The work of tending the corn fell to John and a single servant. As it
was done with a bull-tongue plow and with hoes it was no easy job; but
it was well done, as its green thriftiness and fresh, healthy night odor
bore witness. After it was laid by the workers passed into the meadow,
and with their blades in the slow, olden way, mowed the twenty acres of
grassland. Under a sultry mid-summer sun they moved forward, step and
stroke in unison, sometimes humming in concert. At the end of each cross
section, they rested and whetted their blades and the noise was in key
with the rasping song of the harvest fly.
After the hay was stacked in four great ricks near the barn, they worked
a week getting in the winter wood; and then ten days in repairing the
fences, which in places a deer or straying buffalo had tossed aside with
his horns and in splitting walnut and chestnut rails to extend the
woodland pasture, which had to be enlarged as the flocks grew. If the
cattle and sheep ran at large they strayed into the mountains and were
eaten by timber wolves and bears. By the time this was done it was the
first of October; the corn was ripe; the heavy ears had dropped over to
protect the hardening grain from the fall rains; and the ripening blades
rustled in the wind, which bore a message of coming frost. For three
weeks John was busy pulling fodder and shocking and husking the corn,
which work lacerated and hardened his hands.
He was working on the last row of shocks, when Michael Stoner, a
one-time companion scout with Kenton, but now trader, traveling to
Virginia to return in the spring with a pack train of goods, handed him
a letter from Dorothy. Scarcely waiting for John to thank him, much less
answer questions as to friends in the cane-brake country, he hastened on
to join his companions, yet in sight, near the foot of the Gap.
The evening of the day they finished shucking and housing the corn, the
fall rains set in. They were ready for winter; and John should have been
enjoying the sleepy quietude that follows hard physical labor; but never
before had his parents seen him so restless and disquieted. The poise of
the sober, dreamy John was disturbed.
Dorothy's letter had done it. He had carried it for several days and
read it many times. Ashamed to let his mother see him do so again, he
walked to the creek and would have climbed out upon the great boulder
where they sat the night before she left but the swift, swollen stream
intervened. Then he read the letter again; and stamping his foot with
vexation, tore it into fragments and cast them forth upon the yellow
stream.
She wrote: "* * * Father leaves Danville for Boston the first of
November, taking me with him. I am to remain and attend a finishing
school for young ladies, making my home for the winter with Aunt Mildred
and Uncle John. Father will remain but a few days.
"He has become quite intimate with General Wilkinson, who makes our home
his headquarters whenever he comes to Danville. He seems to like me;
though he is not the sort of man I would ever fancy. He came to Kentucky
in 1784; has a large store in Lexington and a small plantation on the
Town Fork of Elkhorn Creek; is more than thirty years old, is short and
fat, though elegant and fastidious in appearance, with a bland and
courteous manner, an easy address and his general manner uphold his
title, which was conferred upon him for distinguished service at
Saratoga.
"Recently he has obtained a permit from Governor Miro, of Louisiana, to
transport tobacco by river to New Orleans, where it is bought at a good
price by the Spanish Government. Father is acting as one of his
purchasing agents and can talk of nothing else except the General and
the prospect of wealth that is presented to us because of this business
connection.
"I do not like the spirit that pervades his talks with father. He does
not seem to have any love for Virginia and little regard or patriotism
for the Union. He is one of the leaders of what is spoken of as the
Court Party; and he, father, Judge Sebastian and Colonel Harry Innes,
with several other men I do not know, meet at our house. One is a
Spaniard, Don Pedro Wouver d'Arges; and they treat him with great
deference.
"From what I gather, they advocate immediate severance of Kentucky from
Virginia as an independent state; and declare that unless the federal
government will protect them from the Indians of the Northwest territory
and procure an open market by river to New Orleans for their tobacco and
other surplus produce, Kentucky, having nothing to gain by remaining in
the union of states had better become a province of Spanish Louisiana;
as only in that way can we enjoy free navigation of the Mississippi and
trade privileges with New Orleans, our only market. They say the
original thirteen states oppose free navigation, as it diverts trade
from the Atlantic; and when we say trade between us and the Atlantic is
impossible, they talk of building canals connecting the Potomac and the
Ohio.
