The two days’ journey that followed were very much like the first
day--an early start, two hours’ rest in the middle of the day, and
the night spent at a road-side tavern. On the third day they left
civilization behind them, and their midday rest was spent in the woods.
They were then upon a lower spur of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The road
for the first two days had been fairly good, but on the third day the
four roans had all they could do to haul the heavy coach up and down
the rough highway. They stood to their work gallantly, though, and
Lord Fairfax remarked that the coach could go twenty miles farther
up the mountain, where he had a hunting-lodge--a sort of outpost for
Greenway Court, and where the coach was stored. Glorious weather had
followed them. The air was keener and colder than in the low country,
and Lance produced a huge furred mantle, in which he wrapped Lord
Fairfax, who sat and read unconcernedly while the coach rolled and
jerked and bumped along. George was glad to make half his day’s travel
on horseback, and the exercise, as a warmer-up, was so much better than
the earl’s fur mantle that he felt sometimes like suggesting a gallop
to Lord Fairfax. But he had the wit to keep his suggestions to himself,
knowing that older men can do their own thinking much better than it
can be done for them by fifteen-year-old boys. George had enjoyed every
moment of the trip so far. His attacks of homesickness were few, and
he got over them by the philosophical reflection that he would have
been cruelly disappointed if his mother had not allowed him to come.
He began a letter to his mother, writing a little every day, so that
if he had a chance to visit the low country it would be all ready to
send at a moment’s notice. He was very happy. He had in prospect a new
and delightful experience in travel and association. When that was over
he had the cheerful hospitality and honest gayety of his Christmas at
Mount Vernon to look forward to with his brother and his sister-in-law,
whom he dearly loved, and dear little Betty; and after that a return
home, where he fitted naturally and easily into the position of his
mother’s best helper and counsellor.
The singular attraction between the man of the world and the
unsophisticated young provincial gentleman grew each day. George had
never before met any one who had Lord Fairfax’s store of experience,
as a soldier, a courtier, a man of affairs, and a member of a great
literary circle. Nothing was lost on the boy, and the earl was charmed
and interested to find that a chance word dropped here and there would
remain in George’s memory, who would recall it at a suitable time
to ask some intelligent question about it. Lord Fairfax sometimes
smiled at himself when he realized how much of his time and thought
and conversation were spent upon this boy, but he also realized that
an intelligent and receptive young mind is in itself one of the
most interesting things in the world, and when combined with the
noble personality and high breeding of Madam Washington’s son it was
irresistible. For the first day or two he always spoke to George as
“Mr. Washington,” and neither one could tell the exact occasion when
he dropped it for the more familiar “George.” But it was done, and it
put them upon a footing of affection at once. George continued to say
“my lord,” as that was the proper mode of address, but little by little
he revealed his heart to his new friend, and Lord Fairfax read him as
an open book. This was not at first, however, for George modestly
conceived himself to be a person of no consequence whatever, and was
much more eager to hear the earl speak of his adventures than to tell
all the ideas and protests and ambitions he cherished himself.
On the evening of the fourth day they came to a log structure at the
foot of the mountains, where the coach was to be left. It was in a
cleared space on an open plateau, and above them towered the great
peaks of the Blue Ridge, which they must cross on horseback.
The night was bright and beautiful, a great vivid moon sailing
majestically in the heavens. There was in the clearing one large cabin,
with two beds in it and a large press, besides a table and some chairs.
In a smaller cabin two or three men lived the year round, while built
on to that was a substantial coach-house, where the great chariot was
stored, except when the earl went upon his lowland journeys in state.
When the cavalcade stopped in the clearing Lord Fairfax alighted and
walked into the large cabin, followed by George. A fire roared upon the
broad, rude hearth, and in ten minutes Lance had unlocked the press,
had taken from it some bedlinen and blankets, and had made up the beds
and laid the table. Supper had been prepared in advance, and, as Lance
was an excellent cook, it was not to be despised--in particular a great
saddle of venison, which had been hanging up for a week in anticipation
of the earl’s arrival. George could hardly have told what part of the
day’s journey he always enjoyed most, but these suppers, with the
earl’s entertaining conversation, and his own healthy young appetite,
and the delicious sense of well-being when he drew up to the fire
afterwards, to listen and ask questions, were perfectly delightful to
him.
When they were seated at the table and about half through supper, Lord
Fairfax asked, smiling:
“How do you like the uncivilized wilderness, George?”
“But this is not the uncivilized wilderness yet,” answered George,
smiling too. “We have a table and chairs, and knives and forks and
plates, and beds and blankets, and silver candlesticks.”
