters with those penetrating eyes and the trained mind behind them. But with a toss of his red locks he muttered:
"All right, fire away—you can talk your head off, for all the good it'll do ye."
They walked off together a few yards and sat down.
With the friendliest smile the Lieutenant extended his hand:
"Before we begin our chat, let's shake hands?"
"Certain—shore—"
The brawny hand clasped his.
"I want you to know," the young officer continued earnestly, "my real feelings toward you and your men. I've been out here four years with you fellows, pushing the flag into the wilderness, and the more I see of you the better I like you. I know real men when I see them. You're strong, generous, brave, and you do things. You're building a great republic on this frontier of the world. I've known your hospitality. You've had little education in the schools, but you're trained for this big work in the only school that counts out here—the School of Danger and Struggle and Experience—"
The brawny hand was lifted in a helpless sort of protest:
"Look a here, Boy, you're goin' ter bamboozle me, I kin jist feel it in my bones—"
"On the other hand," the Lieutenant continued eagerly, "I assure you I am going to treat you and your friends with the profoundest respect. It's due you. Let's reason this thing out. You've taken up these mines under the old right of first discovery—"
"Yes, and they're ours, too,"—the lean jaws came together with a snap.
"So I say. But it will take a little time and a little patience to establish your claims. The Indian, you know, holds the first rights to this land—"
"T'ell with Injuns!"
"Even so, isn't it better to first settle their claims and avoid war?"
"Mebbe so."
"And you know we can't settle with the Indians while you hold by force the mines they claim as the owners of the soil—"
The leader scratched his head and rose with sudden resolution:
"Come on, and tell this to the boys."
The leader escorted the Lieutenant to the crowd, and commanded them to hear him. His speech was interrupted at first by angry exclamations, but at its close there was respectful silence. The fight was won without a blow.
The new Colonel was much pleased at the successful ending of the dangerous job. He had received the orders to eject these miners with a wry face. That the work had been done without bloodshed had lifted a load from his mind.
The Lieutenant was honored on the night of his return by an invitation to dine with Colonel Taylor's family. They had been settled in the crowded quarters of the Fort during his absence—the wife, three daughters and a little son.
The Lieutenant's curiosity was but mildly roused at the thought of meeting the girls. In the lofty ways of youth, he had put marriage out of his mind. A soldier should not marry. He had given his whole soul to his country, its flag and its service. He would be agreeable to the ladies, of course, in deference to his commander and the honor he was receiving at his hands.
The dinner was a success. The mother was charming and gracious in her welcome. Something in her ways recalled his own mother.
She extended her hand with a genial smile, and took his breath with her first remark:
"I've quite fallen in love with you, sir, because of a story I heard of your West Point career—"
"Not in pity for my fall over the cliff, I hope," he answered gravely.
The mother's voice dropped to a whisper:
"No,—your friend Albert Sydney Johnston told me that you saved a large part of your allowance and sent it home to your mother—"
The young officer's lips trembled, and he looked away for a moment:
"But she sent it back to me, madam."
"Yes, until you wrote that she hurt you by not keeping it—"
To relieve his evident embarrassment, the mother introduced him in rapid succession to her daughters, the eldest Anne, the second Sarah Knox, the youngest Elizabeth. Richard, the handsome little boy, had introduced himself. He had liked the Lieutenant from the first.
He had been so surprised by the mother's possession of one of the sweetest secrets of his schoolboy life, and had blushed so furiously over it, he had scarcely noticed the girls, merely bowing in his confusion.
It was not until they were seated at the table and the dinner had fairly begun, that he became conscious of the charm of the second daughter, who sat directly opposite.
Her beauty was not dazzling, but in fifteen minutes she had completely absorbed his attention. It was impossible, of course, not to look at her. She sat squarely before him. There was no embarrassment in the frank, honest curiosity with which she returned his gaze.
The thing that first impressed him was the frankness of a winsome personality. He listened with keen attention to her voice. There was no simper, no affectation, no posing. She was just herself. He found himself analyzing her character. Refined—yes. Intelligent—beyond a doubt. She talked with her father in a quiet, authoritative way which left no doubt on that score. Graceful, tender, sincere, too—her tones to her impulsive brother and her younger sister proved that. And a will of her own she had. The firmly set, full lips were eloquent of character. He liked that above all things in a woman. He couldn't stand a simpering doll.