"General Wilkinson has told father that should Kentucky become a Spanish
province, he will use his influence to procure his appointment as
commander of the military forces or as governor.
"It is at his suggestion that I am being sent to Boston. He has
persuaded father that such an aristocrat as poor, little, insignificant
Dorothy, must be educated in accord with her prospective station. When
he left, I mentioned to father that I expected to marry you, at which he
flew into a passion and said: 'Not while I am alive shall you marry a
mountain preacher; if he wants you let him first come down here and live
like a man.' I left the room. He and mother quarreled for some time
because she took out part. He seems a different man since we left
Jackson River. There he was deacon of the church; now he never goes to
church.
"If you wish to see your Dorothy as much as she longs for a sight of her
John, you must come to Danville before the first of November. * * *"
John stood for a long time looking down the trail that led northward to
Danville and the cane-brake country; then he saddled his horse and took
the trail in the opposite direction to the Gap. Having tied his horse at
the foot of the path leading to the Pinnacle, he climbed to the apex of
the peak, as at the old home he climbed John Calvin Rock when mentally
disturbed.
It was a stormy day; heavy, black, threatening clouds rode the northwest
wind. Only at rare intervals did the sun break through; yet from his
aerie, always, somewhere to the north or south, a sunbeam found a rift
and bathed in golden glory the red and brown foliage of a portion of the
great forest; which from where he sat, seemed to cover the earth, save
the little clearing round their station. Today as always from the
Pinnacle, the earth's upturned face, marked by rift and shadow,
presented a new, though a kindly and varied expression.
In such altitudes and surroundings, John had always been able to unravel
the mesh that bound his mind, recover his poise and deliver his spirit;
though today the struggle was long and fierce.
He looked northward, ready, it afterward seemed, to give up that work
which the men of his mother's people had followed for many generations
and become a planter in the cane-brake country; the price Captain
Fairfax demanded for Dorothy. To John an insistent voice kept saying: "A
planter can do almost as much good as a preacher; you can still serve
God but in another way; merely dilute the stringency of your puritanism;
be human, a he-man; make life more a game and less a crusade; smile and
the world will smile with you; God gave Dorothy to you!"
Through a sudden rift he saw the clear blue of the sky; and indistinctly
as though a long way off, yet looking at him; the face, that as a boy he
had seen before. His mind projected upon the black clouds in letters of
gold, a portion of the gospel of Matthew, which he had learned in
Jeremiah Tyler's school: "Then was Jesus led up of the spirit into the
wilderness to be tempted of the devil, * * * the devil taketh him up
into an exceeding high mountain and showeth him all the kingdoms of the
world and the glory of them; and sayeth unto him; all these things will
I give thee, IF * * *"
John saw below the great forest, and above the black clouds, with rarely
a rift; and from the shadow of the forest and from the face of the
clouds, Dorothy's face peeped out in the glory of its loveliness.
Finding himself he answered: "Thou shalt worship the Lord thy God and
Him only shalt thou serve."
If the devil thought to tempt John on the Pinnacle he made a mistake;
the valley was a better place. To John the path upward to the Pinnacle
was a series of upward stepping stones to the heights of clearer vision
and the table land of God's glory. As John climbed he left behind the
earthly and entered into the glory of God's distant, actual presence.
Such had been his belief since a little boy; as also that before he
descended, angels ministered unto him.
When he returned home it was twilight. They were waiting supper. After
his father had asked the blessing, which the present generation would
think too long and comprehensive; taking in the world as little Tim's
prayer--"God bless everybody;" they ate a meal, such as people who live
in the open and earn their bread by toil, enjoy.
His mother was happy because her son had found his appetite, which had
departed with his peace of mind upon the receipt of Dorothy's letter.
After she had respread the table for breakfast, she went into the room
where he lay on a buffalo rug reading by the firelight; and sat down
beside him. In a little while her son's head was resting in her lap and
she with loving fingers arranged his hair.
