CHAPTER IV
My father had destined me for a lawyer, there being at that time needfor one in our valley--a fact which sounds strangely now, when knightsof quill and ink horn are everywhere so numerous. An accumulation oflegal lore requiring, as was then thought, the deep laid foundation of athorough classical education, I was sent, after old David Ramsey hadimparted to me such measure of his learning as his failing powerspermitted, to the Augusta Academy, to continue my Greek and Latin, whileat the same time I read Coke and Blackstone, and practiced on legalforms.
We had just begun a second session of eleven months, and I flatteredmyself I was making some progress in comprehending the great underlyingprinciples of law, as well as in unlearning certain faults ofpronunciation and scanning acquired under old David, when my studiesencountered a sudden interruption in an event whose influence upon myafter life was of sufficient importance to justify me in brieflyrecording it.
The class room that August afternoon was hot and buzzing, and most ofthe lads in the Greek class awaited the coming of the master with a sortof drowsy impatience, while a few bent their eyes upon well thumbedbooks, and read the coming lesson over greedily, hoping to make up forprevious neglect by diligent use of an unexpected respite. When themaster did come, he had an absent and very serious look upon his face,and he heard us recite with surprising indifference to mistakes. We knewintuitively that he held something in waiting, to tell us as soon as thelesson should be over, and a subdued inward excitement quicklycounteracted our drowsiness.
After the last line had been recited, he got on his feet, his tall gauntfigure, stern mouth and Roman nose more impressive than usual, and toldus, as quietly as if he were announcing the next day's lesson, that newshad been received of a confederated rising of the Indians in the OhioValley, and that Colonel Lewis had been ordered to call out the militia,to enlist volunteers, and to march to the frontier to meet the savages.He, the master, being a militia man, was in duty bound to go, and as itwas but two days to the one set for the mustering, he would not meet hisclass again until his return--if it should be God's will to spare hislife and liberty, and allow him to come back to more peaceful pursuits.Meantime, he hoped we would not neglect our studies, or grow careless ofour duty to our parents, and our country. That duty, at present, was totrain our minds by constant exercise, and to fill our brains with variedknowledge, that we might become useful and honored citizens in acommonwealth, standing upon the threshold of a future which promised tobe one of glorious and continued progress. Then he bade us good-byfeelingly, and left us, each one envying him his chance of adventure anddanger, and each sheepishly conscious of tears in his eyes. A momentlater I made a sudden but resolute decision, and having put my books,desk, and other school belongings in the care of a fellow student,struck out across the fields, and walked the twelve miles to the homestile by sunset.
"Father," I said, before he had time to express astonishment, "I amgoing with Colonel Lewis to whip the Indians."
The day after the next, my father accompanied me to the mustering, andgave full consent to my enlistment for the campaign.
The long march we made through an almost trackless wilderness, and theeffectual check we gave Cornstalk and his warriors, are, now, facts ofhistory, and since they in no way serve to help on my story, I mustresist the temptation to dwell upon our brief campaign. I cannot evenstop to point out convincingly the far reaching and most importantconsequences to the cause growing out of this victory. But this much ofa digression must be forgiven me--though my story halts while I say it.
Had not the strength and confidence of the Shawnees, and the tribesconfederated with them, been shaken at Point Pleasant, and the prestigeand influence of the brave and capable Cornstalk destroyed, the Indianswould, doubtless months before, have made impossible that intrepiddefiance of Washington, the memory of which we Scotch Irish cherish withso much pride:--that he would never surrender but if driven to bay wouldmake a last stand in the mountain fastnesses of Augusta; and, rallyingto his aid those brave pioneers, yet bid defiance to the enemy and hopeto pluck victory from apparent defeat. Nor, had there been no battle ofPoint Pleasant, would a dauntless rifle company have been available forservice under the gallant Morgan, to march to Quebec, to win thedecisive battle at Freeman Farm, and the telling victories of King'sMountain and of Cowpens.
* * * * *
Returned from the Ohio, I went back to my books, but I could not settledown contentedly to Latin odes and Greek classics. The excitement of themarch, the battle, and the victory, had aroused within me a sleepingaptitude for the life of a soldier, and I chafed at the prospect of asafe and uneventful career.