"Sing for us, Sarah!" her brother said impulsively, as they rose from the table.
"Certainly, Dick, if you wish it."
There was no holding back for urging. No mock modesty. No foolishness in her answer. It was straight, affectionate, responsive, open hearted, generous—just like his own sweet little sister Polly when he had asked of her a favor.
And then, he blushed to find himself staring at her in a sort of dreamy reverie. He hoped her music would not spoil the impression her personality had made. This had happened once in his life. He could never talk to the girl again, after he had heard her sing. The memory of it was a nightmare.
He watched her tune the guitar with a sense of silly dread. The tuning finished, she turned to her brother and asked with a smile:
"And what shall I sing, Sir Richard?"
"The one I love best—'Fairy Bells.'"
When the first line with its sweet accompaniment floated out from the porch on the balmy air of the June evening, the Lieutenant's fears had vanished. Never had he heard a song whose trembling melody so found his inmost soul. It set the Fairy Bells ringing in the deep woods of his far-away Mississippi home. He could see the fairy ringing them—her beautiful hair streaming in the moonlight, a smile on her lips, the joy and beauty of eternal youth in every movement of her exquisite form.
When the last note had died softly away, he leaned close and before he knew what he was doing, whispered:
"Glorious, Miss Sarah!"
"You like it very much?" she asked.
"It's divine."
"My favorite, too."
All night the "Fairy Bells" rang in his heart. For the first time in life, he failed to sleep. He listened entranced until dawn.
In the swift weeks which followed, life blossomed with new and wonderful meaning.
In the stern years on the plains, the young officer had known but one motive of action—duty. He was an exile from home and its comforts, friends and the haunts of civilized man for his country's sake. He had come to plant her flag on the farthest frontier and push it farther against all corners.
In the struggle against the snows of winter and the pestilence of the summer wilderness, he had fought Nature with the dogged determination of the soldier. Snow meant winter quarters, the spring marching and fighting. The hills were breastworks. The night brought dreams of strategy and surprise. The grass and flowers were symbols of a nation's wealth and the prophecy of war.
By a strange magic, the coming of a girl had transformed the world. He had seen the strategic value of these hills and valleys often before. He had not dreamed of their beauty. The mists that hung over the ragged lines of the western horizon were no longer fogs that might conceal an army. They were the folds of a huge veil which Nature was softly drawing over the face of a beautiful bride. Why had he not seen this before?
The awful silence of the plains from which he had fled to books had suddenly become God's great whispering gallery. He listened with joyous awe and reverence.
The stars had been his guides by night to find the trail. He had merely lifted his eyes to make the reckoning. He had never seen before the crystal flash from their jeweled depths.
He looked into the eyes of the graceful young rider by his side and longed to tell her of this miracle wrought in his soul. But he hesitated. She was too dignified and self-possessed. It would be silly when put into words.
But the world to-day was too beautiful to hurry through it. He just couldn't.
"Let's stop on this hill and watch the sunset, Miss Sarah?" he suggested.
"I'd love to," was the simple answer.
With a light laugh, she sprang from the saddle. They touched the ground at the same moment.
He looked at her with undisguised admiration.
"You're a wonderful rider," he said.
"A soldier's daughter must be—it's part of her life."
He tied their horses to the low hanging limbs of a cluster of scrub trees, and found a seat on the bowlders which the Indians had set for a landmark on the lonely hilltop.
Westward the plains stretched, a silent ocean of green, luscious grass.
"What's that dark spot in the valley?" the girl eagerly asked.
"Watch it a moment—"
They sat in silence for five minutes.
"Why, it's moving!" she cried.
"Yes."
"How curious—"
"An illusion?" he suggested.
"Nonsense, I'm not dreaming."
"I've been dreaming a lot lately—"
A smile played about the corners of her fine mouth. But she ignored the hint.
"Tell me," she cried; "you studied the sciences at West Point, what does it mean?"
"Look closely. Any fifteen-year-old boy of the plains could explain it."
"Am I so ignorant?" she laughed.