“Still, it is the wilderness, and from now on we must depend upon
ourselves for company. The true meaning of the wilderness is, absence
from the haunts of men. We shall be entirely alone at Greenway, except
for a few negroes and Indians. You will probably not see a white face,
except mine and Lance’s, until you leave me.”
“It will be quite enough, sir,” replied George. “I would rather be with
a few people that I like than with a great crowd that I don’t like.”
“I felt the same in my youth. Afterwards there were circumstances in
my life which inclined me to solitude. I came to Virginia in search of
it, and I found it; and I also found peace. Once a year I go to the low
country--to Belvoir, my cousin William Fairfax’s; to your brother’s at
Mount Vernon; sometimes to see Colonel Byrd at Westover: but I always
return to my own fastness gladly. I feel more cheerful now than at any
time since we started. My old friends--my books--are waiting for me in
my library; I can only take a dozen with me when I go away. My doves
and pigeons, my dogs and horses, will all be the happier for my return
home. My servants will be glad to have me back--poor souls, they have
but a dull time of it all the year round; and I myself, having lived
this life so long, find that it suits me. I shall have your company for
several weeks; then I shall want you again next year.”
“Next year, sir, I shall be sixteen, and perhaps I shall not be my own
master. I may be in his majesty’s service. But if I can come to you
again, you may be sure I will.”
When supper was over the earl drew his chair up to the fire, and, still
wrapped in his fur mantle--for the bitter wind blew through the cracks
and crannies of the cabin--sat in a reverie with his deep eyes fixed
on the blaze. George had meant that night to ask him something about
the siege of Bouchain, but he saw that the earl was deep in thought,
and so said nothing. He began to wonder what his mother and Betty were
doing at that time. It was after supper at Ferry Farm, too. His mother
was knitting by the table in the parlor, with two candles burning, and
Betty was practising at the harpsichord. In his mother’s bedroom--“the
chamber,” as it was called in Virginia--a fire was burning, and around
the hearth were gathered the household servants picking the seed from
the cotton which, when warmed by the fire, came out easily. This they
did while waiting until they were dismissed at nine o’clock. What was
Billy doing? and Rattler? While thinking these thoughts George dropped
asleep, and slept soundly until Lance waked him raking down the ashes
and preparing for the night.
Next morning George wakened early, as he supposed, seeing how dark it
was; but the sound of the rain upon the roof proved that it was not so
early, after all. He glanced through one of the two small windows of
the cabin and saw the water coming down in torrents. A regular mountain
storm was upon them. George sighed as he realized this. It meant
weather-bound for several days, as the roads across the mountains would
be likely to be impassable after such a storm. And so it proved. For
four days there was only an occasional let up in the downpour. Luckily,
no snow fell. And Lord Fairfax observed his young guest narrowly
in these days of being cooped up in a cabin, and found him less
impatient than might have been expected. George, seeing the elaborate
preparations that Lance always made for the earl’s comfort, imagined
that he would ill support the inconveniences of their enforced delay;
but it proved exactly the contrary. Lord Fairfax was not only patient
but gay under such annoyances as a leak in the roof and their rations
being reduced to corn-bread and smoked venison.
“It reminds me of our old days in the Low Countries,” he said to Lance
the fourth night they spent at the cabin.
“Yes, my lord; but, saving your honor’s presence, we would have thought
this a palace in those days. I don’t think I ever was dry all over,
and warm all over, and had as much as I could eat from the time I went
to the Low Countries until after we had taken Bouchain, sir.”
“Lance has told me about that adventure, sir,” said George, slyly,
hoping to hear something more from Lord Fairfax about it.
“Pshaw!” cried the earl, smiling, “Lance is in his dotage, and can talk
of nothing but what happened thirty or forty years ago. Our expedition
was a mere prank. I found out nothing, and risked not only my life but
this poor fellow’s without warrant.”
“The duke, sir,” said Lance, very respectfully, “was of another mind.
And, sir, I have never thought of Madame Geoffroy, and her fits and her
fainting and her furbelows, these thirty-five years without laughing.”
At which George went off into such convulsions of laughter that Lord
Fairfax knew Lance had told him the whole story.
After four days of stormy weather it became clear and cold. They were
only twenty miles from Greenway Court, but the earl sent a man ahead to
find out if the streams were fordable, and whether it were yet worth
while to start. The man came back the next day about sunset, saying it
would be possible for them to get to Greenway Court the next day.