At Christmas I had two weeks' holiday, and what time I was not trackinggame in the snow, was spent breaking the colts to the cutter, orcoasting on a plank down the steepest hills to be found, with Jean andEllen O'Niel behind me. My grandmother, who did not share the universaldisapproval of the Irish child's "defiant spirit," had persuaded mymother to have Ellen over to spend the holidays with Jean, using theadroit argument, with both my mother and Aunt Martha, that Jean's gentleand tractable spirit might have a good influence over the untamed Ellen.She had come, but not very graciously, and sat silent among us, for thefirst day and evening, looking sullen and unhappy.
Few could resist, however, the contagion of our kindly home atmosphere,and by the second morning, Ellen had melted sufficiently to smile atgrandmother's quaint jokes and stories of Ireland. By dinner time shewas ready to listen with interest to some of my father's pioneerexperiences, and that night when mother bade me give her a relation ofmy fight with the panther, she listened with flushed cheeks and shiningeyes. We were by this time drawn in the usual family circle about theglowing fireplace, from which roasting apples and chestnuts were sendingforth a rich odor. Mother sat in her special corner, her head restingagainst the panther's skin, and father sat beside her, grandmotheropposite, and I near her on the settle, while Jean nestled close to me.Thomas, who occupied the other end of the settle, wore a radiant face,for he enjoyed the absence of restraint which he found nowhere but withus, and all the sullen reserve was gone from Ellen's countenance.
Presently Ellen, who so far had deigned only to answer us, began totalk. At first she barely asked a question into which interest orsurprise had betrayed her, or made an occasional impulsive remark. But,as her reserve melted in the genial and sympathetic atmosphere, thesluice gates of pent up memories seemed suddenly to open, and she talkedfreely, relating anecdotes and reminiscences of her childhood, andshowing a depth and warmth of emotion which surprised us. These led heron to repeat some of the stories her father had read or told to her.They were chiefly tales from Shakespeare's "Tempest," "Winter's Tale,""Hamlet," and others of the more fantastical and tragic of these dramas.None of her listeners had read them, then, though I had heard ofShakespeare, the great English playwright. We were all charmed, as much,perhaps, by the flashing expressions of intelligence and feeling whichtransformed Ellen's face into one almost of beauty, as by the storiesthemselves. Moreover that emotional quality of her voice, so prone tosubtle vibrations, added a special charm to all she said.
"Now, Donald," said my father, when Ellen seemed to have spent herpresent memories, and had lapsed into her usual quiet, "get your fiddle,and let's have a tune."
Jean ran at once to bring my violin, and I did my best to add my shareof entertainment to the evening's innocent pleasures.
"Ellen can sing sweeter than a lark, or a red bird," said Thomas, as Ipaused to rest my arm.
"Can she?" from Jean with eager delight. "I do love singing; sing forus, Ellen."
"I can sing only the Irish and Scotch ballads, and the Catholic hymns mymother used to sing," answered Ellen, flushing. "I do not know thesolemn songs you people sing, and I shall never learn them"--the lastsaid in a defiant tone which the occasion scarcely called for.
"Our psalms are vera sweet an' sacred to us, my dear," remarked mygrandmother, with no apparent recogni
tion of the challenge in Ellen'svoice, yet choosing her words with a precision that was evidence ofslight displeasure, "but we like aither sangs too, an' sing them excepton the Sabbath. I love the Scotch and Irish ballads, an' though you haealready done your share aboot making the evening go by pleasantly for usa', we'd greatly like a sang or twa, if ye dinna mind to pleasure usfurther."
"It's a delight to please you, grandma," said Ellen impulsively, and sherose from her chair, slipped behind the settle and dropped upon thefloor beside grandmother, kissing as she did so, one of the soft,wrinkled hands folded in her lap. Then, resting her head againstgrandmother's knee, she fixed her eyes upon the dancing flames, andbegan to sing somewhat unsteadily, but with more fullness andconfidence, as she continued. Her voice did indeed soar and swell like aredbird's, and she threw all her heart into her singing, while thequaint words of the old ballads slipped meltingly from her lips, asdrops of dew from the petals of a flower.
"Why, my dear, I hae na' been up sae late for years," remarkedgrandmother, in a tone of alarm as the clock struck midnight; thenstroking Ellen's hair, which was growing out in loose curls, "You g'ieus mouch pleasure, dear, but it's bedtime now, for a'. Come, Jean andEllen! Good night a', and a merry Christmas to you."