"John, you did not read me Dorothy's last letter as you usually do."
"No, mother I have torn it up," and he detailed its contents.
"Are you going to Danville, John?"
"I think not, mother."
"Is that fair to Dorothy?"
"We cannot marry if her father will not consent. Would you have me give
up being a preacher to become Dorothy's husband?"
"Certainly not, John, nor can you. You have been called and you will
preach, though carried to your destination in a whale's belly. That is
Calvinism. But you must go to Dorothy; and no time is to be lost.
Besides you should have a finishing course before starting in on your
work and a few months training at Rev. David Rice's Seminary will do you
good. Your father and I have talked it over and we can spare you until
next harvest. Go out and feed your horse and go in the morning. We will
miss you; but your father and I can be happy together; we are still
sweethearts."
"Mother, I am glad you think I should go. That was my desire; but I
feared desire had warped judgment and had decided to remain, fearing
that in the end I might give up my work. It strengthens your faith to
believe that you are a part in God's plan and must do your part of his
service."
"Dorothy is a girl of good judgment. She knows just the life that will
be hers as your wife; she is prepared for it and may not count it a
sacrifice but a privilege. It is right that you should wait for her
father's consent, which he will give in time. The Lord answers my
prayers but not always my way. Before you marry you must be better
fitted for your work and it must be established. A year or so seems a
long time now but if you both are busy it will soon pass by and will
give you time to demonstrate if her father's wish is to be Dorothy's
future. Good night, John. Call me at daylight."
When John awoke, the waning light of the morning star, which he could
see through the sashless window, heralded the birth of a clear October
day. He arose and pushed together the back-logs that had burned apart
through the night, adding fresh fuel. A great crackling of wood and
dense, pungent smoke poured forth, followed by a bright and cheery glow,
which filled the room with light. He finished dressing, called his
mother and went out into the red frosty morning to feed the horses and
milk the cows.
When he came in again ruddiness of sky had given place to the golden
glow of sunrise and the morning sun tinted the mountain tops. His
breakfast was ready and his mother had packed his best clothing into the
saddle bags which his father had carried at Monmouth, at King's Mountain
and at Yorktown; two home-made blankets of fine, long wool, light of
weight and soft and warm, were rolled and wrapped to be tied behind his
saddle, with a small sack containing his mess kit and provisions and
lying over all was the Mingo girdle. He was probably the only person in
Kentucky who would undertake such a journey without carrying a rifle. He
felt no need for one.
At noon, twenty miles from home, he unsaddled and rested an hour,
picketing his horse. Twelve miles below Flat Lick, near Brown's Station,
he came upon Dick Martin and his family in a sorry plight. Two days
before they had passed Campbell Station traveling to Danville from
Tidewater, Virginia. The night before in crossing a stream, their wagon
had been swept by high water below the ford and one of their two horses
had been drowned. It was impossible to continue their journey with but
one.
Martin, a shiftless fellow, had not even removed the harness from the
drowned horse. The wagon stood with the rear wheels in the edge of the
receding flood; and their scanty chattels were spread about drying in
the sun. While his wife was rustling the fire wood, looking after the
children and attempting to cook a few potatoes and slices of bacon, he
sat by the camp fire smoking a corncob pipe, while the youngest of the
children sat near him on a dirty piece of rag carpet munching a raw
bacon rind.
John hitched his horse and Martin's surviving one to the wagon and drew
it into the road. Then he helped reload it; and after night they drove
on to Brown's Station. As they rode along, learning the man had no
money, John, having his year's savings, fifty dollars, loaned Martin
forty to buy a horse, which loan he accepted in a matter-of-fact way.
Brown, having but one horse, refused to sell it and informed them it was
impossible to buy another nearer than Logan's Station; more than seventy
miles distant.
There seemed no solution, except that John's horse should be hitched to
the wagon and that they travel together to Logan's Station. The other
horse was so weak and emaciated that they only made twenty miles the
first day; and John grew fearful lest Dorothy might leave for Boston
before his arrival. The following morning it seemed he would never get
Martin started; so telling him to keep the horse until he got to
Danville, he went ahead on foot. That night when he was miles ahead, the
thought occurred that though Martin had his horse he had not returned
his money.