Although George had stood the confinement in the cabin stoically,
he was delighted to be on the move again, and both he and the earl
relished their last supper there the more for knowing it would be the
last. All the arrangements were made for an early start on horseback
next morning, and at nine o’clock Lord Fairfax and George were about
turning in when they heard a timid knock at the door.
Lance, with a candle in his hand, opened the door, and at first saw
nothing at all; but as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he
saw a negro boy and a dog.
Lance was so surprised that he did not at first speak, but the boy
piped up very promptly: “Is Marse George Washington here, suh?”
George, on hearing his name called in that voice, jumped from his chair
as if he had been shot, and the next moment was standing face to face
with Billy, while Rattler sprang at him with wild barks of delight.
Billy’s greeting was brief and to the point.
“Heah I is, Marse George, wid Rattler.”
[Illustration: “‘IS MARSE GEORGE WASHINGTON HERE, SUH?’”]
“Where on earth did you come from?” asked George, breathlessly,
dragging the boy into the cabin. As the light of the fire and the
candles fell upon him he looked as if he might have come three hundred
miles instead of less than a hundred and fifty, he was so thin, so
hollow-eyed, and gaunt. His shoes were quite gone except the uppers,
and he was in rags and tatters; yet nothing could dim the joy shining
in his beady black eyes, while his mouth came open as if it were on
hinges. Lord Fairfax, turning in his chair, was struck by the look
of rapturous delight on poor Billy’s face. The boy, still grinning,
answered:
“F’um Fredericksburg, I tooken de horse mos’ ter de ferry, and den I
tu’n him loose, kase he had sense ’nough fer ter git ter de boat by
hisse’f. So arter I seen him mos’ up ter de boat, me an’ Rattler, we
all lights out arter de kerriage fo’ Black Sam an’ Gumbo have time fer
ter hunt fer me, an’ we foller de track clean f’um Fredericksburg ter
dis heah place.” Billy told this as if it were the commonest thing in
the world for a boy and a dog to follow a coach more than a hundred
miles from home. George was so astonished he could only stare at Billy
and gasp out:
“How did you manage to keep the track?”
“Dunno, suh,” replied Billy, calmly. “Rattler, he know de way better ’n
me. When de rains come an’ I los’ de wheel tracks, I say ter dat ar’
dog, ‘Lookee heah, dog, we is follerin’ Marse George’--_he_ know dat
jes as well as a human; an’ I say, ‘You got ter fin’ dat trail an’ dem
tracks,’ an’ dat dog he know what I was talkin’ ’bout, an’ he wag he
tail, an’ den he lay he nose to de groun’, an’ heah we is.”
The earl had laid down his book and was listening intently to Billy’s
story. “And what did you live on--what did you have to eat on the
way--let me see--nearly eight days?”
“We didn’t have nuttin much,” Billy admitted. “De mornin’ we lef’
home I tooken a big hoe-cake an’ put it in my sh’ut when warn’ nobody
lookin’. De fus’ day I eat some, an’ gin some ter de dog. Arter dat I
foun’ chinquapins an’ ches’nuts an’ some tu’nips ’long de road-side,
an’ I could eat dem, but de dog couldn’, so I kep’ dat hoe-cake fur
Rattler, an’ give him de las’ piece yistiddy.”
“Billy,” asked George, with tears in his eyes, “were you _very_ hungry?”
For the first time a distressed look came into the boy’s face. He was
at his journey’s end, he was with Marse George, he had nothing more on
earth to wish for; but the recollection of the hunger of those eight
days--the cold, the weariness, the agonies of terror that sometimes
attacked him overcame him.
“Yes, suh, I was hongry,” he said, with a sob, “dat’s Gord’s truf;
an’ ef it hadn’ been fur dis heah dog you neber would ha’ seed Billy
no mo’. But dat dog, he go ’long snuffin’, an’ he were hongry too, I
speck, dough he had some hoe-cake ’twell yistiddy; an’ if de dog coul’
hol’ out, dis nigger could.”
“I’ll never, never forget it, Billy, as long as I live,” said George,
half crying.
Then Lord Fairfax spoke. “But how did you escape from being stopped on
the road for a runaway?”
“Dunno, suh,” responded Billy, using his favorite formula. “We didn’
meet many white folks on de road, an’ when we see ’em comin’ we hide in
de bushes. I ain’ never spoke ter a human sence we lef’ Fredericksburg.