Not only were cider and persimmon beer drawn from the full barrels inthe cellar, but a big bowl of apple toddy was concocted early Christmasmorning, and flanked by plates of doughnuts, and ginger bread, raisinand spiced cake, apples, and nuts, sat upon the long table in the bigroom, all day, every one being free to eat and drink his fill. Thiscustom of my father, which usually drew to our house most of the menwithin a ten mile ride, always scandalized my Aunt Martha, and but forUncle Thomas' backing we would never have gotten Ellen and Thomas to ourhouse until after Christmas day. Uncle Thomas himself always came,however, and on this occasion Aunt Martha broke her rule and came withhim, bringing too their younger son, John.
I observed a change come over Ellen's face as soon as Aunt Marthaappeared in the doorway; she seemed to draw within herself, and her facetook on the sullen expression which so marred its comeliness, andpresently when I looked about for her, she was nowhere to be found.
"Ah, Rachael," said Aunt Martha, glancing toward the laden table betweenthe two southern windows, and shaking her head in solemn disapproval, "Isee you have not yet been able to persuade William of the sinfulness ofthis habit of his, of offering the intoxicating cup to all comers, atthis season. Strange perversion, that this holy Christ festival shouldbe turned into an occasion for gluttony and rioting."
"William has his own ideas, Martha, and I do not set mine against him,"I heard my mother answer, from the doorway, as she followed my aunt intothe bedroom. "The neighbor gentlemen will all be in presently, and awarming cup will be needed by those who do not stay to dinner."
"You are too meek with William, Rachael, and so fail of due influence.Wifely obedience is commanded in the Bible, it is true, but I do notthink the sacrifice of our principles is required."
"Preaching still, eh, Martha--" called my father's cheery voice from thebig room, having come in to put another log upon the roaring pile;"well, you'll have to stop now, for I see Justices McDowell and Willsonriding up, and, as you know, we like not solemn faces in this house onChristmas day," and he hurried out again to meet his guests, before AuntMartha was sufficiently recovered from her indignant surprise to makehim proper answer.
The ensuing hour brought a dozen others, the most substantialfreeholders in the community, nearly all of them members of the church,as well as men of influence in public affairs. A few drank only cider orbeer, but most of them quaffed full cups of the spiced, apple-seasonedtoddy with evident appreciation, and ate the cakes, apples and nutswithout stint.
I sat about the fire with the men, proud of my privilege, but mother andAunt Martha, after ceremonious greetings were exchanged, retired, as wascustomary for women when several men were met together. The talk wasanimated, and at times exciting, though there was but small differenceof opinion among them. The Boston massacre, and recent unjustrestrictions upon our commerce, were indignantly condemned, and thedetermined spirit of the colonists of Massachusetts warmly commended.Presently it was proposed by Justice Willson, and warmly seconded by myfather, that the citizens of Augusta County, or a committee elected bythem, should draw up resolutions to be sent to the Virginia assembly,expressing with no uncertain sound their fixed determination not tosubmit to tyranny, and to sustain Massachusetts in her noble standagainst injustice and oppression at every hazard. In truth the leadersof the New England "Town Meeting," could not have shown more fervor normore determination than these representative men of this Scotch Irishsettlement in the Virginia mountains. The discussion was unabated still,and not a man had suggested returning home, when my mother announceddinner. The table had been lengthened to its utmost, by raising all its"wings" and putting the side tables at either end; but there was stillno seat for me, so I wandered into my mother's room, and then across theyard to the kitchen to look for Jean and Ellen. Jean, and John MitchellI found, eating turkey livers, gravy and potatoes before the embers,over which hung the now idle cranes, and Thomas was mending John's sledat the work bench in the back kitchen. But Ellen was not to be found,and no one had seen her for two hours. Returning to the house, I mountedthe steps to the room under the gable, where grandma and Jean slept, andthere found Ellen, wrapped in a blanket, and lying prone on the floor inthe stream of sunshine pouring through the western window. Her chin wassupported by her hands and an open book lay before her.
"Are you hiding from Aunt Martha, Ellen?" I asked teasingly.