The following noon-day, as he was resting at a spring near the head of
Dick's River, two Indians unexpectedly came upon him; their manner was
threatening until they saw his girdle, when they shook hands in
greeting, saying: "How do, How do." He spoke to them in their own tongue
and they traveled along with him to Jenkins Station.
While they were at supper, Jenkins, hiding the rifles of the Indians,
suddenly appeared at the door of the room with three companions who,
with rifles presented, declared: "We are going to kill you three horse
thieves;" merely making the statement as an excuse for robbing and
assassinating them.
John, rising from his chair, stated that he had no money except ten
dollars, which he offered to give them. This Jenkins took, saying: "This
will pay for your lodging. We will let you go but we are going to kill
the redskins."
At this he struck Jenkins with his fist, who sank to the floor as he
rushed the man nearest him, seizing his rifle. The Indians following his
example, had rushed the other two men, who, surprised by the suddenness
of the attack, had no opportunity to use their rifles effectively,
though one of the Indians was slightly wounded.
John, drawing two of the men to him, pounded their heads together until
they sank to the floor unconscious. He was just in time to save Jenkins
and the other man from being scalped and tomahawked. The Indians
disarmed the men while John, forcing Jenkins to disclose the hiding
place of the rifles of the Indians, placed them in a heap on the floor
beside him and sat down at the table with the Indians and resumed
eating; while Jenkins and his companions sat beside the fire nursing
bruises in sullen silence.
After they had eaten, John gave Jenkins a lecture on the entertainment
of future guests and at its close ordered the men to take blankets and
sleep in the stable loft; while he and the Indians, retaining possession
of all weapons, barred and occupied the cabin; John saying: "The price I
have paid justifies sole occupancy." At this Jenkins laughed and said:
"I think so too." He came to the house at daybreak and prepared
breakfast and they all sat down and ate together.
The Indians having removed the hammers from the four rifles returned
them to the owners; and Jenkins, at John's request, accompanied them for
a mile or so on their journey. When he left he was given the hammers and
cautioned to treat Martin and his family with proper courtesy when they
should arrive.
At mid-day the Indians left him, taking a trail to the eastward. They
told their adventure to the Prophet; and in such an embellished form,
narrating how John had tossed the four men about like pumpkins, that the
story established a not altogether undeserved reputation for great
strength and courage.
Mid-afternoon the next day, Martin drove up to Jenkins', and was
received with great friendliness.
"Well, I expected you yesterday. Young Campbell told me you were coming,
to make ready the feast and kill the fatted calf. This has been done.
Get out; the place is yours." And they were entertained in Jenkins' best
style.
John was the chief subject of conversation, each telling the other such
a tale as suited his fancy and both vieing to make him the greater hero.
Jenkins told how young Campbell had saved his life, having put to rout a
band of robbers, of three white men and two Indians; and his guest, of
how the hero swam into the turbid waters of the Cumberland and after
rescuing his entire family from drowning, saved one of his horses,
pulled his loaded wagon out of the river, gave him his own saddle horse
and some money; and being in a great hurry rushed off afoot.
The night that Martin and his family spent at Jenkins', John passed at
St. Asaph's Plantation, in the most comfortable and commodious house he
had seen since leaving Jackson River. It was the home of General
Benjamin Logan, to whom his father had sent a letter introducing his
son, who was very cordially received. The two men had been friends when
both were officers in the Virginia militia. The General came to Kentucky
in 1775 and founded Logan Station; to which place he brought his family
from Holston, Virginia, in 1776.
He found the young people of the Station assembled at the house, and
participating in their amusements, soon became quite a favorite.
About 8 o'clock some negro musicians were called in and the company
started dancing. John attempted to withdraw from the room, but they
insisted that he join them and would listen to no excuse. He was led out
upon the floor and a daughter of General Logan was assigned as his
partner. The head musician's name was Gallagher; and some of the crowd
called out: "Let her go, Gallagher."