In de daytime we hide somewh’yar by de road an’ sleep, an’ we trabbel
mos’ all night. ’Twas de full o’ de moon, an’ I see dem tracks jes same
as ’twas in daytime. Den, arter I los’ ’em, dis heah dog, he jes keep
de road hisse’f--an’ here I is.”
“Lance,” cried George, suddenly, “please get something to eat for
him--anything--everything you have!”
Billy’s eyes glistened as, in a moment, Lance whipped out of the press
some cold meat and bread, and he attacked it ravenously. Meanwhile,
George fed the dog, which was evidently the least starved of the two.
When Billy had eaten up everything that could be produced for him, he
quietly curled himself up near the fire, and in half a minute he was
sleeping the sleep of the just.
“What are you going to do with him?” asked Lord Fairfax of George.
“Keep him with me if you will allow me, sir.”
“But what will your mother say? He seems to be a strong boy--his
journey proves that--and he no doubt has his work at Ferry Farm.”
George smiled at the recollection of Billy’s “work.”
“I don’t think, my lord, that Billy is of the slightest use at Ferry
Farm unless I am there. My mother, who believes in everybody’s being
industrious, has done her best to make him work. So have his father and
mother, Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey. But except for waiting on me, and
taking care of my horse, Billy will absolutely do nothing. He is not
surly about it--he is always grinning and laughing and singing--but--I
can’t explain it exactly--he will work his fingers to the bone for me,
but he won’t work for anybody else.”
“I should not think Billy a very useful member of society,” remarked
Lord Fairfax.
George said not a word, but he did not like aspersions of any kind on
Billy. Seeing this, Lord Fairfax said, in his usual kind tone:
“If it gives you pleasure, you must, of course, keep him with you--and
indeed there is nothing else to be done that I can see; and as you
say he is no good to your mother when you are not at home, perhaps
he is better off here. He seems a faithful little soul, and I am not
surprised that you are touched at his devotion.”
George’s face assumed an entirely different expression, but he merely
said, “Thank you, sir,” and in a few minutes after, throwing a
bear-robe over Billy, George went to bed himself, with Rattler curled
up by him.
Next morning they took the road soon after sunrise. Billy, who had
enough of walking for some time to come, was mounted on one of the
pack-horses. Two saddle-horses had been brought down from Greenway for
the earl and his young guest, and together they led the procession
along the rough mountain road. The scenery was wildly beautiful.
Occasionally they wound along mighty precipices, where the horses could
scarcely pick their way. Again they forded mountain streams that could
only be breasted by the most tremendous exertions. They made their
way through a great cleft in the mountains about midday, and began to
descend towards the valleys. The distance was but twenty miles, yet so
difficult was the road that it was late in the short autumn afternoon
before Lord Fairfax, pointing to a collection of roofs that lay
directly below them in a sheltered part of the valley, said to George,
“There is Greenway Court.”
By sunset they were riding up the rough road that led to the house.
It was a large, low building, with stables and offices projecting on
each side. The foundation was of stone, rudely but strongly cemented.
Half-way up the story and a half which constituted the building the
stone ceased, and logs, neatly and even artistically mortised together,
were carried to the roof. The effect was not unpleasing, especially
as many of the original forest trees had been left, and the building
blended well with its surroundings. Broad and shallow stone steps
led up to the main entrance, and two great oak doors studded with
nails gave entrance to it. George noticed that all of the windows
were provided with stout iron-bound shutters, with holes for musketry
in them. The door was also pierced for defence, and a very slight
examination showed that, if well garrisoned, the building could be
converted into a tolerably strong block-house. The earl, as if reading
the thoughts in George’s mind, remarked:
“We have to be provided here for attacks from the Indians, incited by
the French. The French have determined to extend their encroachments
eastward and southward by a chain of forts, and I make no doubt that
they contemplate a line that will extend from Canada to Louisiana. They
use the Indians as secret though powerful allies, and by encouraging
them to harry and murder the whites in this wild part of the colony
of Virginia, they think that it will be abandoned, and that they
can advance their outposts this far. Greenway Court has withstood
one siege, and can withstand another. There is a spring directly
under the house, and, having some knowledge of mechanics, I have
concealed the source, which is at a distance from the house, and we
get the spring-water by merely going down into the cellar. Then I
keep constantly on hand, in this same cellar, stores of provisions
and ammunition, so we are well able to defend ourselves, even against
burning--for the Indians have found out the use of the torch against
white men’s dwellings. However, I hope we shall have no bouts with them
while you are with us.”
George said nothing, but he would have been more or less than a boy if
he had not longed in his heart for a bout with the savages, of which he
had heard much but seen little.