"I slipped away while she was helping your mother set table," sheanswered, "and stole up here to read. I don't often get a chance; yourAunt Martha keeps me at work from sun up till dark, and then sends me tobed. She says it is a wicked waste of time to read anything but one'sBible--and the holy father in Baltimore told me that the way Protestantspresumed to read the sacred book, and determine for themselves itssacred meaning is blasphemous."
"What book are you reading?" I asked.
"One of the Shakespeare books my father gave me. I have six more likeit," and she held up to my view a small leather bound volume, a gooddeal the worse for wear. "I slipped it into my satchel when Aunt Marthasent me up stairs to get my things, the morning you came for us, butplease don't tell her, Cousin Donald--she said she'd take the books awayfrom me if she saw me reading them again, for they were not fit readingfor me, and I had no time to waste on them."
"How did she know they were not fit reading for you?" I asked, curiousto learn if Aunt Martha had stopped work long enough to examine a book.
"She made Uncle Thomas read some out of one of the volumes to her,"answered Ellen, smiling in response to my thought. "And she said, atbreakfast table next morning, that a great deal of it had neither sensenor meaning, and the part she could understand was about fighting andkilling, or else foolish love stuff--all of it unfit for any youngperson to hear. She wanted to burn my books, as she did my crucifix, butI ran and hid them, and cried so, all day, that Uncle Thomas said 'Letthe child's books alone, Martha; her father gave them to her; if theyharm her it's no fault of yours.'"
"Is the reading as good as your telling of the stories, Ellen?"
"Oh, so much nicer. There are beautiful things I could never say;listen," and she read me a passage from "Romeo and Juliet." "Isn't thatlike music? The very words have a tune to them without thinking of themeaning even."
"Could you lend me the book to read while you are here, Ellen? orto-morrow, if you will, we'll come up here and you shall read aloud tome."
"But your mother and father might find out, and tell Aunt Martha."
"We need not conceal our reading from them; they will make no objectionif I tell them the book is harmless--and I suppose it is, even forgirls. I know it is a famous book and counted among the Englishclassics. I've always meant to read it some day."
"And I'll lend you the other volumes, one by one, if you'll take me b
earhunting the next time you find a track," added Ellen.
"That's a bargain, if my mother will let you go. How old are you,Ellen?"
"I shall be sixteen my next birthday."
"And when is that?"
"Next November."
"Then you are just fifteen."
"Fifteen and two months," she corrected.
"That is young for you to have read Shakespeare, and to be capable ofappreciating him. Your father taught you so carefully, and read to youso much because he had no sons, I suppose."
"Perhaps; he used often to wish I were a boy. He used to say I was sostrong, and tall, and had more sense than most women; and when he wastaken sick, after mother's death, he said every few hours--'Oh if youwere only a boy, Ellen, I would not mind so much leaving you alone inthe world; you could soon be independent then, and make your own way!'"
"'Tis a pity, Ellen; you'd make a good man, I'm sure. You are as strongnow as a boy of your age is likely to be, and half a head taller thanJohn who is but six months younger."
"I dared John to a wrestle, one day in the barn, and threw him," laughedEllen, "but I promised not to tell, and you must not twit him about it."
"All right, I won't; but were I John I'd keep on challenging you till Ihad proved my superior strength; no girl should throw me! Does AuntMartha know?"
"Of course not, Donald. Already she calls me a hoyden, and an untamedIrish girl--which I am, the last I mean, and proud of it. Did she hearof my wrestling with John, the bread and water she threatens me withwould be my only diet for a week."
"You'll not have bread and water diet while you are here, at any rate.But there's my mother calling now; my mouth waters for her Christmasdinner, for there's no better served in the neighborhood to-day, Iwarrant you. Come on; let's go down," and I put the little book in mypocket, seized Ellen by the hand and pulled her after me, pell-mell downthe stairway where we ran straight into Aunt Martha.
"Ellen O'Niel!" she stopped to say, fixing a stern eye upon her--"youare the greatest hoyden I have ever seen. I thank a merciful Providenceyou are not my daughter."
"Amen, and so do I," said Ellen, in my ear, and as Aunt Martha passedinto the next room, she turned toward me, and pulled her face down intothe most comical imitation of Aunt Martha's solemn countenance. Ilaughed heartily, though in truth I did not approve of Ellen'sflippancy. Reverence for religion and respect for our elders were amongthe virtues earliest and most faithfully instilled into the breasts ofScotch Irish children.