Then John making a sign for silence, stated: "I am licensed for the
ministry and it is my habit when I enter upon any unaccustomed thing or
business to ask the blessing of God upon it. As I am placed in an
unexpected position I ask permission to implore Divine guidance." He
sank upon his knees and offered an impassioned prayer.
Several of those present began to weep, his partner among them,
declaring they would never dance again. They insisted that he talk to
them about their souls' salvation. This he did and after he had finished
all sat together singing old and familiar hymns, led by John and
accompanied by the negro musicians. When the party broke up all agreed
that they had enjoyed the evening more than if they had spent it in
dancing.
John borrowed a horse from General Logan on which he rode to Danville,
arriving October 30, at eight o'clock in the evening. Inquiring the way,
he rode directly to Captain Fairfax's house. Dismounting he knocked upon
the door, which after a moment was opened by Mrs. Fairfax.
"Good evening, Mrs. Fairfax. I have come to see Dorothy; she wrote that
she and her father were leaving for Boston on the first."
"Come in, John, I am glad to see you. You are looking well. How are your
father and mother? Take that chair. I am so sorry, but Dorothy and her
father left yesterday morning and are by now at Limestone: from which
point they expect to travel up the Ohio and Monongahela to the head of
navigation; then over the mountains to the Potomac; thence by boat and
schooner to Boston."
"But she wrote they would not leave before the first."
"They left sooner than we had expected; her father, for business reasons
and to make the boat, was forced to expedite his plans. Dorothy was a
little rebellious about leaving before she heard from you; but her
father insisted, saying it was impossible to wait. She had quite a cry
and told me to tell you when you came that if you waited she would marry
you or remain an old maid for a thousand years."
John thought that Captain Fairfax, learning that Dorothy was expecting
him, hastened their departure on that account. He was confirmed in this
belief, when he learned that they waited four days for their boat; which
left Limestone on the third of November.
Mrs. Fairfax insisted that he remain for the night; but thanking her he
asked and was directed to the Clark Plantation, where he remained some
time. He returned General Logan's horse by a messenger, using one
belonging to his uncle until Martin returned his own.
Many people of Danville inquired the name of the young stranger riding
about with David Clark. For a day or two they learned nothing except
that he was the son of Colonel Campbell of Cumberland Gap. This
information in a day or two was supplemented by exaggerated reports of
the incident at the dance; coupled with the story of his captivity and
adoption by the Mingoes; of the girdle of wampum; of his strange name as
a chief of that nation; of the tattooed cross upon his breast, from
which it was said drops of blood fell. Talk about him was at its height
when Dick Martin drove into town. He told of his generosity and gave out
the story of his adventure at Jenkins' Station, laying stress upon his
strength and courage.
John was forced to hunt up Dick Martin, who when found was very profuse
in his thanks and promised to return his horse that night. When asked
where the horse was, he explained that his brother had ridden him to
Harrods Town. He showed John his two horses feeding at ease in the barn.
The old one had improved in condition; the other which he had purchased
at Logan Station with thirty-five dollars of John's money, was a fine
animal. It should have been as the price was a good one.
At that time, the wages of a laborer did not exceed eight dollars a
month; beef sold at two cents a pound, venison and buffalo meat at a
cent and a half, potatoes at fifty cents a barrel, turkeys at fifteen
cents each and whiskey at forty cents a gallon.
When Martin returned the horse he handed John five dollars; but made no
mention as to when he would pay the other thirty-five. John's horse was
thin, out of condition and his back was saddle-galled, and looked as
though he had seen constant service since changing masters.
Any other man in vexation would have repented his generosity, but John
said: "I am glad I was able to serve you; if I can do it again do not
hesitate to call upon me. Do not trouble to return the money until you
can afford to do it." He meant what he said, though he had saved it to
pay his way at the Rice Seminary; and he now had no money to do so.
The thought never once entered his mind to sell his horse, which was
even then nudging his master's shoulder; or to write to his father for
money; or to borrow it from his uncle. He thought, I must wait and work
and save for another year.