"No," he answered soberly, "our eyes just refuse to see things at which we are looking until the voice within reveals. The eyes of a hunter could make no mistake about such a spot—particularly if it moved."
"It might be a passing cloud—"
"There's none in the sky."
"Tell me!" she pleaded.
"A herd of buffalo."
"That big black field! It must be ten acres—"
The man laughed at her ignorance with a sudden longing in his heart to help and protect her.
"Ten acres! Look again. They are twenty miles away. The herd is packed so densely, the ground is invisible. They cover a thousand acres."
"Impossible—"
"I assure you, it's true. They were once even more plentiful. But we're pushing them back with the Indians into the sunset. And they, too, will fade away into the twilight at last—"
He stopped suddenly. He had almost spoken a sentence that would have committed him beyond retreat. It was just on his lips to say:
"I didn't take such tender views of Indians and buffaloes until I met you!"
For the life of him he couldn't make the girl out. Her voice was music. Her laughter contagious. And yet she was reserved. About her personality hung a spell which forbade familiarity. Flirting was a pastime in the army. But it had never appealed to him. He was not so sure about her when she laughed.
And then her father worried him. The fiery old Southerner had the temper of the devil when roused. He could see that this second daughter was his favorite. He had caught a look of unreasonable anger and jealousy in his eye only that afternoon when they rode away together.
Still he must risk it. He had really suggested this sunset scene for that purpose. The field was his own choosing. Only a coward could run now.
He managed at last to get his lips to work.
"Since you came, Miss Sarah—I've been seeing life at a new angle—" he paused awkwardly.
The red blood mounted to her cheeks.
"You have given me new eyes—"
"'You have given me new eyes'""'You have given me new eyes'"
She turned her head away. There was no mistaking the tremor of his tones. She was too honest to simper and pretend. Her heart was pounding so loudly she wondered if he could hear.
He fumbled nervously with his glove, glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and his voice sank to a whisper:
"I—I love you, Sarah!"
She turned slowly and looked at him through dimmed eyes:
"And I love you—"
She paused, brushed a tear from her cheek, and with sweet reproach quietly added:
"Why didn't you tell me sooner? We've lost so many beautiful days that might have been perfect—"
He suddenly stooped and kissed her full lips.
"We'll not lose any more—"
"The worldisbeautiful, isn't it, dear!" she said, nestling closer.
"Since I see with your eyes—yes. It was only a place to fight in, before. Now it's a fairy world, and these wild flowers that cover the plains only grow to make a carpet for the feet of the girl I love—"
"A fairy world—yes—" she whispered, "it's been just that to me since I first sang the 'Fairy Bells' for you—"
"I'll never love another song as that," he said reverently.
"Nor I," was the low response. "My heart will beat to its music forever—it just means you, now—"
For a long time they sat without words, holding each other's hand. The sun hung a glowing ball of fire on the rim of the far-away hills, and the shadows of the valley deepened into twilight.
"How wonderful the silence of the plains!" the lover sighed.
"It used to oppress me."
The man nodded.
"And now, I hear the beat of angels' wings and know that God is near—"
"Because we love—" and she laughed for joy.
Again they sat in sweet, brooding silence.
A horseman rode over the hilltop in the glow of the fading sun. From its summit, he lifted his hand and waved a salute. They looked below, and in the doorway of a cabin, a young mother stood, a babe in her arms answering with hand uplifted high above her child.
"What does it matter, dear," she whispered, "a cabin or a palace!"
Side by side through the still white light of the full moon they rode home, in each heart the glow of the wonder and joy of Love's first revelation. Words were an intrusion. The eyes of the soul were seeing now the hidden things of life.
The gleam of the lights at the Fort brought them sharply out of dreamland into the world of fact.
"You must see my father to-night, dear," she said eagerly.
"Must I, to-night?"
"It's best."
"I'd rather face a hundred Red Men in war paint."
A merry laugh was her answer as she leaned close:
"Don't be silly, he likes you."
"But helovesyou."
"Of course, and for that reason my happiness will be his."
"God knows, I hope so," was the doleful response. "But if I must, I must. I'll see him."
A quick kiss in the friendly shadows and she was gone.
He walked alone an hour after supper, screwing up his courage to the point of bearding the Colonel in his den. He fumbled the door-bell at last, his heart in his throat.
Old Rough and Ready was not inclined to help him in his embarrassment. Never had he seen the lines of his strong jaw harder or more set than when he grunted:
"Sit down, sir. Don't stand there staring. I'm not on inspection."
The perspiration started on his forehead and he moistened his dry lips.
"I beg your pardon, Colonel. I was a little flustered. I've—a—something—on—my mind—"
"Out with it!"
"I—I—I'm in love with Miss Sarah."
"You don't say?"
"Y-yes, sir."
"Well, it's no news to me. The whole family have been enjoying the affair for some time. I suppose you're asking—or think you're asking—for my daughter's hand in marriage?"
"That's it—yes, sir—exactly."
"I guessed as much. I'm glad to tell you, young man, that I've always had the kindliest feelings for you personally—"
"Thank you, sir—"
"And the warmest admiration for your talents as an officer. You're a good soldier. You have brains. You have executive ability. You're a leader of men. You'll go far in your profession—"
"Thank you, sir—"
"And that's why I don't like you as a son-in-law."
"W—Wha—"
"I love my daughter, and I want her to be happy in a real home with a real husband and children by her side. A soldier's life is a dog's life. I've pitied the poor girl who gave up her home for me. Many a bitter tear has she shed over my absence, in torturing dread of the next letter from the frontier—"
He paused and sprang to his feet:
"A hundred times I've sworn no daughter of mine should ever marry a soldier! The better the soldier, the more reason she should not marry him—"
"But, sir—"
"There's no 'but' about it!" the Colonel thundered. "You're asking me to let you murder my girl, that's all—but it's life. I'll have to give my consent and wish you good luck, long life, and all the happiness you can get out of a soldier's lot."
The Colonel extended his hand and the Lieutenant grasped it with grateful eagerness.
The days that followed were red lettered in the calendar of life.
And then it came—a crash of thunder out of the clear sky—the thing he had somehow felt and dreaded.
A petty court-martial was called to adjust a question of army discipline. The court was composed of Z. Taylor, Colonel Commanding, Major Thomas F. Smith, a fiery-tempered gay officer of the old army, Lieutenant Jefferson Davis, and the new Second Lieutenant who had just arrived from the Jefferson Barracks at St. Louis.
The army regulations required that each officer sitting in court-martial should be in full uniform. The new arrival from St. Louis had come without his uniform. His trunk had miscarried and was returned to the Jefferson Barracks.
He rose with embarrassment:
"I must beg the pardon of the Court, Colonel," he began cautiously, "for not appearing in my uniform. As it is in St. Louis I respectfully ask to be excused to-day from wearing it."
The old Colonel scowled. It was just like a young fool to wish to sit in solemn judgment on a fellow officer—in his shirt sleeves. If he had asked to be excused from serving on the Court—yes—he could accept his excuse and let him go. But this insolence was unbearable. The Colonel glanced over the Court before putting the question to a vote. Smith was his enemy. Whichever way he voted as President, the Major could be depended on to go against his decision. There was a feud between those two hot-tempered fire-eaters which had lasted for years. He glanced at his future son-in-law with a smile of assured victory. Tom Smith would vote against him, but the trembling youngster who had quailed before him that night asking for his daughter's hand was practically in the family. He smiled at the certainty of downing Smith once more.
In a voice, whose tones left nothing to the imagination of the presumptuous Second Lieutenant, the Colonel growled:
"Gentlemen, we are asked to allow an officer to sit in the formal judgment of a court-martial without uniform—I put the question to a vote and cast mine. No!"
"I vote yes!" shouted the Major.
The Colonel did not condescend to look his way. He knew what that vote was before he heard it. He bent his piercing eyes on his future son-in-law:
"Lieutenant Davis?"
There was just a moment's hesitation. The Lieutenant smiled at his embarrassed young fellow officer and mildly answered:
"I think, Colonel, in view of the distance to St. Louis, we may excuse the young man for the first offense—I vote—yes."
The old Colonel stared at him in speechless amazement. Smith grinned.
The Colonel's face grew purple with rage. He was just able to gasp his words during the progress of the trial. It was brief, and when it ended and the rest had gone, he faced the Lieutenant with blazing eyes:
"How dare you, sir, vote with that damned fool against me?"
"Why, I never thought to hurt you, Colonel—"
"No? And whatdidyou think?"
"I only thought of relieving the evident embarrassment of a young officer—"
"You did, eh?—no thought of me or my feelings, of my wishes. You're a hell of a son-in-law, you are—"
He paused for breath and choked with rage no words could express. When at last his tongue found speech, he swore in oaths more expressive and profound than modern man has ever dreamed. He damned the Court. He damned Tom Smith. He damned the Second Lieutenant. He damned the regiment. He damned the Government that created it. He damned the Indians that called it to the plains. He damned the world and all in it, and all things under it. But, particularly and specifically, he damned the young ass who dared to flaunt his feelings and opinions after smiling in his face at his house, for days and weeks and months.
Finally, facing the blushing Lieutenant, his eyes flashing indignant scorn, he shouted:
"No man who votes with a damned fool like Tom Smith, can marry my daughter!"
"Colonel, I protest," pleaded the heartsick lover.
"I forbid you to ever put your foot inside my quarters again!"
"Colonel—"
"Silence, sir! I forbid you to ever speak to my daughter again!"
"But, Colonel—"
"I repudiate you and all yours. I wipe you from the map. You don't exist. I don't know you. I never knew you. Get out of my sight!"
The tall, slender form slowly straightened and a look of cold pride shot from the depths of his blue eyes. Without a wordhe turned and left.
Black Hawk was leading his red warriors in a great uprising. A wave of fierce excitement swept the frontier. There was stern work now for men to do and women must wait alone.
The regiment marched to the front. The Colonel as a man was freezingly formal with the Lieutenant. As an officer, he knew his worth and relied on it in every emergency. The State of Illinois had raised two companies of raw recruits to join in subduing the Indians. The Colonel sent his most efficient subordinate to swear in the new soldiers. On the morning of the muster, there appeared before the tall Lieutenant, a man full three inches taller, and famous in his county as the gawkiest, slab-sidest, homeliest, best-natured fellow in the State. He was dressed in a suit of blue jeans.
In slow, pleasing drawl, he announced:
"I am the Captain, of this company—"
And he waved his long arm toward the crowd of his countrymen on the right.
Lieutenant Jefferson Davis promptly administered to Abraham Lincoln his first oath to support the Constitution and laws of the United States.
Two men destined to immortal fame had met and passed with scarcely a glance at each other. The young army officer was too much of a gentleman to mark the ill-fitting blue jeans of the awkward captain of militia. Great events, after all, make men great. Only the eye of God could foresee the coming tragedy in which these two would play their mighty rôles.
At the end of the brief struggle on the frontier, Black Hawk's people were scattered to the four winds and the brave old warrior, with a handful of his men, sought Colonel Taylor's command to surrender.
Again, the Colonel sent his most accomplished officer, the Lieutenant whom he had forbidden to enter his house,—to treat with the fallen Chief.
The Lieutenant received with kindly words the broken-hearted warrior, his two sons and sixty braves, and conducted them at once as prisoners of war to the barracks at St. Louis.
The cholera was raging at Rock Island, and on the boat two of the Indian prisoners were seized with the fatal disease. The Lieutenant, at the risk of his life, personally ministered to their needs. The two stricken men made known to the commander in broken words and signs that they had sworn an oath of eternal friendship. In pleading tones the stronger said:
"We beg the good Chief to put us ashore that hand in hand we may go to the happy hunting grounds together."
Near the first little settlement their prayer was granted.
The young officer turned to his boat with a sigh as he saw the red warriors slip their arms about each other and slowly sink to the ground to die alone and unattended.
Old Black Hawk sat in silent, stolid indifference to his fate until the curious settlers began to crowd on the boat and stare at his misery.
The Lieutenant interfered with sharp decision.
"Push those men back, Corporal!" he ordered angrily.
The crowd was roughly pushed back and the Lieutenant took Black Hawk kindly by the arm and led him into a reservedapartment where he was free from vulgar eyes.
The old man's lips tightened. He gazed at the officer steadily and spoke in measured tones:
"The young war Chief treats me with much kindness. He is good and brave. He puts himself in my place and sees all that I suffer. With him I am much pleased."
The Lieutenant bowed and left him under the protection of the guard. Courtesy to a fallen foe in the old days was the first obligation of an officer and a gentleman.
In the autumn, Colonel Taylor again sent his Lieutenant on a distant duty—this time one of peculiar danger. He was ordered to Louisville and Lexington on recruiting service. And the cholera was known to be epidemic but a few miles from Lexington.
The good-by scene that night at the lovers' trysting place, the little tent reception-room of the McCreas', was long and tender and solemn.
"Oh, I feel dreadful about this trip, dear," his sweetheart kept repeating with pitiful despair that refused to be comforted.
"You must be brave, my own," he answered with a frown. "A soldier's business is to die. I am a soldier. I go where duty calls—"
"To battle—yes—but this black pestilence that comes in the night—I'm afraid—I just can't help it—I'm afraid. I've always had a horror of such things. I've a presentiment that you'll die that way—"
"Presentiments and dreams go by opposites. I'll live to a ripe old age—"
She looked up into his face with a tender smile:
"You think so?"
"Yes, why not?"
"Well—I've something to tell you—"
She paused and the man bent low.
"What?"
"I've made a vow to God—" the voice stopped with a sob—"that if He will only send you safely back to me this time—I'll wait no longer on my father's whim—I am yours—"
The lover clasped her trembling form to his heart.
"Good-by, dearest," he said at last. "I wish to go with that promise ringing in my soul."
Ten days after he reached Lexington, the cholera broke out, and hundreds fled. He stood by his men, watched their diet, nursed the sick, and buried the dead. He helped the carpenter make the coffins and reverently bore the victims to their graves. No fear was in his soul. Love was chanting the anthem of Life.
A strange new light was burning in the eyes of the woman he loved on the day he returned in safety.
She seized his hand and spoke with decision:
"Come with me."
Her father was standing at the gate. She faced him, holding defiantly the hand of her lover.
The old man saw and understood. His jaw was set with sullen determination and his face hardened.
"We have waited two long years," she began softly. "We have been patient and hopeful, but you have given no sign. My lover's character is beyond reproach, and I am proud of him. I am sorry to cross you, Father, but I've made up my mind, I am going to marry him now."
The Colonel turned in silence and slowly walked into the house.
Captain McCrea engaged a stateroom for her on the boat for Louisville. The lovers planned to meet at her aunt's, the Colonel's oldest sister. The tearful good-bys had been said to Mother and sisters and brother. The Colonel had not spoken, but he had business on the boat before she cast her lines from the shore.
The daughter drew him into her stateroom and slipped her arms around his neck. Few words were spoken and they were broken.
"Please, Father—please?—I love you—please—"
"No."
"I'm no longer a child. I'm a woman. You're a real man and you know I could have no respect for myself if I should yield my life's happiness to a whim—"
The old Colonel stroked her shoulder:
"I understand. You're a chip off the old block. You're just as stubborn as I am. And—I—won't—eat—my—words."
With firm hand, he drew away and hurried from the boat.
The Taylor clan of Kentucky gathered for the wedding in force. The romance appealed to their fancy. They loved their high-spirited, self-poised little kinswoman and they liked the tall, modest, young officer she had chosen for her husband. The stern old Colonel was not there, but his brother and his three sisters and all their tribe made merry at the wedding feast.
On the deck of the lazy river steamer, the bride and groom slowly drifted down the moonlit shimmering way to the fields of Mississippi.
The bride nestled close to her lover's side in the long sweet silences too deep for words.
He took her hand in his at last, and said tenderly:
"I've something very important to tell you now, my dear—"
"I'm not afraid—"
"You trust me implicitly?"
"Perfectly—"
"You have given up all for me," he went on evenly, "I'll show your father what I can do for you—"
"You love me—it's enough."
"No. I have resigned my commission in the army. I have given up my career. We'll live only for each other now and build our nest in the far sunny South beyond the frost line."
A little smothered cry was her answer. And then her head slowly sank with a sob on his breast.